Page 8 of Dream Chaser
Jake lifts his mug like he’s saluting a war general. “That’s my girl.”
AJ leans back, clearly impressed. “Okay, damn, I take it back. Gen X did one thing right.”
Izzy shoots him a wink. “Two, actually.” She points at herself. “I’m not giving you the satisfaction of saying what the second one is.”
Liam laughs. “Bet he was going to say him.”
Izzy doesn’t answer. She just walks away with that signature Ross strut and calls over her shoulder, “Order wisely. Gen Z digestion’s a little delicate—hope you can handle the spice.”
And just like that, the room erupts in laughter again.
I force myself to lean into the good humor, laugh, smile, but there isn’t a damn thing funny about the thoughts running through my head right now.
Back at the townhouse at The Stables, the silence hits differently than it used to. Not gonna lie, I miss Grimes being right next door, but …
It’s a nice place—two stories, vaulted ceilings, exposed beams. High-end appliances. Gas fireplace. Big shower with too much pressure, which is preferred over too little. Everything’s polished, neutral, and designed to impress. It did—hell, it does—but now it feels like I’m borrowing someone else’s life.
The Stables is what they call the cluster of homes the Knights built for players when reality hit that moving a pro team to bumbfuck CNY was going to be a real estate nightmare. Most of the guys stay during season, disappear during the off. It’s convenient. Safe. Comfortable. Sterile.
I kick off my boots and head straight to the fridge, where I pull out a bottle of water and lean against the counter, staring at nothing.
Izzy Ross is in my head.Again.
That damn girl. All those jobs, her fucking mismatched socks, and that tongue she doesn’t bite for anyone. She barrels into your world, rearranges everything without even noticing, and somehow makes you thank her for it sincerely.
I blow out a breath and head upstairs to shower. Two days until the playoff game and my brain’s a mess. Not because of the game—no. I’ve got that part handled. It’s theafter.What happens when the noise fades, the lights go out, and I’m stuck wondering where I belong—here or in Mississippi?
I linger in the shower long after my hair is rinsed clean, letting the water beat against my chest while I conjure her up in my headagain: the sly way her mouth curls when she’s about to say something cruel, the clipped, paper-knife movements of her hands, even the gold polish on her thumbs as she scrolled through her phone and ignored me. I picture her naked now, but not soft and posed—she’s sprawled on my bed, knees up, a finger tracing slow, taunting circles over her own skin, her voice low and mean while she tells me all the things I’m not allowed to do, yet, and what she’d do to me if I tried. The thought makes my cock twitch, and I wrap my hand around it, squeezing hard, the way I imagine she would if I let her.
My other hand braces against the wall, palm sliding over wet tile while I start to jerk myself off, slow at first, then rougher, chasing the rhythm of her voice in my head, that sharp, delightful sneer:Come on; is that all you’ve got?I picture her standing over me, arms crossed, rolling her eyes as I get close, daring me to finish before her. But, of course, I don’t. The shame of it—the knowledge that I’d probably blow it the second she gave in to whatever it is between us—has been between ussince go—makes my balls tighten. I pump faster, the slap of skin drowned under the hiss of the shower. All my muscles tighten, and I tremble with the need to come.
I’m so deep in the fantasy that I almost don’t recognize my own voice—high, breathless—as I moan her name, stroking myself even harder, imagining it’s her hand instead of mine as hot thick cum jets out in streams against the tiles.
Once my cock is drained, I towel off then pull on a tee-shirt and a pair of joggers. I’m almost afraid to squeegee off the mirror, afraid when I see my reflection, I’ll be completely sunken in, dehydrated due to the number of little Skinners I just blew all over the shower wall.
I pat myself on the back for washing off the wall so that when the cleaning service stops in this week, they won’t have to deal with my mess.
I walk downstairs, inhaling the smell of pine and lemon, which is how it always smells after the cleaners are here on Fridays. I glance to make sure they haven’t moved the old cleats from the coffee table—where they belong, of course—then fill up my water bottle before heading into the living room to … fuck, I don’t know.
I look at my gaming system and consider booting up Mortal Kombat, but honestly, after being on lockdown due to a threat against the team last week, I’m kind of over it. At least for the rest of the season.
I pull my phone out to look at the time and see it’s eight. Then I hit my top favorite in my contact list.
Gran.
She picks up on the second ring. “You calling because your fridge is empty or your heart is full?”
“Little of both,” I murmur.
“Uh-huh. I saw that look on your face Sunday night on the highlight reel. That was not a man thinking about zone protection.”
I chuckle. “I’m always thinking about protection.”
“Mmhmm. So, who’s the girl?”
I pause because, although she asks this question nearly every time we talk, which is at least five times a week, it’s never after spanking it to the image of an ass or tits that have a face.
She hums knowingly. “It’s okay. You don’t have to tell me now. Just don’t wait too long to tell her. You Skinner men have a habit of loving too quietly. Took your grandaddy two years before he asked me out. Thought about making him wait as long for an answer but, by then, I was already in love with the fool.”
