Page 74 of Dream Chaser
I’m showered. I’m dressed. I’m waiting for Hunt to come out of his meeting so I can head in. I’m not thinking about football right now. I’m trying to wrap my brain around the fact that I just snuck out of a girl’s apartment with an eighty-pound dog in my arms like I was a goddamn football Disney prince.
My brain? Still in Izzy Ross territory.
As the door creaks open and Hunt steps out, he pulls it shut behind him.
His eyes land on me, and despite the exhaustion in them, he grins. “Yo, when we gettin’ the crew together for a getaway? You know, like last year.”
He tosses it out casually, but I can already see the wheels turning. The man lives for off-season.
Immediately, my brain flashes tolast year—a not-so-classy, all-too-legendary trip to some overpriced villa in the Bahamas where shirts were optional, drinks were unlimited, and it was wall-to-wall tits and tequila. Vegas the year before that had been worse. Or better, depending on your tolerance for pool parties that turned into strip poker tournaments with bottle girls named after Greek goddesses.
I run a hand down my face, smothering the groan. “We should do something chill this year,” I tell him as we pass each other. “Low-key. Cabin or something.”
Oz snorts. “Cabin? Who hurt you?”
I huff out a laugh, but my brain’s already somewhere else. Someone else. Blue eyes. Sharp tongue. Perfect tits. She’s the reason I’m suddenly picturing bonfires instead of bottle service, slow mornings instead of sunrise hangovers.
“It’s been a year,” I mutter. “We could all use a reset.”
He claps my shoulder and mutters something about, “Therapy via marshmallows,” then disappears down the hall.
And me? I steel myself and push the door open, trying real hard not to picture Izzy Ross in a cabin … in my hoodie … with nothing underneath.
I walk into the film room where my exit meeting is scheduled and feel like I’ve just stepped into a job interview with four versions of the same disappointed father. I get it, fucking bullshit way to end a season.
Coach Cohen’s already seated, arms crossed and eyes sharp. Lucas, the face of the owners; José Cox, my offensive line coach, leaned back, chewing a toothpick and staring like he’s trying to x-ray my soul; and Logan has a manila folder open and a pen tapping like a ticking clock.
“Thought we’d officially introduce you to our new GM. Logan is stepping into the position,” Lucas says, beaming with pride.
“Congrats, man.” I reach over and shake his hand.
“I’m nothing but a figurehead, Skinner. Same day, different name plaque.” He nods to his dad. “Less problematic in the league than this one.”
I expect Lucas to jab back at him, but he simply shrugs. “He’s not wrong.”
“Whatever this team needs, off season or not, put me in, Coach.”
“Appreciate that, kid.” Lucas nods once.
“Skinner,” Cohen says without looking up from the sheet he’s reading. “Hell of a year. Top three guard rankings. Played through three injuries. Not a single missed practice. You got better as the season got worse.”
Lucas adds, “Tough as hell, consistent, and not a walking HR concern.”
I blink. “Thanks?”
Cox smirks. “Don’t let it go to your head. We know what this is.”
I arch a brow. “What is this?”
“This”—Cox gestures broadly at me like I’m a science experiment—“you … all … energized. Glowing. Not punching reporters. Blocking like you found Jesus.”
Lucas raises a brow. “You been doing yoga or something?”
“Nope.”
“Pilates?”
I blink. “What?”
