Page 1 of Dream Chaser
Chapter 1
Tight Shirts
Izzy
“Iwill not cry. I will not cry,” I say to myself as I continue to make sense of the senseless.
I’m in the storage room where all the new gear comes in to get inventoried, a task I took on when I was doing a player a favor by finding a sweatshirt with his name and number for his sister. It was a mess, and I nearly had a meltdown. I’m in just about the same mental state now as I was then.
The room I just cleaned and organized before the playoff season began looks like a merch tornado tore through it. There are jerseys hanging from hooks that aren’t meant to hold them, a half-toppled box of limited-edition beanies in the corner, and what appears to be a string of used jockstraps slung off the top shelf like fairy lights.
And me? I’m elbow-deep in a tub labeled “PLAYERS/MISC,” which I’m pretty sure is code forwe didn’t know where else to shove this crap.
“You’re not on fire,” I remind myself. “You’re just probably breathing in polyester toxins, and that’s why you feel like death is literally standing over your shoulder.”
I pull out a crumpled towel with “SKINNER 54” embroidered on it and squint. “Disrespectful. He’s typically not even top twenty on the messiest player list and this?—”
“That’s because I’ve got class, Ross.”
I yelp, falling backward into a pile of foam fingers.
Griffon Skinner leans against the doorframe like sin dressed in black and gold, wearing a smug grin. His sleeves are rolled up, his hat’s on backward, and he’s chewing on something—likely my last nerve.
“You can’t justappearlike that,” I hiss, one hand still on my chest. “This is a high-stress environment.”
He scans the room. “Looks more like a crime scene.”
I throw a Knights tumbler at him. He catches it with ease.Show-off.
“What do you want?” I ask, diving back into the mess.
“I was supposed to have my new gear ready before the fan event this weekend. But I walk in here and see the chaos queen?—”
“Chaos queen?” I echo. “Excuse you. I am ahigh-functioningmulti-visionary with a poor sense of belief in others.” I look around. “Even when they always seem to fall short. At least my chaos is organized, until I blink.” I glance back at him. “Now what did you need?”
He walks in fully now, brushing a few wayward foam fingers off a folding chair before dropping into it. “My shirt’s too big.”
I blink. “Excuse me?”
“The one for the event. It needs to be tighter. Should hug my biceps, show off all these amazing angles.” He links his fingers behind his neck and freaking flexes. “Give the public somethingto look at, a distraction while they wait in line for me to sign posters, jerseys, and maybe a titty or two.”
I stare at him, give a slow blink and completely ignore the ‘sign a titty or two’ comment and address the issue he came to me with. “You want a tighter shirt?”
He lifts a shoulder like it’s the most reasonable and normal request in the world. “Gotta use what the Lord gave me.”
“Did the Lord also give you the ego, or was that a custom job?”
He smiles. It’s a little lazy. A little dangerous. Like a cup of cool water on hot summer day…
I hate that I like it.
I turn away and yank another box off the shelf, ignoring how his gaze follows me like a heat seeking missile.Well trying to anyway.
“You know,” he says after a beat, “you really don’t have to do all this alone.”
I huff. “I’m fine.”
“You say that,” he stands, “but you look two seconds away from being buried alive under a pile of jockstraps.” He walks closer, picks up a stack of misprinted hats that I asked to be sent back but clearly someone didn’t do their job, and begins organizing them into a neat row.
