Page 5 of Dream Chaser
I look over my shoulder and find his eyes glued to my ass.Liar. “Not today, Satan.”
“No?” He smirks as his eyes travel up my body until he finally meets my eyes. “Tomorrow’s kind of packed, but I think I could squeeze you?—”
“That’s the problem with you jocks.” I inwardly snicker at myself before saying, “Thinking isn’t really your strong suit.”
He sucks in a breath between his teeth and holds his hand over his chest. “Ouch.”
I stop, turn, cross my arms, and look up into his seriously hypnotizing moss green eyes. “Why are you following me, and will you please make it stop?”
Chapter 2
Tight Pants
Griffon
Walking into Brooks Brewery before five o’clock is like stepping into one of those home improvement shows where the final reveal is somehow both rustic and intimidating. Exposed beams. Industrial lights. A chalkboard menu that uses the word “artisanal” unironically. It smells like hops and freedom. Or maybe that’s just how I feel since Izzy Ross isn’t currently trying to end me with a label gun … again, or sending signals that I don’t wanna read.
She’s nothing like the girls I used to take as dates to events required through the team or my agent, which she’s quick to point out. Model-of-the-month changed to model-of-the-moment.
“Miss December?” she asked.
“Nah, none of that around here. She does commercials and fashion shows locally.”
She rolled her baby blues and clarified, “Miss December of Skinner’s Hooters calendar tour.” Then she walked away,chewing on a carrot stick like it was a cigar. She wasn’t even trying to look sexy, which was precisely when I realized how hot she is.
She’s blonde, and not salon blonde. Not the get your-roots-done-and-hair-styled, but the kind that lightens in the sun and darkens at the roots. Ponytail, messy bun—doesn’t matter. Somehow, it always looks like she could outrun a mountain lion, or a knight,andhandle the press at the same time.
She doesn’t wear makeup unless there’s a camera involved or one of the MILFs from Blue Valley corners her with blush and a mission. Her eyes are the kind of blue that sparkle like sapphires in the sun and look like the deep parts of the ocean, holding all sorts of secrets at night. And her body? Soft in the right places. Strong in the rest. She eats like a lineman and moves like a damn forest nymph.
Nymph…
I’ve played football my whole life. I’ve been tackled by the best. But nothing—and I mean nothing—hits like Izzy Ross brushing past me with her coffee and a muttered, “Move it,skinned knee.”
She’s not my type.
She’sbetter.
“Skinner! Get your ass over here and sit down. I need an audience before I start shit-talking your generation.”
Awesome.Jake Ross is calling me to the table as I figuratively jerk it to the thought of his daughter in those tight jeans that flair out to fit over her boots.
I force a smile and take the open seat at the table with Jake and Alex Ross, Ryan Brooks, and Lucas Links.
“You know,” Jake says, holding up his coffee cup, “we used to ride our bikes twelve miles to school in the snow with a Walkman strapped to our hip and no damn helmet.”
Lucas nods solemnly. “That was before people got soft. Before gluten-free bread and participation trophies.”
“Back when MTV played actual music videos,” Ryan adds, wiping the smirk off his face. “You know, Nirvana, Pearl Jam. Not whatever that auto-tuned TikTok shit is.”
Lucas takes a drink and raises an eyebrow at me. “You even know what a mixtape is, Skinner?”
I open my mouth to answer, but Jake cuts in.
“Probably thinks it’s a new protein powder.”
Laughter erupts around the table, and I just sit there, taking it like a rookie at my first team dinner.
Jake leans in, elbow on the table. “We’re just messing with you, son. But seriously, your generation is too busy journaling and manifesting to learn how to change a flat tire.”
