Page 43 of Dream Chaser
She raises an eyebrow, amused. “Try me.”
And I want to. God, I want to lay it all out—about the weight of expectations and disappointment. The loss that I still carry. The reasons I don’t have people in the stands. The shit I buried before I ever signed a pro contract. But she’s looking at me like she might already know some of it. Hell, she’s already said it.
I changed my armor.
Instead, I change the direction of the conversation. “You ever miss it?”
“College?” she asks, looking down at her drink, stirring it with the tiny red straw, before she leans her head back againstthe cushion and hums. “Yeah. But not the way people think. Not the parties or the freedom from parents. For a long time, I missed being on the field. Being part of something that clicked.”
I nod slowly. “You were a monster on the field, huh?”
“Damn right, I was.” She smirks, but it fades gently. “Until my shoulder and the world went sideways.”
“Injury?” I ask, and she nods. “Pandemic?”
“Among other things,” she says then glances at me. “You ever feel like the version of you everyone else sees was built in college, and now you’re stuck playing him, even though who you really are was before you were trying so hard to leave that person behind?”
I inhale a deep breath—the heavy she just laid down—and then exhale through my nose. “Every fucking day.”
She takes another sip then looks at me long enough that I feel it settle low in my chest. “I like you better drunk.” She grins.
“I’m not drunk,” I lie.
“You’re buzzed, then. Loose. Less filtered. It suits you.”
“Yeah?” I glance at her mouth before I can stop myself. “You suit me.”
Silence, thick and loaded, stretching long enough that I could do something reckless and she might not stop me.
I lean in her direction.
“Careful,” she warns, voice low and laced with challenge.
I reach for my glass instead, knocking back the last of the whiskey, and then lean back again, closer than before.
“Always,” I say, though we both know I don’t want to be.
Not with her.
Not tonight.
She lifts her gaze and looks around. The bartender at the end of the room is wiping down the counter in slow circles, trying not to stare but definitely waiting for us to take the hint.
Iz stretches, catching me watching her. “I should head up,” she says, voice low and husky from laughing and whatever it is she’s drinking.
“You should?” I tease, already feeling the pull.
She narrows her eyes and stands. “My girls are waiting.”
Right. Her tribe. Always orbiting. Always watching.
We walk toward the elevators together, shoulder to shoulder. Neither of us speak. Neither of us are in a rush. This energy between us still humming with whatever the hell has been building all night.
I wave my hand in front of me. “Ladies first.”
She steps in, and I follow. We reach for the button at the same time. Our fingers brush. That energy turns electric and crackles through the air like someone struck a match in a gas leak.
“Sixteen,” she murmurs.
