Page 75 of Dream Chaser
Cohen finally looks up. “Someone lit a fire under you in Philly, Skinner. And for once, it wasn’t rage. That game in Philly? You were a damn machine.”
I shrug. “It was personal.”
Cohen flips a page. “Whatever it was, keep doing it.”
Lucas leans forward, tapping the edge of a folder. “You were named captain, too. Might have been as a show of strength, but we’d like to make it official.”
“For real?” I ask.
“Not that it wasn’t earned—it was—but we also need to make sure we have a few unconnected to the team, if you know what I mean.” Cohen chuckles.
Well, fuck.
He continues, “You’ve earned time off, but don’t disappear. The team needs this version of you to come back in April.”
Cox grunts. “We’ve seen you at your worst. This … this is your best.”
I nod slowly, not saying a damn word more than I have to. Because the truth? They’re not wrong. I’ve been sharper. Calmer. More present. And it’s not because of protein shakes or more sleep. It’s the connections, the tighter bond formed with the team after Vegas, and all but forged when with the whole damn organization was under lock and key. And, yeah, my fantasy became reality with Izzy Ross. They don’t need to know that … not yet
Coach Cohen finishes flipping through the notes. “Take a couple of weeks. Heal up. No downhill skiing, no rodeo, and for the love of God, don’t sign up for any reality shows.”
Cox deadpans, “Or date anyone questionable.”
I smirk. “No comment.”
Lucas stands, offering a handshake. “Get some rest. The next season starts sooner than you think.”
I shake his hand, then Cohen’s. Cox just slaps my shoulder like I’m still fifteen and trying to earn a helmet sticker.
“Don’t screw it up, Skinner,” he says.
I’m halfway out the door when I hear Cox mutter, “Definitely a woman.”
And Cohen replies, “We’ll know who by training camp.”
They won’t. Not unless she wants them to.
Because she’s not a story I’m telling.
She’s the one I’m still figuring out how to handle.
Chapter 17
Girls’ Night
Izzy
Ithrow the door open at the bottom of the stairs and sprint to get to the top, and hopefully beat Wile so he doesn’t get scared.
Voices echo from upstairs. Too many voices.
Crap. They must all be here.
When I throw the door open, I see I’m right—they areallhere.
Lo’s perched on the arm of the big chair with a latte in hand. Lexi and Mags are in the midst of an argument about whether “cozy hot” is a legitimate aesthetic. Riley’s on the floor in leggings and a baby bump-hugging hoodie, rubbing her belly. Harper and London are sprawled on the couch, watching something on one of their phones. Syd’s running her hand over the marble mantel of the old fireplace, clearly enchanted by it. And Ava’s standing by the window like she owns the place. Honestly, she kind of radiates that energy no matter where she is.
I shoot past them all without a word.
