Page 8 of Dream Chaser (The New York Knights Players Club #4)

He’s sitting tall, coat long gone, that criminally tight shirt still doing damage. Every time a fan blushes mid-sentence, he pretends not to notice. But I do. I notice everything.

I’m mid-resetting the line queue when I hear Lexington ask, “Need some help?”

“You know I don’t, but I will totally play flake just to hang with you!

I’ve missed you so much!” I grab her hands and extend my arms to check her out.

Lexington Hines is hot as hell. She looks just like her dad and brother, with just a touch of that soft, sweet kind of sexy that Emma and London have.

She’s in boots with gold heels, black tights, a layered tulle skirt, and a cropped Knights jacket that is clearly custom.

Lexi is in her freshman year at the Royal Arts University of Music School—aka the fanciest, most selective college for classical musicians in the entire world.

I laugh and hug her tight. She smells like vanilla and musical freaking genius.

“You’re glowing,” I say, pulling back. “What’s it like to be nineteen and intimidating?”

“Taxing,” she replies, flipping her hair. “Now, where do you need me? Because this line looks like it’s about to unionize.”

“God, marry me,” I mutter, handing her the backup clipboard.

“Only if you promise me two things: a movie night and five uninterrupted minutes.” She scans the guys. “Hell, did the moms draft these guys? They’re all hot as hell.”

“Offense or defense?” I laugh.

“You know damn well if I get a hold of them, they better be able to play defense. If I don’t break them, Dad will.” She laughs. “Screw it; doesn’t matter. But who the hell is GQ Joe with the tightest shirt I’ve ever seen on a man in my life?”

Apparently, I pause for too long because she laughs.

“You’ve got dibs.”

“Hell no. I am not going to fall prey to that. We already have three down, and I’m not going to be the next one to go. Have at it.”

“Mmhmm,” she says before kissing my cheek.

Then she slides into the crowd like a trained diplomat, organizing the next group of wristbands with precision and complimenting everyone’s outfits on her way.

Within thirty seconds, she’s got parents smiling, kids listening, and the line reshuffled so smoothly I could cry.

From the far end of the brewery, Skinner looks up, sees her, then me.

He raises one eyebrow— who’s that ?

I nod and give him the, have-at-it look before spinning on my heel and diving back into the crowd.

The last group of the day lines up just outside the rope—Blue Valley’s youth teams, middle schoolers, JV and varsity kids. A few of them bounce on their toes. Others try to play it cool, like they’re not vibrating under the surface.

These are our kids. Our future linemen, wide receivers, and Olympians. And yeah, it’s not the dream I thought I was chasing when I was a teenager with turf-burned thighs and calloused hands, racing down the field in college like I had something to prove.

I did. I still do.

But women in sports? We get wrecked.

Not just physically. Though, trust me, shattering your shoulder in your sophomore year in a game you don’t even remember finishing will do a number on your psyche, but systemically, too.

The scholarships are fewer. Endorsements are less lucrative.

The pro leagues are smaller. The coverage is laughable unless you’re already a headline.

And when that injury hits, followed by a global pandemic that shuts everything down? Yeah, good luck reigniting that fire.

I didn’t lose the dream. It just … changed shape.

Turns out, there’s more than one way to stay in the game. You can still be part of the team. The rhythm. The build. The win. You can coach, manage, run logistics, market, scout, heal, and lead.

Sports isn’t just something you play . It stays in your bones, even when your body says no. It’s a family all fighting for the same … team.

And for women— especially women —we build our own arenas. We lift each other. We scream louder, work smarter, fight harder.

So, yeah, I didn’t end up where I thought I would. But today? Today I am part of bringing an entire damn town together to celebrate athletes who make kids believe they can be anything.

And I’ll take that win. Every time.

I give the nod, and Lexington waves them in with a smile that’s half-stage-manager, half-red-carpet-handler.

They enter in small bursts—families close behind, phones already recording. And the second they hit the meet line? Everything slows down.

The guys, who’ve been all charm, and pace, and PR polish for the last two hours, settle into something different. Softer. More rooted.

Oz Hunt is kneeling on the floor, signing a kid’s jersey and pointing out his own number like he’s passing a torch. One of the linemen is carefully Sharpie-tagging a plastic football while the kid holding it looks like he might combust from pure awe.

Lily is sitting on Boone’s lap and introducing the younger kids to her Knight, telling them he’s the best player in the whole world—yes, those words exactly.

Skinner’s crouched next to a kid in a Knights hoodie that’s at least two seasons old. He says something I can’t hear, but the kid laughs, and Skinner laughs with him—real, loose, none of that restrained, media-day, half-smile he’s usually pulling.

He looks … real.

Worn in from the day, shoulders relaxed, there’s smudged black marker on the edge of his palm and his hair’s been flattened in the back from where a toddler hugged him with full frosting contact about an hour ago.

I can’t stop watching him.

I pretend I’m checking the crowd flow. I pretend I’m checking my notes. But what I’m really doing is watching the way Skinner kneels to meet these kids eye-to-eye, like he remembers exactly what it feels like to want this badly and wonders if anyone else sees it.

Lexington slides up beside me, just loud enough for her whisper to hit at the exact wrong moment. “So, are we admitting you’re in love with him, or am I writing it down for court records?”

I glare. “Don’t you have a plane to catch?”

“Don’t you have feelings to unpack?”

Before I can hit her with something snappy, the last kid steps away from the table, clutching a signed hat like it’s made of diamonds. The parents are wiping their eyes.

Some of the players have started stretching like they’ve just survived combat. And Lo appears with a stack of thank-you cards and a tray of cider shots for the team.

It’s over.

Four hours.

Hundreds of fans.

A hay wagon.

Tears. Glitter. Dozens of Sharpies lost to the void.

And none of it fell apart.

I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.

Skinner looks up then and finds me through the slowly dispersing crowd. His eyes hold for a second. Then he gives me the slightest nod.

Not the media one. Not the PR one.

This one’s just for me.

And it says: You did good.

Or maybe … Hook me up with the hot brunette?

Grrrr!