Page 10 of The Game Changer (Knights of Passion #3)

He groaned aloud, thanking God he wasn’t at the stadium.

The guys had already started calling him “Daddy” and slipping dog toys into his cleats.

If they saw this text, he’d never hear the end of it.

Especially if they caught another glimpse of Savannah.

They’d be begging for intros, hounding her like dogs in heat.

She wasn’t for them.

She was honest. Direct. Strong. She spoke her mind, followed her gut, and didn’t sugarcoat anything. And she was so damn sexy it scrambled his brain.

Every night she sent him a picture—Sadie curled up on his pillow, curled into the space where he should be.

And every night, he lay awake, hard and frustrated, thinking of Savannah tangled in his sheets instead.

Wondering how her skin would taste. If she’d moan when he kissed her neck.

If her eyes would darken when he pushed her panties aside and?—

His phone buzzed again. He pressed accept, distracted and gruff.

“Yeah?”

“Dylan? About damn time you picked up. You’ve been ducking me since the All-Star break.”

His father’s voice sliced through him like a rusty blade. Cold. Sharp. Familiar in all the worst ways.

Dylan sat up fast, arousal gone like a puff of smoke in the wind. “Hey, Dad. Sorry. Just... been busy. You know how it goes.”

His father snorted, unimpressed. “Yeah, I’ve been watching. What the hell is going on with your team? The rotation’s a mess. That hotshot kid—you let him run you. I saw him shake you off three times last start. You need to control that mound.”

Dylan’s teeth ground together. “He’s young. Fiery. We’re adjusting his pitch mix, working on focus.”

“You’re doing a piss-poor job of it.”

There it was. The subtle dig disguised as advice. A constant reminder of how far Dylan still had to go to earn his father’s approval—something he was starting to realize might never happen.

“You’re the field general. Act like it. Set him straight or sit him down.”

“Not that simple,” Dylan said quietly, knowing better than to argue. “We’re trying to build chemistry. A staff.”

“Staff of clowns. He’s the guy they’re building the franchise around? They’re digging their own grave. Good thing your contract’s up. I’ve been talking to the GM in Texas. Might be a slot opening up.”

Ice spread through Dylan’s chest. Of course he had. He could already picture the conversation—his father selling him like a used car with a few dents but “great mileage.” He’d seen it before. Lived it.

“Dad, stop. You’re not my agent.”

“I should be. You’re floundering out there. Losing ground. Texas would be a fresh start.”

Dylan got to his feet, pacing the narrow hotel room, the weight of the call pressing down on his shoulders. “You will not talk to GMs behind my back. You want to help? Don’t.”

“You’re throwing your career away on a second-rate team. They’re a money pit with no direction. And that kid? Patterson? Not worth the hype.”

Dylan’s pulse pounded. “You don’t know him.”

“I know his numbers. And yours. You’re slipping.”

“I’m working with the kid. He needs guidance.”

His father scoffed. “He needs a babysitter. And you? You need to cut ties before the ship sinks.”

The anger surged now, hot and fierce.

“You always said to be a team player. To give it everything.”

“And when the team doesn’t give it back? You move on.”

Of course. That was his father’s legacy—burned bridges and half-finished homes.

“I think I’ll let my agent handle my future,” Dylan said, voice flat. “And if you interfere again, I won’t sign whatever deal you’ve sniffed out. Got it?”

A beat of silence.

Then a growl. “You’re making a mistake. You’re dragging yourself down. Clean up your act or you’ll be lucky to get an offer.”

The line went quiet except for the sound of breathing.

Dylan closed his eyes, every muscle in his neck taut. “Anything else?”

His father hesitated. “Broadcasting gigs have dried up a bit. Maybe you could float me a loan or something. See if the Knights need a color guy.”

Of course. Right on cue. As if it really was a loan.

“I’ll deposit something in the usual account.”

The call disconnected.

Dylan stared at the phone, a bitter taste in his mouth. He didn’t know why he kept hoping the next call would be different—that maybe, just once, his dad would check in without criticism or a cash grab.

A swipe of his finger brought Savannah’s photo back up. Sadie, that ridiculous grin. Savannah’s laugh frozen mid-breath.

A real smile tugged at Dylan’s lips.

She didn’t want anything from him but the truth. She gave a damn. About dogs. About people. About him, maybe.

His body stirred again, heat building under his skin.

He needed to get out of this room. Away from his father’s voice. Away from his thoughts.

But as he pulled on his cap and headed for the stadium, one thing was clear: His dad might be a bastard, but he wasn’t wrong about everything.

If Dylan didn’t get his head on straight—fast—he could lose everything.

Including the one woman he couldn’t stop thinking about.

T he road trip ended in a draw—five wins, one soul-sucking extra-innings loss in the final game that had Dylan and the rest of the team dragging their asses off the plane at four in the damn morning.

The second they stepped into the thick July air, it wrapped around them like wet cotton, stealing what little energy they had left.

Everyone was cranky, stiff, and ready to snap.

Sam Monteleone, their manager, had finally blown a gasket and banned the team from the stadium for the day—technically today, if you looked at the time.

Dylan didn’t argue. None of them did. They needed the break. He just wanted his bed and silence.

He hit the road from the airport, navigating the quiet streets on muscle memory, eyes gritty and brain foggy, but his foot still pressed a little harder on the gas with each mile. Even exhausted, he was in a hurry to get home.

The garage door groaned open, and he slid into the driveway.

As his SUV rolled to a stop, he remembered—Savannah.

Sadie. He’d never texted her his ETA. Shit.

Now he’d have to be polite, maybe talk. Pretend like his skull wasn’t full of gravel and his patience hadn’t already been used up on Cody’s strike zone drama and the hotel’s paper-thin pillows.

He entered the house quietly, the kitchen light flickering on with a soft click.

The gleaming granite counters, normally spotless, were now scattered with dog treats, keys, papers, half a coffee cup, and was that peanut butter?

He ground his molars and resisted the urge to wipe it all down. He didn’t have the bandwidth right now.

Keys hit the bowl on the table with a tired clink.

He shuffled upstairs, suitcase trailing behind him like a wounded soldier.

The house felt different—quiet, sure, but not empty.

That was new. And odd. Maybe she’d taken Sadie to her place after all.

The silence should’ve felt like a gift, but it lodged in his chest like disappointment. Weird.

The guys had been full of dog stories during the trip—tales of chewed shoes, couch carnage, bark-offs and cuddles.

They made it sound like coming home to something, someone, made the grind worth it.

Dylan had tuned them out at first, but by the third night, he was listening.

By the fifth, he was looking forward to Savannah’s texts more than he wanted to admit.

Pictures. Updates. A little sass. A lot of dog. And her. Always her.

He turned the corner to the bedroom and paused at the faint snuffling behind the door. He eased it open. A soft nightlight cast a halo across the bed.

And there she was.

Savannah lay asleep, tangled in his sheets, one bare leg exposed to mid-thigh, golden skin glowing. Sadie was curled around a pillow like she owned it. Another dog—a hulking pit bull—was stretched out like a sentry along Savannah’s back, a gray mountain of muscle.

Dylan’s heart gave a stupid little stutter. He hadn’t realized just how much he’d wanted this moment—coming home to something more than silence. He placed his suitcase gently against the wall and took a step forward.

A soft groan escaped Savannah, low and husky, dragging his eyes to her mouth. Desire punched him so hard he nearly staggered. Jesus.

Sadie’s head popped up, ears alert. A heartbeat later, she launched off the bed with an enthusiastic bark that turned into a full-body wiggle.

Before he could brace himself, forty pounds of pure dog-love slammed into his chest and knocked him back against the wall.

He tried to hold her, but she was a squirming cannonball of joy, licking and whining, tail wagging like a helicopter blade.

He slid to the floor in a heap, pinned by fur, tongue, and pure adoration.

And then came the growl.

Deep. Low. Dangerous.

Dylan froze.

Another dog—clearly not a fan of surprise guests—stood on the bed, hackles raised, staring him down like he was an intruder. Which, apparently, he was. Savannah’s arm wrapped around the dog’s chest, holding him back. Her eyes met Dylan’s, still heavy with sleep, but alert. Wary.

No screaming. Just quiet control. Of course. That was her way.

“Sorry I didn’t call,” he said, rubbing Sadie’s belly to calm them both. “I forgot.”

A slow smile tugged at her lips. “We watched the game. Extra innings. Tried to stay up, but the couch isn’t made for two dogs and a human.”

He winced. “Forgot about the couch. I’ll deal with that tomorrow. We’ve got the day off.”

The sheet slipped as she shifted, revealing the soft curve of her shoulder and the edge of a tank top that clung lovingly to her skin. His throat went dry, arousal slamming into him with the precision of a fastball. He looked away—barely.

Sadie finally flopped beside him, content, and the other dog stood tense, still watching. Protective.

“I’m guessing that’s not a throw pillow,” Dylan muttered.

Savannah reached for a leash. “Carl. He’s calm, but protective. I’ll let him come to you. Just stay still. Let him sniff. Don’t make any sudden moves.”

He arched a brow. “You know this is my house, right?”

Her smile flashed. “Not to him. Ready?”

She unclipped the leash and gave a soft command. Carl hopped off the bed and padded toward him. Slow. Cautious.

Sadie peeked around Dylan and gave Carl a nose-boop. The bigger dog wagged his tail—once—then sniffed Dylan’s leg like it held state secrets.

“Hand out, back first. Quiet voice,” Savannah coached. “He just needs to feel you out.”

Dylan sighed and extended his hand, mentally preparing to lose a finger. “This is insane. I need these hands to catch fastballs.”

“You’ll be fine.” Her voice softened. “Carl won’t hurt you. Unless you give him a reason.”

The moment stretched. Then Carl gave his approval with a headbutt to Dylan’s palm.

“Congratulations,” Savannah said. “You’re in.”

Fantastic. He’d officially been vetted by a dog. In his own house.

Sadie thumped her tail and snuggled against his foot. “I blame you for this chaos,” he muttered. “Vicious little beast.”

Savannah swung her legs out of bed and stood, her long limbs drawing his eyes before he could stop himself. She pulled on a pink hoodie and tugged white yoga pants over mile-long legs, hiding everything he wanted to explore with his hands.

“You’re leaving?” he asked, watching her grab both leashes.

“You’re home. You don’t need me anymore.”

“It’s four a.m. Stay. Take the bed. I’ll crash on the couch.”

She snorted. “The couch with the Sadie-shaped crater? No thanks.”

“You shouldn’t be driving this late. Just stay.”

“I’ve got Carl.”

Dylan looked pointedly at the dog now sprawled on his back, junk on full display. “Yeah, real intimidating.”

She laughed. “I’ve driven home from worse. I’ll be fine.”

“But who watches out for you?”

That stopped her.

Her eyes narrowed, defenses rising like a shield. “I watch out for myself. Always have.”

He bit back a retort, and settled for a nod.

“I’ll be back this afternoon,” she said. “We’ll start your training. Since you’re off today.”

She brushed past him, her scent teasing his senses, and called the dogs to follow. He stood there, blinking after her, unsure if he wanted to kiss her or throw himself into bed and never get up.

He looked down at Sadie. “Wanna go for a ride?”

She wagged her tail once.

He sighed. “Yeah. Me too.”