Page 5 of The Game Changer (Knights of Passion #3)

He turned his back again and reached for the soap, scrubbing hard like he could erase the night off his skin.

Dylan leaned against the doorframe. “How’s your arm?”

Silence stretched, broken only by the rush of water over tile. Then, a nonchalant shrug. “Fine.”

Dylan didn’t buy it. He stepped in, boots squeaking on the wet floor, and grabbed Cody’s shoulder. His fingers slid on the slick skin, but he got a grip and turned him gently—but firmly—around.

“Tell me you didn’t hurt your hand or arm throwing your little tantrum for every kid and ESPN camera to witness.”

Cody jerked away, raising his right arm like a trophy. “Fine. I didn’t use it, alright? Happy now?”

Dylan stepped back, shaking water off his sleeve. “No, but I’m relieved you’re only an idiot, not an injured idiot. Next time, throw your hissy fit in the damn tunnel—where the fans and the media can’t see it.”

He turned to leave, but fingers curled around the collar of his shirt, tugging hard enough to make him stumble on the wet tile. Dylan caught himself, boots slipping slightly on the slick floor.

“Are you calling me a fucking child?” Cody snarled.

Dylan’s patience snapped.

In a flash, he pivoted, seized Cody by the forearm, and shoved him back against the wall with one firm hand on his left shoulder. The wet tile clapped under the impact.

“I’m saying you acted like a child,” Dylan growled, eyes locked on Cody’s. “But if the shoe fits, lace that bitch up and wear it.”

Cody’s breath came hard and fast, his jaw clenched tight. But he didn’t swing. Didn’t fight back.

“Lucky for you,” Dylan continued, voice low and steady, “you had the sense to use your left arm. Maybe you’re not a total loss.”

He stepped back, brushing water off his chest in disgust. “Now I have to change because your wet tantrum turned into a fucking slip-n-slide. And guess what? I still have to finish the damn game and clean up the mess you made.”

Cody opened his mouth, but Dylan cut him off with a glare.

“And don’t even think about slinking out before the press shows up. You pitched like shit on national television. Own it. Man up. Answer the damn questions.”

With that, Dylan stalked out of the showers, water sloshing under his cleats, the heat of his own anger burning through his soaked jersey. Back in the locker room, he peeled off his wet clothes, every muscle taut with frustration.

He didn’t look back.

Let Cody stew in the mess he’d made. If the kid had any hope of becoming the pitcher he was hyped to be, he needed to learn how to take the hits—on and off the field.

And Dylan? He needed to figure out how to lead a teammate who didn’t want to follow. Before they both lost everything.

A fter the humiliating loss, Dylan stood under the fluorescent glare of the locker room lights, answering what felt like the hundredth version of the same goddamn question.

His tone stayed measured, professional, but every word scraped raw against nerves already frayed to hell.

He could feel the tension in his body—like his skin was stretched too tight, every muscle one twitch away from snapping.

Cody, for once, had stepped up. He stood a few feet away, subdued, maybe even a little humble as he gave clipped answers to reporters who barely masked their glee at the post-game meltdown.

Dylan didn’t believe for a second it would last. A kid like Cody Patterson didn’t just flip a switch and suddenly become a team player overnight.

Eventually, the last mic was lowered, the final notepad snapped shut, and the reporters trickled out, leaving only the thrum of overhead lights and the faint smell of sweat and antiseptic behind.

Dylan exhaled and headed for the parking lot, every step a reminder of the grind.

His knees ached, his back protested, and exhaustion had burrowed deep into his bones.

All he wanted was to collapse into bed, sleep for half a day, then wake up and do it all over again. Rinse and repeat. That was the job.

His Lexus SUV sat alone under the lot lights, the only vehicle left. He nodded to the security guard with a grunt and climbed in, rolling out into the sticky Georgia night, the scent of asphalt and heat thick in the air.

Thirty minutes later, headlights swept across his driveway, illuminating the neat front of his house. He was halfway to the front door when a single, horrifying thought hit him like a fastball to the ribs.

The dog.

Shit.

He glanced at the clock on the dash and swore under his breath. How had he forgotten about her?

He bolted into the house, flicking on the kitchen light as he tossed his keys onto the counter. His gaze shot to the closed bathroom door—and the splintered hole chewed through the bottom panel. Shards of wood were scattered across the floor like some deranged jigsaw puzzle. His stomach sank.

Following the destruction, he moved toward the living room—and stopped dead.

The room looked like a war zone.

Foam and fabric were everywhere. The couch cushions had been gutted, pillows disemboweled. In the center of the chaos, curled on one of his T-shirts like it was the last piece of safety in the world, was the little gray dog.

She looked miserable.

The moment she saw him, she leapt to her feet. Her entire body wiggled with frantic relief, as if her heart had been broken and now, just maybe, it had been put back together.

Dylan’s voice exploded before he could stop it. “What the hell happened here?!”

She froze mid-wiggle. Instantly, she dropped to her belly and began inching toward him, low and apologetic, licking at his foot like she was pleading for forgiveness.

All the irritation and fury drained from him like a popped balloon.

“Damn it,” he muttered, raking a hand through his hair.

She’d been scared. Alone. Probably thought she’d been abandoned again. He’d locked her in a strange house, then vanished for hours.

He exhaled and pulled his phone from his pocket, along with the crumpled business card he hadn’t wanted to need.

Savannah Monroe.

He hesitated a beat before punching in the number, already bracing for her voice—and the inevitable judgment that would follow.

When she answered, her voice was thick with sleep, low and husky. It hit him like a sucker punch to the gut.

“Savannah Monroe? Dylan Prosser. We met earlier today… at the shelter. Sorry it’s so late, but I need you.”

Damn.

He could hear the rustle of sheets in the background, could imagine her shifting in bed, that voice sliding over him like silk. She sounded like midnight and trouble, and his body responded with a sharp pulse of heat that had no business existing right now.

Not with a dog curled at his feet, not with a wrecked living room, not with a team collapsing around him and a career teetering on the edge of irrelevance.

But none of that mattered to his body, apparently.

All he could think about was those long, sun-kissed legs in cutoffs, wrapped tight around his hips, her mouth dragging hot kisses along his jaw as she whispered something wicked in his ear.

He ground his molars together, trying to shove the image aside.

He wasn’t a rookie. He’d never been into road groupies like some of the younger guys—didn’t need the drama or the strings.

Sure, women threw themselves at ballplayers, looking for a payout, a story, a shot at fame, or maybe just the bragging rights of being with a major league ballplayer.

But Dylan had always kept a low profile.

He wasn’t flashy. He didn’t make headlines. He wasn’t that guy.

And yet here he was—flushed, hard, and stupid over a woman who had all but called him an asshole in public.

Savannah Monroe was a walking temptation—sharp tongue, hotter body, and a look in her eyes that said she didn’t fall for anyone’s bullshit.

He respected that.

Unfortunately, respect didn’t do a damn thing to cool the blood pounding in his veins.

He watched the dog lay her head on his foot, big eyes blinking up at him with something like trust.

He was in trouble.

And he had a feeling Savannah Monroe had only just begun to wreck his life.