Page 12 of The Game Changer (Knights of Passion #3)

Chapter

Eight

D ylan had slept like shit. Which was saying something, considering he’d been practically dead on his feet when he got home.

After dropping Savannah off, he’d collapsed into bed, only to find Sadie curled stubbornly against his side like a furry hot water bottle.

But it wasn’t the dog that kept him awake—it was the lingering scent of raspberries and vanilla on the sheets.

Savannah’s scent. It haunted him, teased him, tortured him through dreams that left him tangled in the sheets and hard as a bat barrel by dawn.

He hadn’t had dreams like that since high school.

He was thirty-two. This was unacceptable.

By eight, he’d given up. Sleep was a lost cause. He grabbed his keys, left Sadie in the kitchen—because the crate had led to a heartbreaking whine concert—and bolted.

Savannah couldn’t keep staying in his bed.

It was driving him insane. He needed his own space and his sanity.

So, step one: a new bedroom set. Step two: a new couch.

If she and Sadie were going to be around, they needed somewhere else to sleep—and he needed to stop picturing her naked every time he closed his eyes.

He made it to the furniture store before the staff had finished their coffee and walked out with a delivery scheduled for later that day. He hit the grocery store next, praying he didn’t return to shredded shoes and landmines on the carpet.

When he walked in, he immediately knew something was off. Too quiet. Too clean.

Too... suspicious.

He stepped into the living room and froze. Papers covered the floor in a storm of ink, shreds, and saliva. In the middle of it all sat Sadie, looking smug and only mildly remorseful. A familiar blue binder—half-eaten—was open at her paws.

“No. No, no, no. Sadie, not my hitters’ bible!”

His most important tool—years of carefully compiled notes on league hitters—was scattered across the hardwood like confetti. He dropped the grocery bags and knelt, sifting through the wreckage. Some pages were still intact. Others looked like doggy origami.

Sadie groaned and dropped her head, unable to meet his gaze.

“You are on thin ice,” he muttered, even as he scratched behind her ears.

The front door opened and Savannah stepped inside, already assessing the carnage. “You didn’t crate her, did you?”

“She cried,” he said, defensive even to his own ears. “And I figured—how much damage could she really do?”

Savannah dropped her hobo bag with a thump and darted toward the mess. “No, no, no—these were for the foundation. Colleen’s gonna kill me. Sadie, bad girl!”

Sadie whined, ears flat, and buried her face under her paws.

Dylan straightened, frowning. “I already scolded her. You don’t need to pile on. Besides, she chewed my hitters’ bible. I’m not crying about it.”

“Hitter’s what now?”

He held up the mutilated binder, its frayed spine barely clinging to the pages. “It’s my scouting notes. Every hitter in the league—what they swing at, what they avoid. I update it constantly.”

“Don’t you guys have a whole analytics team for that?”

“We do. But these are my notes. What I see. What I feel behind the plate. They matter.”

She laughed—soft, rich, and way too attractive. “Well, looks like Sadie’s sending a message. Maybe she hates the Knights.”

He grunted. “Fine. I’ll crate her next time.” He glanced at her. “I’m off today. I owe you for all of this—especially your help with Sadie. Want to grab some lunch? A thank-you.”

He said it lightly, but his breath hitched. He wasn’t sure what he expected—a polite decline, maybe—but he hoped she’d say yes. Savannah wasn’t like other women. She didn’t care that he was a ballplayer. She cared about dogs. About things that mattered.

She raised an eyebrow. “It’s the least you could do. You let her destroy two projects in one go.”

“She didn’t chew anything vital, did she?”

“I’ll survive,” she said with a sigh. “I can reprint everything. Still a pain.”

He gave her a crooked smile. “Lunch then? You have to eat.”

She hesitated, biting her lower lip. It was a tiny gesture, but it made his gut twist.

Finally, she nodded. “Sure. Sounds great.”

He exhaled, only now realizing he’d been holding his breath. “Turkey okay?”

She narrowed her eyes. “Is this a date, Mr. Prosser?”

He met her gaze squarely. “What if it is?”

Her lips parted, startled, like she hadn’t considered that as a real possibility. For a beat, neither of them moved.

“I don’t date,” she said quietly. “Not right now. My rescue takes everything.”

He nodded, already bracing for the rejection—but it still hit harder than he’d thought. Still, she hadn’t run screaming. That was something. “Baseball takes up all of mine. Doesn’t mean we can’t eat.”

“Fine,” she drawled. “Just lunch.”

He grinned. “Just lunch.” He turned toward the kitchen, and she followed.

She hopped onto a barstool, watching him pull sandwich fixings from the fridge. “You bought groceries? Color me shocked.”

“I even ordered furniture,” he said, tossing a grape into Sadie’s open mouth. “New bed, new couch. Guest room’s officially yours.”

She clicked her tongue in sharp disapproval; the sound cracking through the moment like a whip. He froze mid-throw; the grape poised in his fingers. “No grapes—they’re toxic to dogs. Give her a carrot instead.”

He made a mental note. “Got it. What papers did she chew?”

“Fundraising ideas. Expansion plans. Nothing too urgent. Just dreams.”

He set a turkey sandwich in front of her and passed a baby carrot to Sadie. “So, what’s the big dream?”

She brightened immediately, eyes lighting up. “I want to build a full-service rescue center. Daycare, training, education. A facility that saves dogs and gives them second chances—as therapy dogs, emotional support, even K-9 units.”

He listened, taking it all in, admiring the fire in her voice. “That’s incredible.”

“You want to see it?” she asked suddenly, bouncing off the stool. “What I really want to do?”

He blinked. “Uh—now?”

“Won’t take long. You need to see it.”

Her enthusiasm was infectious, and he realized he wanted to see her dream—wanted to be part of something that mattered to her. Even if it was just for a moment.

“The furniture’s being delivered this afternoon.”

“We’ll be back. Promise.”

He grabbed his keys and followed her out, thinking not about furniture or the game tomorrow—but about how he could give this woman everything she deserved. Starting with lunch. Maybe, eventually, a hell of a lot more.

T hey stepped out of Dylan’s truck and onto the cracked asphalt lot of the abandoned pound, and for the first time, Savannah saw it through someone else’s eyes. Not as a dream. As it really was. And it hit her like a sucker punch to the gut.

The long, squat concrete building hunkered in the Georgia heat like a forgotten relic—grey, bunker-like, cold.

Once part of the public works compound, it had housed trucks, supplies, and utility gear before the city moved operations to a more secure site.

The pound had tried to hang on, but it had always been too small, too remote.

The new facility closer to town made this one obsolete.

Now it stood empty, windows filmed with grime, concrete cracked and weedy, air thick with heat and defeat.

Dylan scanned the grounds, his expression hidden behind his sunglasses, but his silence said more than words could.

Savannah shifted from foot to foot, tamping down the impulse to start explaining—babbling defenses, justifying every inch of the place.

But something about his quiet appraisal held her still.

She waited. Holding her breath like a kid showing her artwork to someone who mattered too much.

Because this moment—his opinion—mattered more than it should have. And that terrified her.

He circled the building, and she followed, noting every overgrown weed, every crumbling edge with fresh, stinging clarity. He stopped at a clouded window and tried to peer inside.

“So,” he said finally, voice unreadable, “this is your dream?”

She nodded, afraid her voice would betray the tremor building in her chest.

“It’s a wreck, Savannah. I can see why they walked away from it.”

Her shoulders sagged, just a little. The words were blunt but not cruel. Still, they scraped over raw nerves she hadn’t realized were exposed.

“I know,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady. “But the foundation’s good. Structurally it’s solid, and with some elbow grease we can gut the inside and start over. Paint the walls bright colors. Make it look like hope instead of punishment.”

She pointed toward the back of the building, her voice gathering steam, pushing through the fear.

“We’ll have a fenced-in yard here—big enough for real play.

Slides, ramps, toys. A doggie playground.

Dogs need more than concrete runs and clanging metal.

They need sun and grass and other dogs to play with. They need to feel safe again.”

He followed her, saying nothing, letting her speak.

“And there—training areas. Group classes, behavior work. I want to offer programs for families, adopters, and even kids. And eventually…” Her voice caught, then surged forward.

“Eventually I want therapy groups and law enforcement to stop buying expensive dogs and start working with rescues. Give them purpose. Give them a life.”

She laughed softly, almost breathlessly, the energy of the vision taking hold. “I know I sound like I’m trying to sell you on it, but I can’t help it. I believe in this, Dylan. In them.”

He was watching her now with a quiet, intense focus that unraveled her. The hint of a smile played at the corners of his mouth.

“You really love these dogs, don’t you?”

She dropped to her knees, pulling at a stick poking through the cracked foundation. Her heart pounded. How did she explain that love without sounding like a cliché?

“They never give up,” she said finally, staring at the ground. “They forgive when they shouldn’t. They trust again when they’ve got every reason not to. Dogs don’t care where you come from. They just want to love and be loved. No conditions. No scorecard. Just love.”

Her voice cracked and she swallowed hard. “People don’t do that.”

A beat passed.

“Is your 501(c)(3) status going to help you fund this?”

She stood and brushed off her hands, grateful for the shift in tone. “We have it already. It helps, but we need sponsors, fundraisers, community partners. It’s going to take time, but it’s worth it.”

“Is it?” he asked softly.

His quiet sincerity landed like a gut punch. Not sarcastic. Not doubting. But real. And it demanded her answer be just as honest.

“You’ve seen the shelters. You met Sadie. You think this isn’t worth it?” she challenged.

“No,” he said, shaking his head slowly. “It is. It’s just…

” He looked around, taking in the endless weeds and crumbling facade.

“It’s a tough road. But you’ve got the land.

You’re out far enough that no one’s going to complain about barking.

You might struggle with visibility, but you’re close enough to town for accessibility. ”

He took off his sunglasses and fixed his eyes on her.

“But this isn’t just a rescue center. What you’re describing—it’s a pet services business.

Training, daycare, therapy, grooming maybe?

You’re thinking rescue-first, but this could be more than that.

You’re building a full-service dog center. The rescue is just one piece.”

Her jaw dropped slightly. “I hadn’t thought of it like that.”

“You should,” he said. “If you look at this as a business, not just a nonprofit, you could apply for grants, small business loans, women-owned business funding. You already have the credentials. You are the business.”

Her heart leapt at the possibility, ideas spinning in her mind faster than she could hold them.

“You think someone would lend me the money?” she whispered.

“I think if you pitch it like you just pitched it to me,” he said, stepping closer, “you could convince anyone.”

He rested his hands gently on her shoulders, grounding her as her thoughts tried to fly off in a hundred directions. “You can do this. You’re already doing it. You just need a place to match your vision.”

She stared up at him, breath caught in her throat. “You really believe that?”

“Do you?” he asked, voice low, eyes serious.

She nodded, slow and reverently. “More than anything.”

“Then yeah, Savannah. I believe it. And I think the world needs what you’re building.”

The tears surprised her. So did the laughter. She launched forward and wrapped her arms around his waist, burying her face in his chest. “Thank you. I needed someone to believe in this. In me.”

He paused, just for a second, then his arms folded around her like they belonged there.

“I’m not just a catcher, you know,” he murmured against her hair. “Got a business degree. Always thought it might come in handy one day.”

She looked up, eyes shining. “Well, if you’re offering consulting services, I may need to barter. My training for your strategy.”

“Deal,” he said without hesitation, voice firm and warm.

She smiled, trying not to think about how safe she felt in his arms. How right this felt. Too bad he probably only meant the dog. Because if Dylan Prosser looked at her the way he looked at Sadie, she’d be in real trouble.

And right now? She was dangerously close to falling.