Page 18 of Dream Chaser
“Didn’t you get the text to park in the players’ lot?” Syd asks.
“I didn’t.” She frowns.
I glance at Lexi and pop out my bottom lip. She does the same in return, and then we’re out the door.
“Thirty seconds out,” Callie’s voice comes through the walkie.
“We’re ready,” I inform.
I see the crowd outside is already pressed up against the ropes, craning their necks, cell phones raised like they’re waiting for royalty to step out of a limo. I laugh at the reality of how our Knights roll in.
They step down off the wagon like gods returning to their village.
Boone is first, all swagger and teeth, high-fiving every kid within reach. Our QB follows, doing the whole wave-smile-shoulder-flex routine that has two moms nearly fainting into their iced ciders. They all take time with the crowd, giving them the attention they deserve.
Then there’s Skinner.
He’s last off the wagon, taking his time, black coat unbuttoned, that tight shirt underneath doing criminal things to the laws of physics. His sunglasses are still on, because of course they are, and his expression is unreadable, but I catch the slight shift when his eyes land on me.
He moves through the crowd like he doesn’t notice the screaming, but I know he hears it.
As he walks past me, he leans in just enough for his voice to brush my ear. “You timed that perfectly.”
“Told you,” I murmur back. “I know what I’m doing.”
And just like that, we’re live.
“All right, the first twenty!” I call, holding the clipboard up like I’m wielding a mic at a concert. “That’s one through twenty, head inside to the left and—let’s line up at the rope.”
Twenty kids and their adults shuffle forward when Uncle Jack unhooks the rope. All are wide-eyed, bouncing in place like they’ve just been told Santa’s in the next room and is handing out touchdowns.
One boy—maybe eight, wearing a hoodie two sizes too big and cleats like he’sreadyto sub in—grabs his friend’s hand and whispers, “Did you see Skinner’s arms? He could bench a cow.”
His friend nods solemnly. “I bet he already has.”
Behind them, a girl in a puffy gold coat clutches a folded poster to her chest. I catch a glimpse of it—homemade, bold black letters that read, “HART IS MY HERO,” with at least seven exclamation points.
I move down the line, clipping on bracelets, giving high-fives, tying the occasional scarf, and lowering my voice to a steady calm.
“You’ll each get a photo, a signed poster, and a minute with the players. Just follow the rope line inside, and you’ll be guided to the table. Cool?”
They nod. Every single one of them looks ready to burst from their own skin.
I glance through the glass door. Inside, the players are at the long table we set up in front of the big brewery logo wall. Sharpie markers. Personalized name cards. A cooler of water bottles.
Skinner’s leaning back, arms crossed, like he’s barely tolerating the attention, until a toddler hands him a crayon drawing of “#54,” and I see something shift in his posture. He turns to mush.
I turn back to the line and clap once, sharp. “Let’s go, team. You’re up.”
The kids cheer and move forward, following the rope line like it’s the yellow brick road, nervous energy bubbling over into half-jumps, awkward skips, and whispered rehearsals of what they’re going to say. Parents have phones at the ready. Faces are lit with excitement. This is the moment they’ll talk about forweeks.
As they disappear inside, I exhale for the first time since nine a.m. and glance at my clipboard again. Twenty-five more groups to go. And one smirky, tight-shirted player I’m doing my absolute best not to look directly at.
Focus, Ross. You can swoon later.
Two hours in, my boots hurt, my coffee’s cold, and my walkie is somehow sticky.
We’ve moved through twelve groups. Two hundred and forty fans. Give or take a few middle schoolers who snuck into line twice wearing different hats. Whatever. I let it go.
