Page 7 of Dream Chaser (The New York Knights Players Club #4)

Event Time

Izzy

Moving on …

Riley’s balancing a clipboard on her belly while stress-eating a granola bar. And I’m moving to the front entrance with my own clipboard, chewing a pen cap, and mentally cataloging every possible disaster.

“Okay,” I call out to the group. “Ticketed time slots—ten-minute waves, twenty fans per group. The first group hits at noon. The final group is the youth leagues, JV kids, and Varsity kids last. Coaches requested it so they don’t miss practice.”

“Nice,” Lo says without looking up. “Make ’em wait just long enough to lose their minds.”

“Exactly.” I nod. “Also, Maggie, your speakers are fixed, but I had to rewire the whole outlet. Someone plugged that old beer fridge into the wrong circuit and almost tripped the breaker.”

“Ugh. Again?” Maggie mutters. “Was it Old Man Kessler?”

“He says it was ‘the ghosts,’” I answer. “But yes.”

Sydney snorts. “Anything else fall apart?”

“The Sharpies were missing,” I reply, looking at Lily. “Found them in the cooler with the garnish fruit. Probably Lily’s doing.”

Lily gasps from the bar, hands on her hips like a tiny, offended queen. “I was making sure they didn’t dry out!”

“You’re hired.” I wink at her then glance back down at my board.

“Also,” I add, flipping to the next page on my clipboard, “the second heater out front was blowing cold air; got it replaced with the backup from storage. And the step-and-repeat banner came in with a typo on one line, which makes zero sense. Like hello , repeat! It said ‘Knigths.’ I attached a team flag over it. Boom. Crisis averted.”

“You’re a machine.” Riley raises a fist

“She’s terrifying,” Maggie whispers to Lo. “In a hot, clipboard dominatrix kind of way.”

“Thank you,” I say, because obviously .

Lo tosses a branded beanie at my head. “Same company that dicked up the hats?”

“Yeah. As soon as we get that money back, they’re done.” I huff. “I’ll figure out how to do merch my damn self.”

“Yeah.” Mags laughs. “Like you have time.”

Lo shouts, “Twenty minutes! Time to take this from brewery to broadcast-ready. Everyone knows where they’re stationed? Which influencer groups they are in charge of?”

Ava, London, and Harper walk in, followed by the moms and a Maggie.

“Harper and London have the influencers covered,” Aunt Tessa says. “That way, if the boys screw something up, they can refocus them on tales from their rock star lives and Broadway days.”

“Hey, what about me?” Ava huffs.

Tessa wraps her arm around her. “Your head’s been on the upcoming draft and contract negotiations.”

Ava laughs. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Means you’re wound a little too tight, my dear.” a Maggie giggles. “And we could use your help in the kitchen.”

Jade, Phoebe, Kendall, and Mom all gasp.

“Oh my God, I can freaking cook.” She scowls at them.

“Of course you can, but all the food is already prepped.” a links her arm through hers. “Let’s go get our aprons on and get ready to serve the masses.”

She looks at Jade, her mother-in-law. “I can be very personable.”

Jade smiles and links her arm through her other. “You, my dear, wear a lot of hats.”

“I rock them.” Ava nods sharply.

“You do, but you just screamed at the commissioner of the league on the phone. Let’s take the time to let the steam roll out of your pretty little ears before we switch hats, okay?”

“Ten minutes,” Riley announces as she and the kitchen staff begin bringing out the trays for the buffet.

Everyone scatters, and I try to remind myself that, although this is the first time our Knights have won the division and our first fan function on this scale, it won’t be the last. Anything that goes wrong is not the end of the world; it’s a lesson on how to do it better next time.

This is for our team, our town, our community, and our players.

And those kids showing up last? They’ll remember it forever. I sure as hell would have.

I double-check the player name tags, lining them up on the table. Skinner’s is on top. Of course it is. Bold letters. Tactical font. The shirt he made me dig out of the closet is seared into my memory in ways I’m not proud of.

Sydney catches my expression as she walks past and slows. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” I tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “Just making sure everything holds together.”

She smiles, soft but knowing. “It already is. We’re all here.”

“Missing one.” I frown.

“And who would that be?” I hear from behind us and whip around.

“Lexi is here!” We all freak the hell out and rush to her.

“I wouldn’t miss this for all the tea and biscuits in England.” She laughs as we hug her.

I glance at London from our huddle. “You knew!”

“Hell yes, I did.” London laughs.

Before I can reply, the walkie crackles to life.

“Callie to Iz. Hay wagon’s rolling in. Five out.”

I grab the bracelets for group one, tighten my grip on the clipboard, and look to Lily. “You ready to give out your bracelets?”

“Oh boy, am I!” She jumps up and heads toward me, leaving her friendship bracelets behind.

Laughing, Syd follows her with a basket of Lily’s special, personally made bracelets with her.

Lily grabs my hand. “I’m ready.” Then she holds up her other hand, the empty one, and makes a giant O face.

Sydney looks back around as she approaches. “Hey Lily, you think we should wait for your mom?”

“Umm …” She looks around as she bounces on her toes, seconds from running out the door, but is doing such a good job at holding back.

“I’m here,” Lyndsey calls out breathlessly as she all but falls through the back door. “Sorry, I got stuck in the line of vehicles pulling in.”

“Didn’t you get the text to park in the players’ lot?” Syd asks.

“I didn’t.” She frowns.

I glance at Lexi and pop out my bottom lip. She does the same in return, and then we’re out the door.

“Thirty seconds out,” Callie’s voice comes through the walkie.

“We’re ready,” I inform.

I see the crowd outside is already pressed up against the ropes, craning their necks, cell phones raised like they’re waiting for royalty to step out of a limo. I laugh at the reality of how our Knights roll in.

They step down off the wagon like gods returning to their village.

Boone is first, all swagger and teeth, high-fiving every kid within reach. Our QB follows, doing the whole wave-smile-shoulder-flex routine that has two moms nearly fainting into their iced ciders. They all take time with the crowd, giving them the attention they deserve.

Then there’s Skinner.

He’s last off the wagon, taking his time, black coat unbuttoned, that tight shirt underneath doing criminal things to the laws of physics. His sunglasses are still on, because of course they are, and his expression is unreadable, but I catch the slight shift when his eyes land on me.

He moves through the crowd like he doesn’t notice the screaming, but I know he hears it.

As he walks past me, he leans in just enough for his voice to brush my ear. “You timed that perfectly.”

“Told you,” I murmur back. “I know what I’m doing.”

And just like that, we’re live.

“All right, the first twenty!” I call, holding the clipboard up like I’m wielding a mic at a concert. “That’s one through twenty, head inside to the left and—let’s line up at the rope.”

Twenty kids and their adults shuffle forward when Uncle Jack unhooks the rope. All are wide-eyed, bouncing in place like they’ve just been told Santa’s in the next room and is handing out touchdowns.

One boy—maybe eight, wearing a hoodie two sizes too big and cleats like he’s ready to sub in—grabs his friend’s hand and whispers, “Did you see Skinner’s arms? He could bench a cow.”

His friend nods solemnly. “I bet he already has.”

Behind them, a girl in a puffy gold coat clutches a folded poster to her chest. I catch a glimpse of it—homemade, bold black letters that read, “ HART IS MY HERO, ” with at least seven exclamation points.

I move down the line, clipping on bracelets, giving high-fives, tying the occasional scarf, and lowering my voice to a steady calm.

“You’ll each get a photo, a signed poster, and a minute with the players. Just follow the rope line inside, and you’ll be guided to the table. Cool?”

They nod. Every single one of them looks ready to burst from their own skin.

I glance through the glass door. Inside, the players are at the long table we set up in front of the big brewery logo wall. Sharpie markers. Personalized name cards. A cooler of water bottles.

Skinner’s leaning back, arms crossed, like he’s barely tolerating the attention, until a toddler hands him a crayon drawing of “ #54 ,” and I see something shift in his posture. He turns to mush.

I turn back to the line and clap once, sharp. “Let’s go, team. You’re up.”

The kids cheer and move forward, following the rope line like it’s the yellow brick road, nervous energy bubbling over into half-jumps, awkward skips, and whispered rehearsals of what they’re going to say.

Parents have phones at the ready. Faces are lit with excitement.

This is the moment they’ll talk about for weeks .

As they disappear inside, I exhale for the first time since nine a.m. and glance at my clipboard again. Twenty-five more groups to go. And one smirky, tight-shirted player I’m doing my absolute best not to look directly at.

Focus, Ross. You can swoon later.

Two hours in, my boots hurt, my coffee’s cold, and my walkie is somehow sticky.

We’ve moved through twelve groups. Two hundred and forty fans. Give or take a few middle schoolers who snuck into line twice wearing different hats. Whatever. I let it go.

The brewery is wall to wall. Kids are bouncing, parents are beaming, and Maggie’s on her fourth tray of soft pretzel skewers.

The players are holding strong. Barely.

Warren is thriving. He started signing foam fingers and forearms somewhere around group four. Our kicker’s taken approximately three thousand selfies, and Skinner?

Skinner’s … fine. Which, for him, is the emotional equivalent of skipping through a field of daisies.