Page 15 of Dream Chaser
They know. Like,know.
Better be a twelve-inch.
It’s funny; when you play in a city, your face is on billboards, but no one looks at you twice in real life. But in a place like this? They know your stats, your snacks, your mother’s name. And they care—deeply, loudly, with glitter, and Sharpies, and school bake sales.
It messes with you, if you let it.
I roll past the local VFW, where someone’s hung a massive banner across the building: “OUR SONS. OUR BROTHERS. OUR TEAM.”
I don’t know why that one hits harder than the rest. Maybe because it doesn’t say “Knights.” It just saysours. That hits deeper.
I tighten my grip on the wheel and take the turn that heads up the hill toward Brooks Brewery.
Almost showtime.
Just before the brewery’s main lot, a kid in a neon vest waves me toward the edge of the field.
I follow the makeshift signs marked, “PLAYER PARKING,” taped to buckets, propped on folding chairs, crooked as hell, and ease the Defender into a row of trucks and blacked-out SUVs.
It’s a scene.
Half the team’s already here, parked side by side like a pregame convoy. I spot Warren’s Escalade, two tricked-out Jeeps, and someone’s hybrid that doesn’t belong but probably belongs to Joey, our kicker. Music’s blasting from a Bluetoothspeaker zip-tied to the side mirror of a Ford Raptor, and there’s a tent—a full-ass, event-rental style heated tent—pitched on the edge of the field.
I fucking love it!
When I step out, I watch as steam rolls off the heater vents, as if we’re tailgating, and I can already hear the guys inside, shouting, laughing, engaging in friendly trash talk, and someone bragging about a new sponsorship deal as we head to the big game.
I step onto the snow-crusted grass, coat collar turned up against the cold, the shirt under it still doing its job. A few heads turn as I walk up.
“Well, well, well, look who finally made it,” Hart calls out, lifting his coffee like a toast. “Nice of you to grace us with your”—he looks me over and chuckles—“tactical T-shirt and cheekbones.”
I flip him off and push through the flap.
Inside, there are space heaters, catering trays, and someone already unboxing merch to sign. There’s an old table piled with orange slices and Gatorade. I laugh as I scan the crowd and see Jake, Alex, Ryan, and Lucas chuckle as they watch for my reaction. I nod and head over to grab a slice.
Our PR rep, Callie, appears like a mirage with a clipboard in one hand and that don’t-test-me look in her eyes. “We’re up in fifteen,” she states.“Transport is pulling around now.”
“Transport?” I ask.
Then I hear it. The slow, unmistakablechug-chug-chugof a tractor.
The flap opens and in walks John and Jack Ross—gray beards, flannel shirts, under Carhart jackets with “Legacy Field” embroidered on them. They own the land the stadium stands on. Their kids and their spouses own the Knights.
“Hay wagon’s here, boys!” John announces with a shit-ass grin.
I blink. “He’s serious.”
Callie smiles. “It’s a Blue Valley thing. Homecoming tradition. The fans love it. Nostalgia meets spectacle.”
“It’s a hay wagon,”I deadpan.
“It’sthehay wagon.” Grimes grins, already grabbing his branded beanie and heading toward the flap. “Let’s roll!”
I sigh, roll my shoulders, and head out.
There’s snow in the wheel wells, loose hay, and an actual banner strung across the side that reads, “KNIGHTS HOMETOWN HEROES,” in spray paint.
And yeah … I climb on. Because this is Blue Valley. And, apparently, we ride into fan events like kings of the cornfield.
