Page 32 of The Game Changer (Knights of Passion #3)

Chapter

Twenty-One

D ylan padded into the kitchen, barefoot and bleary-eyed, the cool tile chilling his soles.

Behind him, Sadie’s nails clicked softly on the floor, her warm weight a constant shadow at his heels.

It was a rare off day—no games, no practices, no film, no strategy meetings—and their manager had issued strict orders to rest. Normally, Dylan would have bristled at the restriction.

He’d be pulling clips from games, studying mechanics, or hitting the cages just to feel like he was doing something.

But not today.

Today, he didn’t care.

His muscles ached in that deep, worn-in way that told him the season had taken more from him than he realized, but it wasn’t just physical fatigue dragging him down. It was something heavier. Something he hadn’t let himself acknowledge.

His heart was tired.

And he knew exactly why.

Savannah.

She had cracked open something inside him he hadn’t known was still vulnerable.

She wasn’t just a fling or a distraction, even though he’d sworn up and down he wouldn’t get tangled up during the season.

She was something more. Last night had proved that.

A quiet truth had slid under his skin and refused to leave.

He was falling in love with her. Hell, maybe he already had.

And it terrified him.

He poured coffee into a mug, fingers wrapping around the warmth like it could anchor him. Sadie nudged his leg, sensing his shift in energy the way only dogs could. Her head tilted, eyes soulful. He reached down to scratch behind her ears, lips twitching at the comfort of her presence.

“You and Savannah,” he muttered. “You both got under my skin.”

The memory of Savannah’s laugh from last night echoed in his mind—bright, unguarded, real.

He took a bite of a microwaved breakfast sandwich and chewed slowly, thoughts wandering into dangerous territory.

She’d blown into his life like a storm, dragging Sadie along with her, upending his routine and wrecking his carefully constructed solitude.

And damn it, he liked it.

He liked her.

He thought he’d sworn off women during the season for good reason—past lessons hard-earned.

His father had taught him early to keep women at arm’s length, especially the ones who saw dollar signs and headlines.

His dad had seen what fame did to people.

So had Dylan. Sara MacAllister had been the worst kind of lesson—a soft smile, a patient voice, and eyes that calculated every move.

The sex had been good, the connection had felt deep, until the mask slipped and he realized she’d been measuring his worth in contract sizes.

After her, Dylan had locked his heart down like a vault.

No relationships. No distractions. Just baseball.

Until Savannah Monroe and her pack of strays tore through his rules like they were tissue paper.

She’d shown up with that stubborn chin and fire in her eyes, all passion and honesty, and turned his house into a home without even trying. She never asked for anything. Not once. Not for money. Not for favors. She showed up, helped with Sadie, and cared without expectations.

He took another bite of the sandwich, hardly tasting it.

What the hell was he doing sitting here?

He tossed the last bite to Sadie, who caught it mid-air, tail thumping. “Let’s go see her.”

In minutes, he was dressed and in the SUV, Sadie riding shotgun with her nose out the cracked window. He didn’t have a plan—just an instinct. A need to see her. Make sure she was okay. He could bring her supplies, offer to help with the day’s work. Whatever it took to stay close.

When he pulled into her gravel driveway, Savannah was already out front, loading bags of kibble and folding crates into the back of her Suburban. He kept Sadie in the car and stepped out, lifting a large sack of dog food and hauling it over his shoulder without asking.

“Morning,” he said. “Thought maybe you needed a sidekick today.”

Savannah’s head snapped up. She stood in the early sunlight, a streak of sweat already glistening at her temple, arms bare in her usual cutoff T-shirt.

Her shorts clung to long, tanned legs, and her hair was twisted up in a messy bun that made him itch to unravel it.

But her expression wasn’t welcoming. Not this morning.

Instead, something shuttered her expression. Her mouth parted, then shut. Her brows pulled together.

“Dylan…” she began, voice strained. Her eyes glistened, red-rimmed and swollen.

Alarm shot through him like a jolt. “What the hell happened?” His voice went rough, instinctively bracing for bad news. “Is it Lucy? Did she do something?”

He was already closing the distance, ready to storm the house if needed.

Savannah caught him by the arms, grounding him. “No, nothing like that. Lucy’s… fine. I’m fine. I just…” She swallowed, then laid a hand gently on his cheek. “It’s a rough day. I need some space, that’s all. I’ll still come by for Sadie later, I promise.”

“No game today,” he said, hating how raw his voice sounded. “You don’t need to come over. I forgot to tell you last night.”

She let out a breath and nodded, but her shoulders didn’t relax. “Good. That helps.” Then, softer: “But I still need the day. Some girl time.”

He narrowed his gaze, trying to read her, to peel back the mask she’d clearly thrown on this morning. “Is this the part where you scare off the guy by being vague and mysterious and pretend it’s just hormones?”

She tried to laugh. Failed.

Still, she nodded, the ghost of a smile tugging at her lips. “Of course. It’s the rulebook, right?”

He reached up and cupped her face, brushing away a tear she hadn’t meant to shed. His chest ached at the feel of her skin, the vulnerability in her eyes.

“It kills me that you’re hurting and I can’t fix it.”

She leaned into his touch and kissed his palm. “Thank you. But I’ve been dealing with this stuff on my own for a long time. I’ll be okay.”

“You shouldn’t have to,” he murmured. Then, without thinking, he pulled her into a hug.

She fit perfectly against him, her head tucked under his chin, and for one fleeting moment, the world stopped spinning. Her fingers fisted the back of his shirt, and he tightened his hold, memorizing the way she breathed against him, how she felt in his arms.

“Call me if you need anything,” he whispered.

She nodded, not speaking.

Reluctantly, he let her go, stepping back with a breath that felt too sharp. Too final. He turned toward his SUV but couldn’t resist looking back. Lucy stood at the doorway, arms folded, expression unreadable.

Dylan gave her a long look—a warning, maybe, or a silent request to take care of her sister.

He drove away, glancing in the rearview mirror long after Savannah had disappeared from view, wondering what the hell had broken her this morning—and what it would take to put the pieces back together.

A fter Dylan left, the silence in the house closed in around Savannah like a weighted blanket.

The air felt too still, too thick, pressing on her chest until she couldn’t quite breathe.

She moved mechanically through the living room, gathering dog toys—Carl’s favorite squeaky donut, the frayed rope he liked to tug with, and the cracked blue rubber ball he carried from room to room.

She picked up his leash from the hook near the door, the familiar jingle of the metal clip sparking fresh tears in her eyes.

Then came the fleece blankets he curled up in every night, worn soft with use and love.

Each item she touched felt like it clung to her fingers, refusing to let go.

Carl followed her through it all, a quiet sentinel at her side. No barking, no bounding through the house like usual—just a solemn shadow, always touching her, pressing his nose to her calf or resting his head against her thigh, anchoring her. As if he knew.

She couldn’t meet his eyes.

By the time she made it to the kitchen table, the bag was full, bulging with mementos of a bond she wasn’t ready to sever.

She sank into a chair with a sigh that felt torn from her soul.

Her hand trembled as she pulled a lined notepad toward her and uncapped a pen.

The weight of what she needed to do settled hard on her shoulders.

The letter.

The one she wrote for every dog she sent north or adopted out locally—filled with notes about feeding schedules, behavior patterns, quirks, fears, favorite toys, and sleeping positions.

She prided herself on capturing the spirit of each animal, giving their new families a roadmap to their hearts.

But this time... this one bled more than the others.

She bit down on the end of the pen and blinked hard, willing the tears to stay put.

Carl wasn’t just another rescue.

He was the dog who’d stayed by her side when she cried after long nights of failed foster applications.

The one who crawled into her lap on the bad days and curled against her like he was trying to hold her together.

He’d seen every part of her—her heartbreak, her exhaustion, her doubts—and had never asked for more than a scratch behind the ears and a full food bowl.

An hour later, she had filled four handwritten pages and soaked through half a box of tissues. Her handwriting blurred in places where her tears had smudged the ink. She reread her words aloud, pausing when her voice cracked:

He’s stubborn about his food—likes it warm with just a drizzle of broth.

He hates thunderstorms and needs to be near someone even when it rains.

He’ll nudge your hand until you pet him, then give you his belly like it’s the greatest gift in the world.

Be patient. He’ll give you everything if you let him.

Her throat clenched. She folded the letter with trembling hands and tucked it into the bag.

She had broken the number-one rule of rescue.

Don’t get too attached .

But she always got attached. That was her fatal flaw.