Page 30 of Dream Chaser
After we clean up, Lexi walks out of the bathroom, all decked out in her game day fit and does a twirl. “Fashion, but make it frostbite-proof.” She has on a quilted black skirt, layered over gold thermal leggings, a cropped matte puffer with a Knights logo embroidered in black-on-black, and thigh-high waterproof boots. Her knit hat is gold with a subtle glitter thread. Fingerless gloves. Gold-tinted sunglasses.
“Fashion show.” Mags claps, and we all grab our bags and start getting ready.
London’s got on Knights joggers tucked into fleece-lined combat boots, a vintage black hoodie, and a massive gold sherpa-lined trench coat.
“That coat is the bomb,” I exclaim as she frowns while looking in the full-length mirror.
“I look like a linebacker’s emotionally distant ex”—she shrugs—“and I’m good with that.”
Harper’s outfit is pure comfort: high-rise black leggings, fleece-lined Knights hoodie, and a long cream coat with gold toggles. Her earmuffs have tiny gold hearts stitched in.
“I’m totally stealing those earmuffs while you sleep,” I warn.
“And Lily will steal them from you while you’re awake.” Sydney laughs.
Lo, true to form, has laid hers out military style. She’s got thermal black cargo pants, a Knights fleece with her Grimes embroidered above the breast pocket, and a wool-lined coat that zips all the way up her neck. Her boots are waterproof, insulated, and ready for trench warfare.
“Boots are mine,” I taunt.
Syd is wearing a pink Knights Jersey that sparkles, with thermal black tights and, yep … a pink tutu. “Lily wants us all to match.” Then she pulls out black and gold pom poms.
“Oh my God.” Riley giggles. “So, is Lyndsey …?”
“Same fit.” Sydney smiles. “And her bestie, Mela, is matching, as well.”
Mine? A base layer, high-waisted jeans lined with fleece and a vintage bomber-style Knights’ coat Mom swiped from the team warehouse for me last year. It’s warm. It’s got history. And yeah, it fits a little tighter this season … probably because I layer like I’m prepping for the Arctic.
“Went for warm.” I shrug.
“And it shows off the ladies.” London wags her brows.
Lexi pulls a bottle of dry rosé from the minibar, pours it into the hotel mugs, and passes them out. “To warm fits and hotter wins.”
We toast, we clink, and then we start on hair and makeup plans like the night before a school dance. Because, yeah, we’re grown. But this? This is sisterhood.
Everyone is asleep but me. Me? I’m curled up in the window, looking over the city. I can’t seem to fall asleep. Like, honestly, I’m kind of afraid to. What if Dream Skinner shows up tonight, and I moan his name, andthey hear. Then they will think their suspicions are valid.
The thing is, Skinner is sexy as hell, and Dream Skinner has talent beyond compare, —’cause he’s a dream—but they are not the same. They’re totally different. Well, not totally. If one morning I woke next to Dream Skinner, and he professed his love for me, I’d tell him the same thing I’d tell Real Skinner if he ever came at me like that.
I am not interested in a relationship. I am solely focused on figuring out which direction I want to take, or even if I want to choose a direction. I love my life. It may seem chaotic to some, orthat I don’t know what I want to do when I “grow up,” but I am grown, and I see nothing wrong with wanting to do it all.
I know I am being presumptuous, but I swear our star right guard has been giving off a different vibe than in previous seasons. I suspect it’s because of the coupling up of … everyone, and him wanting that, too. And, since I’m always around, he naturally gravitates to me. Or maybe it’s Dream Skinners’ fault, and I’m the one throwing signals. If that’s true, it can only mean one thing: I need to get laid …for real.
The most fucked up part of that is I just don’t have time.
Chapter 8
Playoffs
Griffon
Game day. Visitor locker room.
The lights are too bright, the air too cold, and every sound—every cleat on tile, every cough, every snap of tape—lands like a hammer. There’s something about stadiums like this. Older. Louder. Not ours.
I pull my hoodie tighter over my head and settle into the same spot I always do. I sit on the edge of the bench, elbows on my knees, and breathe. Not deep, not slow. Steady.
My cleats are already tied and rechecked. My pads have been adjusted three times. The last thing I do is close my eyes and walk the field in my head. Not visualizing the win. Not manifesting some bullshit headline. I run the plays, picture the breaks, feel the weight of impact before it happens.
