Page 14 of Dream Chaser
That ended the jokes real fast.
Now I’ve got five sponsorship deals on rotation—two major clothing labels, one custom footwear line, and a couple of fitness and hydration brands that love to slap my face on every post-workout ad they can get their hands on. It’s good money. Consistent. A hell of a lot cleaner than getting hit on third and long.
But this shirt? This shirt is just for today. Just for the fans. Just because Izzy raised one eyebrow and dared me to wear it.
Over it, I throw on a charcoal wool topcoat—tailored, double-breasted, heavy enough to look like it means business. A quiet flex. The kind of coat that doesn’t scream money but whispers it with good stitching.
The pants are jet-black, slim-cut, with just enough stretch for my thighs and ass. Not suit pants—something between dress and tactical. Subtle zip pockets. Clean lines. No logo.
On my feet, black Chelsea boots. Italian leather. No laces. Clean as hell. I had to break them in over three brutal days, but now they wear like a glove … condom?
Fuck, I need to get laid.
Hair styled. Facial hair untrimmed … until after the season ends.
I could’ve gone louder—brighter, trendier, sponsored head-to-toe—but today’s about presence. The shirt, it’s a statement.
I take one last look in the mirror and nod.
Yeah, let ’em look.
Outside, the cold hits like a shot to the ribs. I am briefly concerned that if my nips get any harder, they’ll rip the fabric. Nowthatwould be a statement …
Late January in Central New York doesn’t dick around. If I were still back in Mississippi, I’d be pulling the cover off the matte-black Mustang I bought my rookie season—low, fast, loud as hell. She’s parked in Gran’s garage now, polished and tucked in like a trophy until I’m back for the season. I told them it was theirs whenever they wanted, but they were happy with the Acadia I bought them. Okay, maybe not happy at first. Grandpa didn’t like technology. But once he got the hang of it, he was basically happy. Grand, on the other hand, loves taking the girls out to lunch in it. I take her out when I visit, just enough to let the neighborhood know I’m back.
But up here? It’s four-wheel drive or the ditch. I knew that shit going to college at Lincoln U just outside of Boston but clearly wasn’t thinking.
I head toward my SUV—a matte black Defender, boxy and built like it’s got something to prove. It’s covered in salt streaks and gravel dust, but the inside is spotless. Organized. Quiet. Paid for with blood, sweat, and zero tears.
I climb in, toss my jacket across the passenger seat, and rest my hands on the wheel. For a minute, I just sit there, letting the silence settle. The engine hums low beneath my boots, heater ticking warm. Outside, thick flurries are falling.
Loved the snow when I moved here. Still did until after New Year’s, and then, yeah, over it.
I pull out and head toward the village.
Blue Valley isn’t big. Blink, and you’ve passed it. But this morning? It’s lit up like a beacon for Knights fans.
Every storefront on Main has something in the windows—hand-painted signs with gold glitter letters, streamers in black and gold taped across shop doors. The coffee shop and bookstore with the bay window? They’ve got a cutout of our starting QB, Cody Warren, holding a foam finger and a speech bubble that reads, “LET’S FINISH THIS.”
Sydney’s bakery and sweet shop has cupcakes stacked in a display shaped like a football, and a chalkboard sign that reads, “Go Knights — Free Cupcake for Anyone in a Jersey!” There’s a line down the street because, let’s be honest, that’s basically the whole town right now. Hell, it’s four whole towns.
Just ahead, at the corner crosswalk, a group of middle schoolers are waiting to cross at the four-way stop—the only one in town—three of them in Knights hoodies so oversized I know they’re hand-me-downs. One girl is in a beanie with our team logo stitched on the front in gold thread. She sees my SUV, and her eyes go wide like she knows it’s one of us.
I give a nod as I pass, and she grins like she’s just been blessed by a celebrity. I’m not. But today, I’ll let her believe it.
The elementary school marquee reads, “GOOD LUCK KNIGHTS! WE BELIEVE IN YOU!” Someone’s drawn stars and hearts all over the sign with washable marker.
I slow at the four-way stop. The grocery store has a sandwich board out front that reads:
Griffon’s Gameday Grab Bag:
Beef Jerky, Roast Beef Sub, BBQ Pork Rinds.
$9.99.
I blink.
Jesus.
