Page 13 of Dream Chaser
“Maybe it likes sarcasm and snacks.” I shrug.
She smirks then passes me a small tray to help separate out baby onion starters. We settle into a rhythm, quiet and easy, just the sounds of the greenhouse heater kicking on and Wile thudding down outside in the mulch like he’s officially on break.
“Big day?” she eventually asks.
“Knights fanfest. Brewery’s gonna be nuts. Skinner’s wearing a shirt we found in the team closet that might technically qualify as compression gear.”
She chuckles, tucking a rogue strand of hair behind her ear. “Well, hope the seams hold.”
“Me, too. I’m not trying to supervise a wardrobe malfunction and a beer tasting in the same ten-minute window.”
We fall quiet again, fingers in the dirt, trays shifting, breath fogging the glass. I don’t say I’m nervous, but I don’t have to.
She just looks up and hands me a warm thermos she brought out earlier. “Lemon balm, ginger, little honey. For your throat. And your nerves.”
I nod. “Thanks.”
She reaches out and brushes some soil off my cheek with her thumb. “You’ve got this. And if it all falls apart, you come home to this. That’s the deal.”
“Deal,” I say softly.
I glance outside. Wile’s still lying there, one good eye open, ears twitching at the sound of a woodpecker. Ever the sentinel. Just slower these days.
“C’mon,” Mom says, straightening with a soft grunt. “Let’s get breakfast in you before you wrangle the masses.”
Chapter 4
Showtime
Griffon
The shirt is tighter than I imagined. I tug on it again and stare at my reflection like it might get bigger. Nope, the black fabric clings to my chest like it’s holding on for dear life. Well, at least the gold Knights emblem on the sleeve isn’t distorted.
I turn to make sure that my name’s stamped across the back and my number isn’t dicked up. It’s not. Wonder what the hell kind of magic this is made of.
I blow out a slow breath and look it over again.
“Still ridiculous,” I mutter. But I don’t change.
I’m the one who made Izzy dig it out of the back of the team closet. I will not admit defeat or show weakness. I’m totally vested.
Fuck it. It’s now a damn centerpiece.
Honestly, it’s still not the most outrageous thing I’ve worn lately.
I’ve got a gold leather bomber jacket from a Tokyo drop that still smells faintly of the shipping container it was sealed in. Packed that bitch like an ancient relic. I’ve walked into games in coats worth more than most people’s rent checks. Not a flex, just … wow. I’ve got sunglasses that cost more than the entire bedroom set I’ve been sleeping on or the couch I park my ass on every day—hand-me-downs and goodwill finds, patched together with the same stubbornness that built my routine.
I could buy better furniture, but I haven’t. Not because I’m cheap. Because nothing felt right, and then I stopped searching since my entire newsfeeds on social media were IKEA or some other furniture store ad. Izzy had to nerd-splain how to retrain my algorithm to MAKE IT STOP. I keep telling myself I’ll know it when I see it. Still haven’t seen it. It’s cool, though. Nicest pad I’ve ever lived in.
But after being “rehomed” and locked down during the chaos that involved threats to the team and four assholes who decided to cut the electricity to our little Knights community, and staying between Lo’s place and Hart’s, my place feels like a pit stop—clean, empty, quiet. It feels like more of a place to leave my cleats and crash. A place to store some stupid shit I’ve bought online, like the wrestling championship belt I bought on one of those auction sites I used to scour to find football gear back in high school because my grandparents paid for my damn life and I hated it. Hated hearing conversations between Mom and Grand where Grand would tell Mom not to worry about sending money. “Honey girl, I know how expensive it must be to live overseas. You take care of Thatcher while he takes care of America.”
He’s a fucking major general in the U.S. Army. His base pay is two hundred thousand a year. He’s not hurting financially. My grands, on the other hand, pinched pennies their entire lives.
Fuck him and focus, I remind myself.
I look in the mirror and try to remind myself of the point in this. Oh yes, ’cause I look fucking good. My body is in the best shape of my life. Will it get better? Maybe. If not, I’m gonna flaunt my money maker … which it sure as hell is.
The first time I walked into the facility in one of my sponsored fits, the guys gave me endless shit. Called me “GQ,” “runway,” “model citizen.” I let ’em run with it. Then I told them what I got paid to wear it.
