Page 37 of The Game Changer (Knights of Passion #3)

Chapter

Twenty-Four

D ylan popped up from behind the plate and stormed the mound, fury pulsing in every pounding step.

The echo of the bat cracking against the ball still rang in his ears—the grand slam that cleared the bases and left them three runs down in a game that mattered way too much to lose.

Cody Patterson turned his back and stalked to the edge of the mound, cursing under his breath, punching his glove like it was the enemy.

Dylan’s blood was boiling, his vision narrow and red.

He didn’t care that the rest of the infield had started toward the mound—he sliced his hand in the air, waving them off.

This wasn’t their fight. This was between him and his pitcher.

He tried to get in front of Cody, but the younger man sidestepped him, seething. Dylan didn’t hesitate. He checked him hard with his shoulder—firm, deliberate—and finally cut him off.

“What the fuck is going on, Patterson? I’m your goddamn catcher, and you’re avoiding me like I’m the enemy.”

“I’m fine.” Cody’s jaw was clenched so tight the words came out strangled. “Just can’t find my rhythm today. Back off.”

“Not this time.” Dylan’s voice was low, almost a growl. “I saw your face. You’re hurting. Don’t lie to me. Fucking talk to me.”

Cody turned on him so fast Dylan took a step back on instinct. The kid’s face was twisted with rage—bright-eyed, burning, betrayed.

“What, so you can tell me to suck it up? That I need to tough it out for the team? That I’m being a fucking pansy-ass because I’m not a perfect goddamn machine like you?”

“What the fuck, man?” Nick came flying in from second base, cleats chewing up the dirt, sliding into the space between them. He planted a hand on Cody’s chest, holding him back. “Now is not the time or place.”

“Bullshit it isn’t!” Cody’s shout cracked through the air, raw and close to breaking. “I’m fucking sick of this guy riding my ass every time I miss a pitch. I’m not him. I’m not robotic and stone cold and emotionless like Dylan fucking Prosser. Get off my back!”

Dylan stood there, barely breathing, fists clenched at his sides. The desire to shake Cody—or punch him—burned like wildfire in his veins. He’d been where Cody was. Young. Angry. Overwhelmed. But that didn’t stop the sting. It didn’t stop the crack running down the center of his chest.

Nick threw him a look—confused, wary, and maybe a little afraid of what Dylan might do. Dylan clenched his jaw, threw the ball to Nick with a sharp flick of his wrist, and turned away.

“You say you’re fine?” he barked over his shoulder. “Whatever. As if I give a fucking shit.”

He stalked back to home plate, fury riding him like a second skin. The batter was watching with wide eyes, the ump eyeing him like a coiled threat.

“You need a time-out, Prosser?” the ump asked, voice calm but firm.

“I’m fine.” Dylan spat the words, venom-laced. “My pitcher says he’s fucking fine. So let’s fucking play.”

The ump laid a hand on his shoulder.

Dylan froze. Every muscle went rigid. He had to fight the urge to shrug the hand off violently. The last thing he needed was to get tossed from the game.

“Take a breath,” the ump said quietly. “I’m cleaning the plate.”

Dylan stared straight ahead, nostrils flaring, as the ump slowly swept the already spotless plate. A silent gift. A moment to breathe. He hated that he needed it.

Nick was still on the mound, talking quietly to Cody.

Their heads bowed together, the tension between them started to drain.

Dylan should be the one out there—he was the catcher, Cody’s partner.

His job was to lead, to support, to see what Cody needed before the kid knew it himself. And he’d failed.

The inning dragged to a close painfully. When Cody stormed off the mound, disappearing down the tunnel, Dylan followed a beat later. Nick intercepted him just past the dugout.

“I think he needs some time,” Nick said, voice low and calm.

Dylan nodded once, hard. “Thanks for stepping in. But I need to talk to him.”

“You’re up next.”

“I’ll be there. But I need to talk to him.”

He stripped off his gear and jogged into the tunnel, the echo of his cleats against concrete barely registering over the roaring in his head. He found Cody slumped on the floor, his back against the wall, glove hanging from limp fingers.

Dylan didn’t speak right away. He slid down the wall and sat beside him, shoulders just brushing.

“Well… I fucked up, didn’t I?”

Cody looked over at him, startled. “You? Aren’t you supposed to list out every mistake I made that inning?”

Dylan let out a tired breath, shaking his head. “You already know what went wrong. No point piling on. I fucked up by not being there for you. I stopped being your partner out there. And I’m sorry.”

The silence that followed was heavier than the crowd’s muffled cheers in the background. Cody finally exhaled, the sound broken.

“My shoulder’s killing me,” he said quietly. “Been calling it stiffness. But it’s more than that . I know it is.”

Dylan’s entire body went still. Shoulder pain. Those words were every pitcher’s nightmare—and every catcher’s heartbreak. It meant trouble. Maybe more than trouble. Maybe the end.

He swallowed, throat dry. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

Cody stared at the opposite wall as if it held the answers. “I didn’t want to let the team down. I didn’t want to let you down. You’re always saying the team comes first.”

Guilt crashed into Dylan like a punch to the gut. He closed his eyes for a second, reeling. Fuck.

“Damn it, man. I’d never ask you to risk your future for this team. Never .”

Cody’s voice cracked. “Even if it means missing the playoffs?”

“Even then. There’s always next season. You can’t throw your arm away on pride or pressure. We shut you down. Now. Today.”

Cody hesitated, his voice small. “What if I need surgery?”

The fear in his voice wasn’t about pain—it was about what came after. Would he pitch again? Would he make it back?

Dylan leaned in, forehead resting lightly against Cody’s. “You might. Plenty of guys do. But if you don’t stop now, you won’t have a shot. We go talk to Sam. We figure this out.”

Cody’s breath hitched. But he nodded.

Dylan pushed to his feet and offered his hand. Cody took it with his left and let Dylan pull him up. Dylan gripped his shoulder tight.

“I’ve got your back. Whatever happens.”

Cody nodded again, eyes wet, and together they walked down the tunnel, toward the unknown. Toward whatever came next.

As teammates.

As family .

T he game had been delayed while a reliever hustled through warm-ups, and the silence in the dugout had felt like a weight pressing on Dylan’s shoulders.

In the background, Cody sat with the trainers, already making plans for a consultation with a top shoulder specialist on the West Coast. Word had barely left the field before the media frenzy began, circling like vultures on fresh roadkill.

The whispers of “ rotator cuff ” and “ season-ending ” buzzed through the clubhouse like static.

Instead of heading straight home after the game, Dylan pulled out his phone and texted Savannah.

Can you keep Sadie longer? Thinking about taking the guys out for a bit.

Her reply came almost instantly.

Pick her up at my place when you’re done. You okay?

That question—that simple offer of care—hit him square in the chest. He stared at the screen for a beat before answering with a quick smiling emoji. It was the best he could manage in the moment. Words felt too heavy.

A group of them ended up at a steakhouse near the river, the kind of place with leather booths and dim lighting where the waitstaff knew not to hover.

Dylan stuck to club soda, taking on the role of designated driver without being asked.

The others raised their glasses to Cody, laughing louder than they probably should have.

Beneath the jokes and ribbing, there was an unspoken edge—everyone knew what was at stake, even if they didn’t say it out loud.

Later, Dylan poured his teammates into his SUV one by one, the weight of the day clinging to his skin like sweat after a double-header. He dropped off Alex first, then Nick, each one thanking him with tired slaps on the shoulder or murmured “ See you tomorrow ”.

Cody was last.

“Thanks, man,” Cody slurred, throwing an arm around Dylan’s shoulders in a clingy, sloppy hug only a drunk twenty-something could give. “You’re the best, you know that? Looking out for me. Shit—I was scared, man. So fucking scared to tell you about my shoulder.”

Dylan grunted under the younger man’s weight, steadying them both as they made their way toward the house. The sprawling McMansion stood tall and sterile in the night, lights automatically flicking on as they crossed the threshold.

Inside, the place was sleek and impersonal, all white walls and stainless steel. A massive sixty-five-inch TV dominated the living room, flanked by plush leather furniture that looked barely used. The entire house had that professionally staged feel—like it belonged in a catalog, not to a man.

Dylan recognized the emptiness. It mirrored his own home. Rooms too quiet. Spaces that didn’t echo with laughter or life. Just convenience and performance, like the rest of their lives.

“Bedroom upstairs?” Dylan asked, already bracing himself for the climb.

But Cody plopped down onto the nearest couch with a flump and flailed for the remote like a toddler reaching for a toy. “Let’s watch a movie!” he mumbled, his words slurring into one another.

Dylan sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. “I’ve got to get home, rookie. You going to be okay?”

Cody leaned back on the couch, his head lolling against the cushions as a soft, contented snore escaped his mouth.

Dylan stood there for a moment, watching the kid.

All that bravado, that edge—gone. Just a tired, scared man beneath it all.

He walked over, grabbed a throw blanket draped neatly over the back of a chair, and tucked it around Cody’s lanky frame.

The remote slipped from the pitcher’s hand and clattered to the floor, but Cody didn’t stir.

Dylan turned out the lights, leaving the glow of the entryway lamp to cast long shadows across the room. The air inside was still, sterile, like the rest of their lives on the road—transient, half-lived, on hold until something gave way.

He let himself out quietly and stood on the front porch for a beat, breathing in the cool night air.

Savannah would be waiting.

And for the first time all day, he allowed himself a moment of peace.