Page 25 of The Game Changer (Knights of Passion #3)

“It means you’d rather throw yourself into taking care of some injured ballplayer than deal with the people who’ve always been there. Or tried to be. Not that you’ve ever made it easy.”

Savannah inhaled sharply, thrown by the words.

Lucy had never voiced this kind of resentment—not like this.

It wasn’t just anger. There was something underneath, something fragile and flickering: pain, loneliness, maybe even a cry for connection.

But years of half-hearted promises and dramatic exits made Savannah wary of reaching for it.

Still, she hesitated too long.

“Forget it,” Lucy muttered. “Just take care of your golden boy and I’ll deal with your dogs.”

“Lucy—”

But the call was already dead.

Savannah stared at the dark screen, the weight of Lucy’s accusations settling like stones in her chest. She set the phone down carefully on the counter, her fingers trembling as she looked back out the window.

Dylan hadn’t moved. Still draped on the lounge chair, skin pale, the shadow of the ice pack on his head made her stomach churn all over again. Sadie blinked up at her from her post beside him, ever vigilant.

Savannah sagged against the granite, her breath hitching, and reached up to swipe at the wetness on her cheeks.

When had she started crying? The emotions of the past twenty-four hours crashed over her in a wave—helplessness, anger, fear, and a deep, aching tenderness she didn’t want to examine too closely.

She’d nearly lost him. The thought alone was enough to unravel her.

She took a steadying breath. She didn’t have time for this.

Dylan needed more ice packs, more meds. The house needed groceries.

The dogs needed walking. She could hit the store and maybe swing by two of the fosters on the way, or at least make check-in calls from the car. She could compartmentalize. She had to.

Grabbing her purse and keys, she headed for the garage, Lucy’s final words still echoing like a ghost behind her ribcage.

You’ve never made it easy .

No. Maybe she hadn’t. But it wasn’t out of cruelty.

It was out of survival.

T he next couple of days passed in a haze of quiet routine.

Dylan mostly rested, stretched out on the couch or in bed, his body aching in odd places, his head still tender.

But every time he cracked an eye open, Savannah was there—like magic.

Food, drink, ice, whatever he needed, she anticipated it before he asked.

Sadie wasn’t far behind, offering her own form of care, nose pressed into his side or head balanced on his chest. It was oddly comforting.

He never understood how petting a dog could ease pain, but somehow, the rhythmic movement of stroking Sadie’s ears helped settle something restless inside him.

He hadn’t realized how much he’d needed someone until she’d just… been there. Quiet. Steady. Fierce in her gentleness. The way she moved around his house—his space—as if she belonged made something in his chest ache in a way that had nothing to do with concussions.

A couple of teammates had stopped by before the quick road trip to Chicago and then Minnesota.

Cody had been all fire and fury, ready to flatten Russell the next time they met on the mound.

It would’ve been satisfying, Dylan couldn’t deny that— watching Russell take a fastball to the ribs, old-school retaliation—but it wasn’t worth the suspension.

Not when they were in a tight pennant race.

Dylan had pulled Alex aside and made him promise to rein the kid in.

Alex had agreed, but the set of his jaw said he wasn’t happy about it.

Dylan wasn’t either. But the team came first. Always.

So now he watched the games on TV, with Savannah curled against his side, the dogs a warm, snoring pile at their feet.

She went to bed with him every night, soft and warm in his arms, but never crossed that last line.

She was firm: no sex until he was fully healed.

Something about brain swelling and impact and the potential for making things worse.

It was pure torture.

Her curves pressed into his body, her bare skin brushed against his, her breath slow and steady where her head rested on his chest—but all he could do was lie there, hard as a fucking rock, night after night, clutching her like a lifeline and pretending he wasn’t dying a little inside.

Then came the doctor’s appointment. He got the all-clear. No signs of lingering symptoms. Cleared for all activities.

And Dylan had a specific activity in mind.

Savannah drove him home, one hand on the wheel, the other resting lightly on his thigh. It was casual. Innocent. And it still sent blood rushing straight to his groin.

When they pulled into the driveway, he turned to her with a slow grin. “So… any plans for the afternoon?”

“I need to check on my fosters and catch up on a few things,” she said, hopping out and grabbing her bag. “You okay here for a few hours?”

His groin wept. “Yeah. I’ll manage.”

She kissed his cheek and was gone before he could make a real protest.

The house felt too quiet after she left. Sadie padded after him like a shadow, her toenails clicking on the hardwood as he wandered the kitchen, restless. He made a sandwich. Didn’t eat it. Flipped channels. Petted the dog. Finally gave up and collapsed in bed for a nap.

He woke when the bed dipped beside him. The light in the room was dim, afternoon shadows stretching long and soft across the hardwood. The air was warm and quiet.

“What time is it?” he mumbled, voice gravelly with sleep.

“Shhh…” Her voice was low and sultry, thick with mischief. “I’m just here to make sure you’re healing properly, Mr. Prosser.”

His eyes opened fully, and breath caught in his throat. Savannah leaned over him, all teased-out hair and fire-engine-red lipstick, her mouth inches from his. His pulse spiked, cock already stirring beneath the sheet.

She slid his shirt up and off, revealing his chest, and then produced a stethoscope with a dramatic flourish. She placed the cold metal disc against his skin. “Just a quick listen.”

He stared at her in disbelief and growing arousal.

She was dressed in a white nurse’s outfit—but not just any nurse’s outfit.

This one was skintight and scandalous, plunging deep enough to reveal the swell of her breasts and the barest hint of nipples beneath the thin fabric.

The hem barely reached her thighs, and he could already see the flash of a red thong underneath.

His cock hardened instantly.

“Jesus,” he rasped. “Tell me you didn’t go outside dressed like that.”

She didn’t answer. Instead, she dragged her hand down the sheet, pausing over the bulge in his pants. Her fingers curled around him through the fabric, stroking once, twice—just enough to make him groan and fight for control. She leaned in, breath warm against his ear.

“Going commando, Mr. Prosser? Naughty.”

Then she stood and turned slowly. The back of the skirt rode up over her ass, revealing red lace between firm cheeks. He reached out, couldn’t help himself—slid a hand along her bare skin and hooked a finger in the thong. Wet heat met his fingertips. She gasped, eyes closing briefly at his touch.

He didn’t wait. He yanked the thong, the delicate fabric tearing in his grip, and pulled her onto the bed. She landed on him with a laugh, her body warm and soft and already trembling.

He rolled her beneath him, hand sliding up her thigh, under the ridiculous little skirt, and into her slick folds. She arched, keening, as he thrust two fingers inside and worked her with practiced precision, his thumb circling her clit until she shattered beneath him, crying out his name.

He stripped her of the costume—tossed it somewhere, didn’t care where—but left the red heels. Those stayed.

His sweatpants hit the floor, and he grabbed a condom, ripping it open with shaking hands. The anticipation was too much, the tension wound tight in his chest. She was watching him, flushed and panting, eyes dark and heavy-lidded.

He climbed over her, resting on his forearms, and touched her lips. “I loved the outfit,” he whispered. “But I think it’s time I got my reward.”

Her hips tilted, welcoming him in. “Then what are you waiting for?”

He slid inside her with one long, slow stroke, burying himself completely. She was hot, wet silk around him, squeezing him so tight he almost lost control right then.

He braced his forehead against hers, kissed her deeply—slow and devouring. Her legs wrapped around his waist, heels biting into his skin, the faint sting only adding to the fire already tearing through him.

She dug her fingers into his back, pulling him closer, and he moved, deep and slow, savoring every inch.

Every time he drew back and thrust forward, she gasped, her voice soft and high and desperate.

Her body clenched around him, and when she came again—hard, writhing beneath him—he bit back a curse and fought to hold on.

But she was too much. Everything about her. The way she touched him. The way she gave herself so completely. The way she looked at him like he was more than a man. Like he mattered.

He shifted her leg, hooking it over his arm, and sank even deeper.

Her eyes flew wide, lips parting in a silent cry.

He pounded into her, harder now, chasing that edge with everything he had until she screamed and shattered again—and he followed, groaning her name against her throat as he poured everything he had into her.

When it was over, he collapsed beside her, heart pounding, skin slick with sweat.

She turned, tracing lazy fingers along his chest. “So… you liked the outfit?”

He laughed, low and hoarse, voice rough with satisfaction. “Sweetheart, if that’s what getting cleared by the doctor gets me, I’m faking symptoms next time.”