Page 41 of Dream Chaser (The New York Knights Players Club #4)

Her Biggest Fan

Griffon

T he door swings shut behind me, muffling the last gust of cold air, and every head in a ten-foot radius turns.

“Jesus Christ,” someone murmurs near the bar.

I nod once, lifting my chin, shameless in my choice of attire: a navy T-shirt that reads“ IZZY ROSS’S BIGGEST FAN ”in big white letters across the chest, paired with a trucker hat that reads“ Team Harmonica .” Subtle? Not even a little. Effective? Hell yeah.

I scan the room. Twinkle lights strung from the rafters, streamers in team colors twisted around the beams, and every table packed shoulder-to-shoulder. The brewery is buzzing.

I spot a few teammates already camped out near the back, but I make a beeline for the table front and center, the one closest to the little platform stage.

As soon as I sit, Mags strums a chord. Iz is half-turned, adjusting her mic stand. Then she sees me.

It’s not dramatic—no gasp, no dropped guitar pick—but her spine goes rigid, and her lips part like I just short-circuited every brain cell in her body. She blinks once. Twice. Then her eyes narrow, and the corners of her mouth twitch.

“Unreal,” she mutters into the mic, not realizing it’s already live.

The crowd laughs, a warm, amused ripple. A few heads turn my way, and someone behind me stage-whispers, “That’s commitment.”

I tip my hat.

Iz shakes her head slowly, like she can’t believe she’s seeing what she’s seeing, but her smile gives her away. It’s not forced. It’s fond. Soft. The kind of smile that makes all my nerve endings wake up and take notice.

Lexi—via FaceTime, the phone propped on a music stand—snorts. “If that man doesn’t get lucky tonight, I’m throwing the whole town away.”

Mags smirks, strumming the opening of a song I’d know anywhere. “This one’s for anyone lucky enough to have grandparents that still slow dance in the kitchen.”

The girls launch into “Always on My Mind,” old-school harmonies and playful timing. Iz leans into the mic with that smirk still on her lips, and when she hits the first chorus, she glances at me dead-on and winks.

And yeah, I feel that all the way in my ribs.

She looks radiant—hair half-braided, jeans that cling to every inch of those legs I’ve memorized, boots with a bit of heel she probably thrifted, but walks in like they were made for her. And her voice? Smoky. Effortless. My whole chest goes hot.

Around me, people are swaying, laughing, clapping along, but all I can think is, Goddamn, I’m gonna marry this woman. Even if she’d kill me for thinking it right now.

Someone leans over and elbows me—Hart, grinning like a jackass. “Fanboying hard, huh?”

I don’t take my eyes off Iz. “You got no idea.”

He chuckles. “Gonna call bullshit. Mine’s already got a ring on and a baby on board.”

Boone swings his chair around and props one boot on the rung of mine, beer in hand, already smirking.

“Please. My girl wrangles a preschool class, bakes the sweetest treats, loves my flower like she’s hers, and is besties with my ex to make things easier, and because she genuinely likes her. I win.”

Grimes leans back and crosses his arms, slow-like, like he’s waiting for all of us to shut the hell up. “You clowns are adorable. But Lo? She’s the kind of girl who would fight a man for your honor.” He shakes his head. “Even when I didn’t want her to.”

Hart raises his water bottle in mock toast. “Honestly, I don’t know how any of us ended up this lucky.”

Grimes tilts his head toward me. “Well, except Skinner. He’s still got time to fuck it up.”

I give him a slow smile, eyes still glued on the hot harmonicist. “Appreciate the vote of confidence.”

Boone shrugs. “It’s true. That girl?” He nods toward the stage, where Iz is currently doing some bluesy riff on the harmonica. “Like her cousins, you lock down and pray they never realize they can do better.”

“Iz already knows,” I murmur, watching her laugh mid-song. “We’ll have to fight about it a while. She likes that shit.”

Hart claps me on the back. “Then you better fight harder. You’re gonna need backup, man. That one? She’s gonna own your ass.”

“I know,” I say, not even pretending to deny it.

CJ sets down his plate, eyes already dancing with mischief. “So … we talking about Skinner playing house yet, or are we saving that for halftime tomorrow?”

Remington practically chokes on his root beer. “We walked in that morning, and Iz looked like she’d gone twelve rounds with a thunderstorm.”

I smirk, shaking my head.

“Don’t get too comfortable; everyone who knows Izzy knows that won’t keep her down. You better up your game, Skinner.”

A lesser man would respond. I don’t.

“I maintain,” Matthew says between bites of mac and cheese, “that Wile gave him away. That dog did not bark when we walked in. That dog wagged his tail and trotted back toward the bedroom, wagging his tail like, they’re in here. Come meet my new stepdad. ”

“Stepdad?” I mutter, dragging a palm down my face. “You assholes are relentless.”

CJ leans forward, elbows on the table, grinning like the devil himself. “Skinner, buddy, we’re not judging. We’re admiring. You really out here, sneaking past a house full of trained professionals, plus Jackson, like you’re the damn love child of Ethan Hunt and John Wick.”

Jackson raises a hand. “Hey, I’d like to be excluded from that list of supposed badasses. I was literally petting Wile while trying not to think about why he smelled like someone else’s cologne.”

“You’re the one who asked if she started diffusing new oils.” Matthew laughs.

CJ pounds the table once then gestures across the room where Iz is laughing on stage, tambourine now in hand. “Look at her. Like nothing ever happened. Like she didn’t sneak you out of there like a thief in the night. Tell me that’s not a power move.”

“Yeah,” I sigh, watching her. “And I’d let her lead me anywhere.”

The whole table groans.

“God,” Jackson mutters, “we lost another one.”

“Down bad,” Matthew confirms.

“Terminal,” CJ says solemnly.

“May he rest in whipped, totally owned peace.” Remington smirks, raising his glass.

I shake my head, grinning. “Talk all the shit you want. You forget I heard all the dirt she has on all of you.”

That earns me a round of boos, French fries thrown like confetti, and a slow clap from Hart, who says, “Damn. That’s how you drop the mic without even picking one up.”

And across the room, Iz meets my eyes—knowing, smirking—and winks.

There’s a pause after the first song as they huddle and Maddox gets dragged on stage.

Maddox kicks it off with that soft rolling fiddle intro, drawing the bow across the strings. Within a few notes, I recognize the song, “Fishin’ in the Dark.” The girls play and sing like they’ve been rehearsing since birth, and I imagine they have.

Mags leans in from stage right on guitar, strumming the rhythm with steady ease.

She’s in her element—barefoot, loose braid, eyes on Iz like they’re two halves of the same brain.

Harper and London are singing, harmonizing perfectly, and Riley and Lo flank her with tambourine and cowbell, keeping time, bodies swaying.

Iz steps up to the mic with her harmonica and gives the crowd this little grin that’s all mischief and confidence before blowing out a few bright, twangy notes.

It’s playful, teasing, like she’s luring everyone into something.

Well, at least that’s what I’m feeling. And that feeling that usually pools in my balls with her, it’s spreading everywhere now.

And when the verse starts? Pure magic .

They don’t just sing it—they glide through it.

The harmonies are tight and sweet, guessing they were built from years of late- night porch sessions and too many shared bottles of wine.

Iz takes the melody in that honey-smoked voice of hers, Mags slides into a soft alto under it, and London and Harper jump in with this clear, clean harmony that lifts the whole thing right off the stage.

On the chorus, the room joins in. It’s impossible not to.

“ You and me go fishin’ in the dark, lyin’ on our backs and countin’ the stars … ”

There’s clapping, stomping. Even Matthew’s trying not to bob his head but failing miserably.

Halfway through the song, Iz breaks off the mic and blows another harmonica riff—this one a little longer, a little … dirtier?

And when they hit the final chorus, Maddox lets loose on the fiddle, taking it on a joyride, high and wild while the rest of the girls laugh their way through the last lines, syncing their voices, playing off one another like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

By the time they wrap, the whole damn brewery is cheering. Boots stomp. Cowbells ring.

And Iz? She lifts her harmonica in a mock salute, cheeks flushed, eyes sparkling with adrenaline. She’s glowing.

I could sit here all night watching her have fun like this, surrounded by her best friends who are also related in one way or another.

When the song finishes, Jake and Sarah stop dancing and head this way.

“You’re fucked, man.” Jackson snickers. “Uncle Jake’s not going to go easy on you.”

“I think I’ll be all right,” I say as I stand and pull a chair out for Sarah.

“You like fishing, don’t you, Griffon?” Jake asks as he sits next to his wife.

“Love it,” I answer as I move to sit where I can watch Iz and not have my back to her folks. “Got a boat down home. You and Sarah should come down sometime, and I’ll take you out.”

“The one we saw on your declaration of love posts?” Jake asks, and all the guys chuckle. He scowls at them.

“Yeah,” I say, not trying to be cocky, just real. “Contender 35 ST. Triple engines, tuna tower, top-of-the-line sonar. She’s rigged for snapper runs, but rides so smooth my grand has fallen asleep on her more than once.”

Sarah perks up, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Does she have shade?”

“Plenty.” I smile. “Coolers, Bluetooth, beanbags. It’s not just for the hardcore stuff.”

Jake whistles low, nodding with genuine appreciation. “I’ve fished on a few Contenders. You don’t play.”