Page 5 of Dream Chaser (The New York Knights Players Club #4)

Game Plan

Izzy

T he kitchen’s closed, and I just placed the last stool on a high top.

I have no idea how I ended up staying this late when I had plans to do some website maintenance and maybe stop by Blue Valley Publishing, pretending to check on the place.

Really, I was going to mess with CJ, Matthew, Remington, and the commandos who have made a home of the old Firehouse next to the old newspaper.

Before the family bought the Knights, time disappeared like this when the family got together.

I didn’t complain then, and I won’t now.

Lo’s behind the bar, cleaning glasses she doesn’t need to clean.

Riley has her feet up on a barstool and is using a coaster as a makeshift fan; pregnancy is not treating her well.

Maggie’s picking at cold fries like they’re popcorn.

Sydney is refreshing the group chat with Lily updates.

She’s so freaking cute asleep in her sparkle cape, holding a glitter pen.

“You crop this picture?” I laugh.

“Noooo.” If Syd’s extended O wasn’t a dead giveaway, the fact that she said it like it was a question was.

“Head’s on big daddy Boone’s nakie man chest.” Maggie snickers.

Syd huffs as she sets down her glass of wine, and if she were wearing pearls, she’d have clutched them. “My husband’s chest.”

“Did Syd just use a southern accent?” I laugh.

“Noooo,” she lies again, sort of .

We all bust up laughing

“All right, let’s get on task.”

Riley sighs loudly, hanging her head over the back of the stool. “Lo and her lists, you and your notes, Syd and her … husband”—Syd chucks a lemon wedge at her—“Mags and her …” She pauses and swings her eyes to Mags.

“Homelessness after graduation.” She pouts.

After the bullshit at the Vegas game, the league putting Hart on a three-game suspension, and the threats coming in, my cousins and their security group came into town.

When the power was cut at the Stables, Greer, their best computer specialist who was pregnant and had stepped away from the group, was asked to rejoin the team, but not in the field.

She and her niece and nephew, whom she has custody of, moved into Riley’s old place because she’s now living in Skaneateles.

“You’re not homeless.” I laugh.

“Not yet.” She pouts.

“You’re graduating and heading straight to the show. By the time you come back, I’ll have our first season of crops in the ground and probably living with my parents or in a tent on our land.”

“We can totally build a yurt.” Mags grins.

And just like that, she’s happy again.

“All right, now that we’re through that, tomorrow’s meet and greet; where are we needed? And then, we need to lock down the Philly road trip plans.” I look at my notes app. “I have two rooms for playoff eve, adjoining.” I look at Syd. “Is Lily coming with you or?—”

“She and Lyndsey”—Lily’s mom—“are going to fly down tomorrow to meet up with Beau’s family and their college besties. They’re sitting with us at the game.”

“I hope when my first husband and I get divorced, his forever wife is as cool as you,” Mags states.

All four of our heads turn and just look at her.

“What?”

“You know what,” Riley snorts.

“I’m sorry to burst y’all’s bubble, but one man will not give me all the ‘love’ I’m gonna need for a lifetime.”

Again, we’re all laughing.

Riley points at her belly with both hands. “Might have thought that myself at one time in my life.” She nods to Syd and Lo. “And those two walk in here like they’ve been on a twelve-hour trail ride so?—”

“Oh my God.” Sydney covers her mouth.

I steer us back in the proper direction. “The meet-and-greet.”

“Wait. That’s here , right?” Riley asks.

Lo deadpans, “Yes. Because someone”—she points to herself—“agreed to host the Knights fan event here. At our Brewery. With forty-seven hours of warning.”

I laugh. “Just because you’re all coupled up and in a love bubble doesn’t mean you have to pretend like you’re not excited to see what the boneheads like Skinner will pull.”

“This is true.” Riley smirks.

“He came into the merch closet asking for the tightest shirt in the tri-state area. The man’s gonna split a seam just shaking hands.”

Mags laughs. “He’s gonna look like a protein shake with arms.”

Rubbing her temples, Lo sighs. “We need everyone here. No excuses. It’s all hands on deck. This place is going to be crawling with fans, sponsors, and TikTok influencers trying to thirst-trap the players.”

Mags wags her brows. “Honestly? They won’t have to try too hard. I made eye contact with him once and needed to lie down.”

“Lily always says he’s the funniest.” Sydney smiles at her screen one last time before putting it in her bag and sliding off her stool.

“What time are they getting here?” I ask as I grab my bag from behind the bar.

“Doors open at two. Players start showing up around three. Skinner’s rolling in last, because he has to come straight from the walkthrough,” Lo says, grabbing her keys.

Maggie takes Riley’s hands and makes a big show of helping pull her from her stool. “Glistening. Pro players. Shirt three sizes too small. Champions.”

“Pregnant. Madly in love.” She grins. “Not dead. I will be looking.”

“So tomorrow’s tight shirts, and then packing panic, and Saturday the fab five are road tripping.” Syd smiles.

Mags looks at me and whispers, “The last road trip with just us.”

“We still have Lexington when she is on break and summers,” I remind her.

“God, I miss her.” Mags sighs and looks up at the sky. “You think the ’rents would be pissed if I skipped school tomorrow?”

“You’re missing Monday, so I’d guess yeah.” Riley side-hugs her.

“Such bullshit,” she mumbles.

I kill the engine and sit for a second, letting the silence settle in. No chatter, no clinking glasses, no planning to be done or Skinner-shirt commentary. Just the steady pulse of crickets and the rustle of trees swaying like they’ve got nowhere to be.

The porch light’s on, of course. It always is at night. Solar lights, of course. Mom says you should never come home to darkness.

I slip out of the Jeep, gravel and icy snow crunching under my boots, and pad up the porch steps. The screen door squeaks just enough to sound lived-in when I open it and slide in as not to disturb Wile, the dog I got when I was fifteen.

Inside, the house hums with that late-night stillness only homes built like ours know how to hold—like it’s breathing around you.

“Hey, old boy, you didn’t have to get up,” I whisper to Wile, my half-blind, barrel-chested mutt; a mash-up of Labrador, shepherd, and possibly throw pillow.

His fur’s gone mostly silver around the muzzle, and one of his eyes is clouded, giving him this constant pirate squint like he’s sizing up your soul.

He doesn’t lie back down; he heads to me, walking with a slight limp, back hips stiff with age, and his ears don’t work nearly as well as they used to, but he always knows when I’m home. Probably from smell. Or instinct. Honestly, it’s Wile, so anything’s possible.

He noses my leg, snorts like I’ve inconvenienced him, but he needs his nightly pets, then turns around and lumbers back toward his pillow, assuming I’ll follow. Which, obviously, I will.

The smell hits first: peppermint and rosemary from Mom’s diffuser, a faint trace of cedar from the woodpile, and something warm, like leftover cornbread and flannel. It’s peace, bottled up and served on soft lighting and creaky floorboards.

I drop my bag by the bench near the door, take off my shoes, and head for the kitchen. The under-cabinet lights are on low, casting a golden glow over the countertops. A mason jar of tea waits on the stove with a sticky note:

Heat me up if you’re late, sweetheart. xoxo — Mom

There’s a little doodle of a moon with a sleep mask. Classic.

I warm the tea, take it to the window, and glance out at the greenhouse where Mom probably had her moon meditation earlier. Her version of yoga involves a Bluetooth speaker, a space heater, and softly cussing when her joints pop.

The back hallway creaks, and Dad’s silhouette appears. He’s in flannel pajama pants and a Blue Valley Football sweatshirt that’s older than I am.

“You’re home late.” His voice is low and scratchy from sleep.

“You’re up.”

“Mom heard coyotes. Said to check if you were home before she hexes them.”

“Tell her not to use the good salt.”

It’s a joke. Mom’s not a witch, but tell that to the girls in school who tried to torment me with their bullshit.

He grunts something that could be a laugh, ruffles my hair as he walks past, and disappears toward the bedroom. That’s all we need. No ten-minute debrief. No deep dive into the day. Just that touch, that acknowledgment— you’re home, you’re safe, you’re loved .

When my tea is warmed, I pour it in a mug and sit down next to my guy, sipping it as I pet him until he’s snoring. I miss the days he followed me up the stairs and slept at my feet, but he knows his limits, and I’m painfully aware he’s not a pup anymore.

I climb the stairs to my room, strip out of my clothes, change into another one of Dad’s old sweatshirts, and head to my bed, which is a nest of pillows and old quilts.

The large windows allow the moonlight to shine in, lighting the walls covered in band posters, postcards, and a string of photos clipped to twinkle lights—all photos of me and my cousins.

All young and carefree. It feels like a lifetime ago.

I yawn as I curl up facing the window and watch the stars blink through the glass.

Out there, the world’s about to get wild—tight shirts, Philly energy, toddler-led cheers. But here?

Here, it’s just us.

Morning comes soft. Not with an alarm, but with sunlight slipping through the window.

I blink awake in my nest of quilts and stretch, listening to the creaks of the house as it warms to the day.

I then toss my legs over the side and force myself to throw on some clothes and head to the greenhouse, knowing Mom is out there, trying to get all our seeds planted for the farming venture, even though I told her that Maggie and I would handle everything.

Downstairs, Wile’s standing by the screen, one cloudy eye fixed on me, tail giving a slow, steady thump. I grab my coat, shove my boots on, and open the door. He steps outside with the quiet dignity of a dog who’s done this a thousand mornings before. No rush. No fanfare. Business as usual.

The air is cold, crisp enough to nip at my ankles, and the sky’s still holding onto that predawn silver. I follow the path to the greenhouse.

It’s already glowing. Not glowing like a fairy tale, just good, honest warmth from the heater and the string of warm lights Dad rigged up years ago.

Mom’s inside, bent over a tray of seedlings, glasses fogged slightly at the edges, braid looped over one shoulder.

She’s got that face she gets when she’s in her zone—peaceful, focused, a little smug in that I-told-you-kale-was-a-winter-crop kind of way.

“You’re up early,” she says without looking up.

“So are you.”

The greenhouse smells like damp earth, mint, and something spicy—probably microgreens.

There are trays everywhere: onions just sprouting, spinach and kale unfurling like sleepy little fists, and a fresh round of microgreens pushing through grow mats like they’ve got somewhere to be.

On the drying rack, I spot bundles of thyme, parsley, and the last of the fall rosemary, crisping in the corner near the heater.

“I’ve got red Russian kale starting over here, and the leeks just popped,” she says, lifting a tray to show me. “Your spinach looks better than mine. Again.”

“Maybe it likes sarcasm and snacks.” I shrug.

She smirks then passes me a small tray to help separate out baby onion starters. We settle into a rhythm, quiet and easy, just the sounds of the greenhouse heater kicking on and Wile thudding down outside in the mulch like he’s officially on break.

“Big day?” she eventually asks.

“Knights fanfest. Brewery’s gonna be nuts. Skinner’s wearing a shirt we found in the team closet that might technically qualify as compression gear.”

She chuckles, tucking a rogue strand of hair behind her ear. “Well, hope the seams hold.”

“Me, too. I’m not trying to supervise a wardrobe malfunction and a beer tasting in the same ten-minute window.”

We fall quiet again, fingers in the dirt, trays shifting, breath fogging the glass. I don’t say I’m nervous, but I don’t have to.

She just looks up and hands me a warm thermos she brought out earlier. “Lemon balm, ginger, little honey. For your throat. And your nerves.”

I nod. “Thanks.”

She reaches out and brushes some soil off my cheek with her thumb. “You’ve got this. And if it all falls apart, you come home to this. That’s the deal.”

“Deal,” I say softly.

I glance outside. Wile’s still lying there, one good eye open, ears twitching at the sound of a woodpecker. Ever the sentinel. Just slower these days.

“C’mon,” Mom says, straightening with a soft grunt. “Let’s get breakfast in you before you wrangle the masses.”