Page 4 of The Game Changer (Knights of Passion #3)

Chapter

Three

D ylan sat behind the wheel of his Lexus SUV, his head pounding nearly as hard as his heart.

Tucked beside him on the passenger seat was a sheet scribbled with bullet points in curly, feminine handwriting—dog food recommendations, crating instructions, safe toy guidelines, and approximately two dozen other notes that made his eyes cross.

It may as well have been a user manual for a spaceship.

He hadn’t signed up for this. Hell, he’d barely agreed to it.

And yet here he was—with a damn dog in the back and the phone number of a woman who had managed to get under his skin in record time.

In case of emergencies, she’d written next to the number.

The emergency, as far as Dylan was concerned, had already happened the moment that gray dog curled up in his backseat like she’d always belonged there.

He glanced in the rearview mirror. The dog—still nameless, still painfully quiet—was lying curled on the pristine leather seats, her eyes open but soft. Calm. At least she hadn’t chewed through the upholstery. Yet.

Small victories.

He sighed and shifted his gaze toward the rearview mirror just as a flash of white caught his eye.

Savannah Monroe stood across the lot, leaning against her battered Suburban with her arms folded tight beneath her cropped white T-shirt.

It clung to her curves in a way that was entirely unfair, stretching just enough to hint at the figure that had distracted the hell out of him all afternoon.

Her tan legs were a mile long, bare from the frayed hem of her tiny denim shorts to the tops of her dusty boots.

God, she looked like every sun-kissed, small-town fantasy he’d never allowed himself to entertain.

Then she glared at his retreating SUV like she could set it—and him—on fire with sheer willpower.

Right. That was the part he couldn’t forget. That tongue of hers had bite, and she wielded it like a blade. A gorgeous, stubborn, dog-rescuing blade.

A truck honked behind him, dragging him back to reality. He waved and pulled out of the lot, his grip tight on the wheel.

What the hell had he been thinking telling her he played for the Knights?

That was practically begging for trouble.

Nonprofits were always looking for a big name, a new donor, someone to shine a spotlight and open wallets.

He’d seen it before. Hell, he lived it. People wanted things from him—autographs, money, access.

Savannah Monroe hadn’t asked yet, but it was coming.

He saw the way her eyes had lit when he’d said it. His name was a currency in her world.

And he’d just handed it over without a second thought.

Idiot.

When he got home, he herded the dog into the guest bathroom, closed the door behind her, and left a bowl of food. She didn’t resist, didn’t bark or whine. She just curled up on the rug like she understood the temporary nature of her welcome.

His gut twisted. Then he shook it off. He had a game to get ready for.

At the stadium, the moment he pulled into the player’s lot, his mind clicked into game mode. The dog, Savannah, all of it faded like background noise. This was his space, his purpose. He slid into it like slipping on an old glove.

The clubhouse was quiet when he walked through the tunnel and into the locker room. Only a few clubhouse guys were moving around, doing pre-game prep. He headed straight to his locker, changed into workout clothes by rote, and made a beeline for the video room.

There was always more tape to study. Pitchers to analyze.

Batters to memorize. If he didn’t do it, no one else would.

That was part of being a catcher—and not just any catcher.

He was the glue of the infield. The one who saw the entire field, called the plays, directed the flow. He had to know it all.

Over an hour later, the door swung open with a bang, breaking his concentration.

Cody Patterson strolled in like he owned the place, a cocky grin pulling at the corners of his mouth. He straddled a metal folding chair backward and dropped his chin to his hands.

“These guys are tough,” he said, jutting his chin toward the screen.

Dylan didn’t look away. “Top of the league. You’re late.”

Cody snorted. “We’ve got six hours till game time. Plenty of time to watch tape and warm up. Don’t worry, Dylan. I’ve got this.”

Dylan’s jaw clenched. His molars protested. “It’s my job to worry. I’m responsible for calling the game, managing the infield, making sure you know what pitches to throw and when. I have to know everything—about everyone.”

Cody gave a short laugh. “And you call me arrogant.” He stood and kicked the chair against the wall. “I’ll come back later. When breathing doesn’t get me a lecture.”

“Sit.” Dylan didn’t yell. He didn’t need to. His voice had a weight to it—firm, immovable.

Cody paused at the door. Then, with a visible sigh, he came back, turned the chair around and flopped into it, crossing his arms like a sulking teenager. The resentment rolled off him in waves, but Dylan didn’t care. He wasn’t here to be liked. He was here to win.

And that meant getting through to this over-hyped, under-focused pain in the ass.

Dylan clicked back through the tape, walking Cody through each hitter—where they liked to swing, what fooled them, what made them dangerous. Slowly, Cody’s posture shifted. He listened. Absorbed. Took notes in his head, probably more than he’d admit.

Cody reached for Dylan’s binder and flipped through it. “This is impressive. Like a damn bible of the league.”

Dylan snatched it back. “Every pitcher and catcher should have one. I update it after every game. This is your career. Your edge.”

Cody sprawled back in his chair, legs extended. “No wonder they call you the professor. You love to lecture. I don’t need a book to tell me how to pitch. I’ve got instincts.”

He tapped the side of his head and smirked.

Dylan glared. “You’re an idiot. What happens when that ninety-five mile per hour fastball fades? You think you’ll always be able to muscle your way through a lineup?”

Cody shrugged. “I’ve got you. You tell me what to throw. I throw it. Teamwork.”

Dylan slammed the binder shut. “This isn’t that simple.

We’re not solo acts—we’re a battery. We don’t need to braid friendship bracelets or go out for drinks.

But we do need to be in sync. You keep winging it, and we’ll get crossed up at the plate.

That means mistakes. Losses. You keep that up, and this team goes down with you. ”

Cody raised his hands in mock surrender. “Chill, Prosser. We’re fine. We made the All-Star game, didn’t we? Rock stars.”

Dylan snorted. “Every team sends someone. It’s not an honor—it’s a requirement.

We didn’t get voted in. We got pitied in.

You? You were supposed to be the golden arm, the savior.

But you’re all flash and no discipline. You’re inconsistent on the mound, a nightmare off it, and so far, not the player the Knights were banking on. ”

Cody stood, smirking, but there was a tension in his shoulders now. “Wasn’t that your job? Settle me down, be my mentor? Guess that makes you a failure too, old man.”

“Maybe. But I’m not the one wasting talent.” Dylan didn’t flinch. “You want to be great? Start acting like it.”

Cody turned toward the door. “Going to warm up. Catch you on the field, Professor.”

The nickname landed with a sneer, but his posture betrayed him. Tighter. Edgier.

Dylan watched him go, then shut off the monitor and slumped back in the chair. His muscles ached. His mind churned. He wasn’t much older than Cody, but today he felt like a relic. How the hell was he supposed to lead a guy who refused to be led?

He ran a hand over his face. If he didn’t figure it out—and soon—he wouldn’t be the Knights’ starting catcher much longer. And he wasn’t going back to bench duty. Not after everything he’d fought through.

With a growl, he shoved his chair back and stalked out of the video room.

Maybe a hard workout would burn off the frustration. And if it didn’t, at least the weights wouldn’t talk back.

T he game went to hell—just as Dylan had feared.

He and Cody might have been on the same field, but they weren’t playing the same game.

Hell, they weren’t even in the same stadium, let alone the same diamond.

Every sign Dylan gave was either ignored or misread.

Pitch location? Off. Timing? Nonexistent.

Rhythm? Laughable. The kid floundered through four excruciating innings, and by the time the opposing team batted around, the scoreboard screamed six unanswered runs.

It took the bullpen to finally plug the bleeding.

Cody slammed his glove into the dugout wall, then went after the water cooler like it owed him money, booting it hard enough to send it tumbling and sloshing across the concrete. The crowd ate it up. The cameras, of course, caught every second.

Dylan spared him a glance between hitters. At least the kid hadn’t used his pitching hand. Small favors.

The inning finally died, mercifully, and the team dragged themselves off the field with the posture of men returning from war. No fire left. No momentum. Just grim faces and sweat-slicked silence. Cody disappeared down the tunnel without a word.

Dylan handed off his gear, signaling the coaching staff to stay put, then jogged down the hallway after him, the click of his cleats sharp against the concrete.

He found Cody in the showers, steam curling around him like a ghost. The younger man was leaned against the wall, forehead pressed to the cold tile, eyes closed, shoulders tight with frustration and shame.

Dylan paused just outside the stall, arms crossed over his chest. He wasn’t sure what he was going to say—hell, he didn’t want to say anything. But it was his job to fix this, and fixing meant facing the mess.

“Shitty game, huh?”

Cody jolted, slipping a little in the puddle beneath him. He spun around. “Jesus, Prosser. A little warning next time?”