Page 42 of Dream Chaser
I flip it over and see his wife, wearing bunny ears and holding a puck in her hand, tossing it up and catching it. “How have you been, Skinner?”
I shake my head. “Too late to say sorry for being a dick back an LU?”
“It’s never too late to admit you were a giant asshole.”
I chuckle.
She continues, “Not going to say I did the right thing trying to get over my feelings for Rivera by going on a date with Oz, but?—”
“You ended up where you were supposed to. All good.”
“Tough loss or whatever the hell that was tonight for your team. Hope everyone’s okay, Skinner.”
“We’ll deal.”
I hear a baby cry in the background. “Mom duty calls. It was good seeing you, Skinner.”
“You, too.”
I end the call and hand the phone back to Rivera. “You’re a dad.”
“Cutest fucking kids on the planet,” he says, scrolling through his phone and showing me pictures.
“Lemme see those kiddos,” Hart says, and that is how we spent the majority of our time.
The hotel bar is nearly cleared out. Empty glasses and abandoned appetizer plates dot the tables, soft jazz hums from overhead, and the fireplace on the far wall casts a warm flicker across polished wood and faded alumni pride.
A handful of the guys have already left to crash or call home. Hart got dragged out by Riley, his brother, Rome, and sister, Jillian, still tipsy and trying to get Riley to ride on his back. Boone left earlier with Syd, arm slung around her shoulders like nothing else mattered but this moment. Brody Hines entered the scene, took Mag’s and Lexi’s drinks away, not blatantly obvious, but the two of them left with their tails between their legs.
And somehow—somehow—I’m still here.
Izzy Ross is, too.
We’re on opposite ends of the U-shaped leather sectional, knees up, drinks in hand. She’s got something bubbly with lime. I’ve got whatever dark whiskey Costello keeps on reserve.
Leo Stone and Theo Rivera left half an hour ago, muttering something about eight a.m. call times. Smith gave me a fist-bump on the way out and muttered something that might’ve been, “Don’t be dumb,” that I pretended I didn’t hear.
Now it’s just us.
Her boots are off, her little feet tucked beneath her, covered in black socks with the team’s gold Knights emblem stamped all over them. Her long, blonde hair is loose and flowing. It’s free, not twisted up or tied back. It’s hot as fuck.
My suit jacket’s slung over the back of the couch, and I’ve loosened my collar just enough so that I can breathe and relax.
“So …” she says, ice clinking as she takes another sip, “were you this version of Skinner in college?”
“This version?”
She waves a hand at me. “Broody. Bossy. All tight-jawed and mysterious.”
I grin. “You think I’m mysterious?”
“I think you like people thinking that.”
“Well, you clearly don’t.” I chuckle.
She shrugs. “You’re not that hard to read, Skinner. You were kind of an ass in college. And in Blue Valley, you’re all jokes and good times. You changed your armor.”
“Izzy Ross”—I lean in slightly—“you don’t know the half of it.”
