Page 45 of Dream Chaser (The New York Knights Players Club #4)

The Big Game

Izzy

T he place is packed, but everything is set up so that it’s as self-serve as it can get. A collective idea, as all of us want to be free to be with our players while they suffer through watching a game they deserve to be playing, after a kick-ass season.

The place is packed, but it somehow doesn’t feel overwhelming.

Just full—of people, noise, heat, and that familiar hum of expectation that always shows up right before kickoff.

We’ve got it all set up so the team can just be.

No press, no flashbulbs, no obligations. Just food, drinks, and their people.

Our tables are near the back, past the bar crowd and one long table of jersey-clad high schoolers. We claimed it early—Mags’s idea.

“You see Boone?” Syd asks, like she hasn’t already been tracking his every move since he walked in.

“He looks good,” Riley admits, smirking into her cup. “So does Hart. Even in that dumb beanie.”

“It’s the arms.” Harper nudges her. “You’re always talking about his arms.”

Lo tilts her head. “Grimes trimmed his beard. I didn’t think I cared, but apparently my hormones disagree.”

“You’re all shameless,” I mutter, because someone has to say it.

Syd doesn’t even blink. “And yet you’re the one who practically swooned when Skinner walked in.”

“I did not swoon.”

“You made a noise,” London notes.

“It was a cough.”

“It was a look-at-my-man noise,” Riley adds. “We know because we’ve all made it.”

They’re not wrong, and I don’t have the energy—or the willpower—to argue.

I glance over my shoulder, sensing him, which is freaking insane, I know that, but it is what it is.

He’s already at the bar, flanked by the guys, laughing at something Hart said.

And yeah … okay, he looks stupid hot. Like …

unfair levels of hotness. Backward cap, that smug smile, and the shirt that does all that Skinner asks of his shirts—clings to his hot as hell body.

“Okay, maybe I like him,” I admit quietly.

“Is this … growth?” Lo giggles.

Mags grins. “No, this is surrender. Total, beautiful surrender.”

“Do we celebrate?” Ava asks. “Or stage an intervention?”

“Both,” Riley says, lifting her drink. “To the girls who got dragged kicking and screaming into love.”

I roll my eyes, but I clink, anyway.

He gives me that look that makes me stupid happy, because regardless of what he’s been through, Griffon Skinner seems to not only seek but find that place where happiness lives, and I admire that about him.

“Yeah, I think I like him a lot,” I admit.

“Like or …?” Mags says.

“Definitely or .” I smile as I leave my girls and head toward my guy.

He turns and leans against the bar as I approach, looking me up and down, as I do the same.

“Hey.” I smile.

His big hand grips my waist and pulls me toward him, and he leans down and kisses my forehead.

“You have the wingspan of a 747,” I murmur, grinning as my palms flatten against his chest. “And the manners of a golden retriever.”

He chuckles low and warm, like he’s savoring the way I fit against him, his fingers slipping just beneath the hem of my shirt, touching skin. “You love it,” he says, voice teasing, but there’s something deeper threading through it—like he missed me more than he’s letting on.

I lean back just enough to meet his eyes. “I tolerate it,” I say, even though my pulse is dancing like mad. “Barely.”

His gaze drops to my lips, then trails lower slowly, deliberately. “That so?”

I nod, smug and entirely full of it. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“And you’re lucky I like a challenge,” he murmurs, brushing his nose against mine. “Now be honest—did you miss me, or just the way I fill this shirt?”

I bite my lip and pretend to consider it, but my fingers are already curling around the fabric.

“Both,” I admit. “But mostly the shirt.”

“You two need to save room for Jesus,” Mags says. “I’m getting hangry.”

“You suddenly need help with a spoon and fork?” I ask.

She leans in and whispers in my ear, “Micah’s with the bitch squad at the table near ours.”

Micah is the nephew of Greer, who is a security specialist the guys brought back. She’s a computer genius, and her nephew, who she has custody of, is not happy to be living in Blue Valley.

“Do you want me to rough him up?” Skinner asks.

“Yes, but no.” Mags sighs. “Izzy would get all frigid again if you were behind bars.”

“Frigid?” I arch a brow.

“I mean, yes and yes.” Mags grins. “You’re so much more chill after getting your socks rocked.” She holds up a fist to Griffon and actually taps his to hers.

The second their knuckle explosion detonates, I give them both the flattest stare I can muster.

“I hate you both,” I mutter.

“You’re welcome,” Mags sing-songs as she stands, slinging her curly hair into a ponytail like she’s preparing for war.

“Let’s go eat,” Skinner calls out, to the guys.

Across the room, the “bitch squad”—three girls in matching white crop tops and slightly-too-tight smiles—are saddled up against Micah, who’s staring at Mags.

Griffon moves forward, blocking the line of vision between him and Mags, and drapes his arm around my shoulders as we join the slow procession toward the food.

The volume on the TV goes up as the two teams—one of which should not be there—take to the field for kickoff.

“You good?” Skinner leans in, voice just for me.

“I will be,” I say. “Once Mags stops fist-bumping you over my sex life.”

He smirks like that’s a challenge he’s ready to accept with honors. “Can’t make promises. She did say I rocked your socks.”

I fake gasp. “You heard that?”

“I have ears the size of dinner plates—of course I heard that.”

“You have a head the size of a dinner plate.”

“And yet you keep climbing it like it’s your favorite treehouse.”

I nearly choke on my laugh but recover fast, nudging him hard with my elbow as we grab plates. Mags is already piling hers with meatballs, behind her, Dad and Mom.

Dad lifts his chin to Griffon, and he shakes his head.

“What is that about?” I ask.

He winks. “It’s between your old dad and I.”

“I’m not sure I like that,” I murmur as I grab a couple of Mickey’s loaded sliders.

As we pass by the table where Micah and the girls are sitting, I notice his eyes narrow and lips twitch at Mags.

Griffon notices it, too. His posture shifts—just a little but enough. Protective. Present.

“Seriously,” he murmurs under his breath. “I could just … accidentally bump into him and spill queso on his lap. Mild assault. Spicy flavor.”

I give him a look. “You’re not going to throw cheese at a teenager.”

“ Not throw,” he corrects. “Spill. Like gravity did it. You can’t jail gravity.”

I laugh. “Sit down and eat your sliders.”

“I’d rather eat you,” he whispers.

Mags cackles, clearly overhearing him.

I elbow him. “Skinner.”

“Ross?” He winks.

One of my biggest pet peeves in the world is boredom. How lucky am I that, with Griffon Skinner, I am guaranteed never to get bored.

I hate to say it, so I won’t, but this is a damn good game. However, we all agreed we would walk out at halftime.

After saying goodnight to the girls, I see my parents walking toward my Jeep. “Guess I’m taking my parents’ home.”

“Nope, they’re taking your Jeep to their place, and you and I are taking my vehicle.” He pulls me toward his SUV. “Night’s not over, Izzy Ross. Let’s jet.”

I look up at him suspiciously. “Where are you taking me?”

He bends down and kisses the top of my head. “It’s a surprise.”

Thirty minutes later, we’re taking the exit for Hancock airport.

“What is going on?”

“You and I are taking five days off to go fishing.”

“What?” I shake my head. “Wile, the greenhouse, I have?—”

“Your parents have all that covered. Your laptop’s all packed; you can still work,” he assures me.

“My shifts at the brewery. I have to?—”

“They have it covered, and when Riley and Hudson have baby Hart, I volunteered you and I to help cover them.”

Okay, I can’t even be mad about that.

“I don’t like surprises,” I state firmly. Well, as firmly as I can when I realize … “Are you taking me to meet Grand?”

He smiles. “She wants to meet you.”

“Fishing.” I smile back.

“Fishing,” I confirm.