Page 6 of Dream Chaser (The New York Knights Players Club #4)

Showtime

Griffon

T he shirt is tighter than I imagined. I tug on it again and stare at my reflection like it might get bigger. Nope, the black fabric clings to my chest like it’s holding on for dear life. Well, at least the gold Knights emblem on the sleeve isn’t distorted.

I turn to make sure that my name’s stamped across the back and my number isn’t dicked up. It’s not. Wonder what the hell kind of magic this is made of.

I blow out a slow breath and look it over again.

“Still ridiculous,” I mutter. But I don’t change.

I’m the one who made Izzy dig it out of the back of the team closet. I will not admit defeat or show weakness. I’m totally vested.

Fuck it. It’s now a damn centerpiece.

Honestly, it’s still not the most outrageous thing I’ve worn lately.

I’ve got a gold leather bomber jacket from a Tokyo drop that still smells faintly of the shipping container it was sealed in.

Packed that bitch like an ancient relic.

I’ve walked into games in coats worth more than most people’s rent checks.

Not a flex, just … wow. I’ve got sunglasses that cost more than the entire bedroom set I’ve been sleeping on or the couch I park my ass on every day—hand-me-downs and goodwill finds, patched together with the same stubbornness that built my routine.

I could buy better furniture, but I haven’t.

Not because I’m cheap. Because nothing felt right, and then I stopped searching since my entire newsfeeds on social media were IKEA or some other furniture store ad.

Izzy had to nerd-splain how to retrain my algorithm to MAKE IT STOP.

I keep telling myself I’ll know it when I see it.

Still haven’t seen it. It’s cool, though. Nicest pad I’ve ever lived in.

But after being “rehomed” and locked down during the chaos that involved threats to the team and four assholes who decided to cut the electricity to our little Knights community, and staying between Lo’s place and Hart’s, my place feels like a pit stop—clean, empty, quiet.

It feels like more of a place to leave my cleats and crash.

A place to store some stupid shit I’ve bought online, like the wrestling championship belt I bought on one of those auction sites I used to scour to find football gear back in high school because my grandparents paid for my damn life and I hated it.

Hated hearing conversations between Mom and Grand where Grand would tell Mom not to worry about sending money.

“Honey girl, I know how expensive it must be to live overseas. You take care of Thatcher while he takes care of America.”

He’s a fucking major general in the U.S. Army. His base pay is two hundred thousand a year. He’s not hurting financially. My grands, on the other hand, pinched pennies their entire lives.

Fuck him and focus , I remind myself.

I look in the mirror and try to remind myself of the point in this. Oh yes, ’cause I look fucking good. My body is in the best shape of my life. Will it get better? Maybe. If not, I’m gonna flaunt my money maker … which it sure as hell is.

The first time I walked into the facility in one of my sponsored fits, the guys gave me endless shit. Called me “GQ,” “runway,” “model citizen.” I let ’em run with it. Then I told them what I got paid to wear it.

That ended the jokes real fast.

Now I’ve got five sponsorship deals on rotation—two major clothing labels, one custom footwear line, and a couple of fitness and hydration brands that love to slap my face on every post-workout ad they can get their hands on.

It’s good money. Consistent. A hell of a lot cleaner than getting hit on third and long.

But this shirt? This shirt is just for today. Just for the fans. Just because Izzy raised one eyebrow and dared me to wear it.

Over it, I throw on a charcoal wool topcoat—tailored, double-breasted, heavy enough to look like it means business. A quiet flex. The kind of coat that doesn’t scream money but whispers it with good stitching.

The pants are jet-black, slim-cut, with just enough stretch for my thighs and ass. Not suit pants—something between dress and tactical. Subtle zip pockets. Clean lines. No logo.

On my feet, black Chelsea boots. Italian leather. No laces. Clean as hell. I had to break them in over three brutal days, but now they wear like a glove … condom?

Fuck, I need to get laid.

Hair styled. Facial hair untrimmed … until after the season ends.

I could’ve gone louder—brighter, trendier, sponsored head-to-toe—but today’s about presence. The shirt, it’s a statement.

I take one last look in the mirror and nod.

Yeah, let ’em look.

Outside, the cold hits like a shot to the ribs. I am briefly concerned that if my nips get any harder, they’ll rip the fabric. Now that would be a statement …

Late January in Central New York doesn’t dick around.

If I were still back in Mississippi, I’d be pulling the cover off the matte-black Mustang I bought my rookie season—low, fast, loud as hell.

She’s parked in Gran’s garage now, polished and tucked in like a trophy until I’m back for the season.

I told them it was theirs whenever they wanted, but they were happy with the Acadia I bought them.

Okay, maybe not happy at first. Grandpa didn’t like technology.

But once he got the hang of it, he was basically happy.

Grand, on the other hand, loves taking the girls out to lunch in it.

I take her out when I visit, just enough to let the neighborhood know I’m back.

But up here? It’s four-wheel drive or the ditch. I knew that shit going to college at Lincoln U just outside of Boston but clearly wasn’t thinking.

I head toward my SUV—a matte black Defender, boxy and built like it’s got something to prove. It’s covered in salt streaks and gravel dust, but the inside is spotless. Organized. Quiet. Paid for with blood, sweat, and zero tears.

I climb in, toss my jacket across the passenger seat, and rest my hands on the wheel. For a minute, I just sit there, letting the silence settle. The engine hums low beneath my boots, heater ticking warm. Outside, thick flurries are falling.

Loved the snow when I moved here. Still did until after New Year’s, and then, yeah, over it.

I pull out and head toward the village.

Blue Valley isn’t big. Blink, and you’ve passed it. But this morning? It’s lit up like a beacon for Knights fans.

Every storefront on Main has something in the windows—hand-painted signs with gold glitter letters, streamers in black and gold taped across shop doors.

The coffee shop and bookstore with the bay window?

They’ve got a cutout of our starting QB, Cody Warren, holding a foam finger and a speech bubble that reads, “ LET’S FINISH THIS. ”

Sydney’s bakery and sweet shop has cupcakes stacked in a display shaped like a football, and a chalkboard sign that reads, “ Go Knights — Free Cupcake for Anyone in a Jersey! ” There’s a line down the street because, let’s be honest, that’s basically the whole town right now. Hell, it’s four whole towns.

Just ahead, at the corner crosswalk, a group of middle schoolers are waiting to cross at the four-way stop—the only one in town—three of them in Knights hoodies so oversized I know they’re hand-me-downs.

One girl is in a beanie with our team logo stitched on the front in gold thread.

She sees my SUV, and her eyes go wide like she knows it’s one of us.

I give a nod as I pass, and she grins like she’s just been blessed by a celebrity. I’m not. But today, I’ll let her believe it.

The elementary school marquee reads, “ GOOD LUCK KNIGHTS! WE BELIEVE IN YOU! ” Someone’s drawn stars and hearts all over the sign with washable marker.

I slow at the four-way stop. The grocery store has a sandwich board out front that reads:

Griffon’s Gameday Grab Bag:

Beef Jerky, Roast Beef Sub, BBQ Pork Rinds.

$9.99 .

I blink.

Jesus.

They know. Like, know.

Better be a twelve-inch.

It’s funny; when you play in a city, your face is on billboards, but no one looks at you twice in real life. But in a place like this? They know your stats, your snacks, your mother’s name. And they care—deeply, loudly, with glitter, and Sharpies, and school bake sales.

It messes with you, if you let it.

I roll past the local VFW, where someone’s hung a massive banner across the building: “ OUR SONS. OUR brOTHERS. OUR TEAM. ”

I don’t know why that one hits harder than the rest. Maybe because it doesn’t say “ Knights .” It just says ours . That hits deeper.

I tighten my grip on the wheel and take the turn that heads up the hill toward Brooks Brewery.

Almost showtime.

Just before the brewery’s main lot, a kid in a neon vest waves me toward the edge of the field.

I follow the makeshift signs marked, “ PLAYER PARKING ,” taped to buckets, propped on folding chairs, crooked as hell, and ease the Defender into a row of trucks and blacked-out SUVs.

It’s a scene.

Half the team’s already here, parked side by side like a pregame convoy.

I spot Warren’s Escalade, two tricked-out Jeeps, and someone’s hybrid that doesn’t belong but probably belongs to Joey, our kicker.

Music’s blasting from a Bluetooth speaker zip-tied to the side mirror of a Ford Raptor, and there’s a tent—a full-ass, event-rental style heated tent—pitched on the edge of the field.

I fucking love it!

When I step out, I watch as steam rolls off the heater vents, as if we’re tailgating, and I can already hear the guys inside, shouting, laughing, engaging in friendly trash talk, and someone bragging about a new sponsorship deal as we head to the big game.

I step onto the snow-crusted grass, coat collar turned up against the cold, the shirt under it still doing its job. A few heads turn as I walk up.

“Well, well, well, look who finally made it,” Hart calls out, lifting his coffee like a toast. “Nice of you to grace us with your”—he looks me over and chuckles—“tactical T-shirt and cheekbones.”

I flip him off and push through the flap.

Inside, there are space heaters, catering trays, and someone already unboxing merch to sign. There’s an old table piled with orange slices and Gatorade. I laugh as I scan the crowd and see Jake, Alex, Ryan, and Lucas chuckle as they watch for my reaction. I nod and head over to grab a slice.

Our PR rep, Callie, appears like a mirage with a clipboard in one hand and that don’t-test-me look in her eyes. “We’re up in fifteen,” she states. “Transport is pulling around now.”

“Transport?” I ask.

Then I hear it. The slow, unmistakable chug-chug-chug of a tractor.

The flap opens and in walks John and Jack Ross—gray beards, flannel shirts, under Carhart jackets with “ Legacy Field ” embroidered on them. They own the land the stadium stands on. Their kids and their spouses own the Knights.

“Hay wagon’s here, boys!” John announces with a shit-ass grin.

I blink. “He’s serious.”

Callie smiles. “It’s a Blue Valley thing. Homecoming tradition. The fans love it. Nostalgia meets spectacle.”

“It’s a hay wagon,” I deadpan.

“It’s the hay wagon.” Grimes grins, already grabbing his branded beanie and heading toward the flap. “Let’s roll!”

I sigh, roll my shoulders, and head out.

There’s snow in the wheel wells, loose hay, and an actual banner strung across the side that reads, “ KNIGHTS HOMETOWN HEROES, ” in spray paint.

And yeah … I climb on. Because this is Blue Valley. And, apparently, we ride into fan events like kings of the cornfield.

“You good?” Grimes asks.

I look at him like, What the hell are you talking about?