Chapter 35 - Knox
Chapter thirty-five
Knox
By the time Wednesday practice wraps, I’m wiped. Not because the team’s dragging, we actually had a solid run today, but because I’ve been thinking about tonight since I woke up.
It’s been years since I planned a date that didn’t involve a bar tab or a playoff game on mute. But this? Brynn? She’s worth more than a pizza-on-paper-plates kind of night.
I head home, shower, change into a button-up, nothing fancy, just clean and intentional, and make dinner.
Chicken parm, her favorite, with garlic bread and a simple salad.
I even light candles and spread a quilt across the living room floor, because somehow a couch feels too distant and a table feels too formal.
And okay, maybe I get a bottle of wine with a cork instead of a screw top. Sue me.
By the time she knocks, my stomach’s a mess. Which is ridiculous. She’s already stayed the night. We’ve already kissed until we couldn’t breathe. But something about a first date feels bigger.
I open the door, and there she is, cheeks pink from the breeze, holding a bottle of sparkling water.
“Wow,” she says, eyes sweeping the room. “You really went for it.”
“Go big or go home, right?”
She smiles, stepping inside. “I am home.”
That right there? Yeah. That’ll keep me going for weeks.
We eat cross-legged on the floor, our plates balanced in our laps, candles flickering low while my dog snores softly from across the room. Brynn teases me about the matching cloth napkins and I roll my eyes but secretly love that she noticed.
After dinner, we sit shoulder to shoulder, drinking wine and talking. I take a sip and set the glass down, turning slightly toward her. “Tell me something,” I say.
She tilts her head. “Something like what?”
“Something I don’t know about you anymore. Like maybe explain the tattoo I saw on your side the other night.”
She thinks for a second, eyes scanning the ceiling like she’s debating what to say. Then she lifts her shirt just enough to reveal a small, delicate fern leaf inked on her ribs. “I got it in Seattle. A reminder of home.”
My breath catches for a beat. “The ferns at the falls?”
She nods. “I was homesick. It was raining like it always did, and I passed this tattoo shop on my way to work. Walked in without thinking. The guy asked what I wanted, and I just…blurted it out. A fern leaf. Something simple. Something to remind me of the falls.”
“It’s perfect,” I say quietly.
She tugs her shirt back down and smiles, then nudges me with her foot. “Okay, your turn. Tell me something about you. Something I wouldn’t guess.”
I rub the back of my neck, a little thrown by the way she’s looking at me—like she really wants to know. Like it matters.
“Alright,” I say. “You remember how I used to hate reading?”
She snorts. “Yes, I remember quite a bit of complaining during British Lit.”
I grin. “Yeah, well. That changed.”
She raises a brow.
“I read now. A lot. Mostly late at night. Helps me relax.”
She leans forward, surprised. “What kind of books?”
“Mostly fiction. Some nonfiction.” I shrug. “I don’t talk about it. Just something I started doing after I left the league. Got me through some hard nights.”
Brynn’s quiet for a second, then her voice softens. “That’s…actually really hot.”
I laugh. “Only you would think a guy with a Kindle addiction is sexy.”
“I’m serious. That’s a solid green flag, Coach.”
We fall into a rhythm after that, teasing and talking, our shoulders brushing now and then. Empty plates and wine glasses pushed to the side. It feels natural. Like no time’s passed at all.
Brynn shifts beside me, her hand sliding over my stomach, fingers drawing idle, looping patterns that send warmth rippling through my chest. Her head rests against my shoulder, and I swear I could sit here forever.
But then Priscilla lets out a sleepy grunt from the other side of the room, and I remember the garlic bread crumbs still on the plate and the fact that she’s both sneaky and shameless.
“I should clean this up before the dog gets ideas,” I murmur.
Brynn laughs softly against my shirt. “Probably a good call. She already claimed my spot on the couch when I wasn’t looking.”
“She’s not used to another woman in the house,” I say, but I’m smiling as I push up to my feet.
We work together without saying much, moving through the easy rhythm of gathering plates and wine glasses, folding up the quilt we used as our makeshift picnic blanket. I catch her humming under her breath as she rinses the dishes, and something in my chest tightens.
This—her in my kitchen, wine-drowsy and glowing—is a vision I didn’t realize I’d been holding onto for years.
I blow out the last of the candles, watching the smoke curl up toward the ceiling.
The room instantly feels cooler, quieter.
When I turn back, Brynn’s leaning against the counter, arms crossed, looking at me with that half-smile she wears when she’s about to say something that might wreck me a little.
“You sure know how to ruin a woman,” she says.
I raise a brow. “Ruin, huh?”
“Yeah.” She pushes off the counter, padding toward me. “Dinner. Candles. Wine. Folded blanket. It’s dangerous, Dalton. You make it really hard to walk away at the end of the night.”
My hand finds her waist, tugging her just a little closer. “Then don’t.”
Her breath catches. Just for a second. But I feel it.
“You’re gonna make it hard to leave tomorrow,” she whispers.
“Good.”
She looks up at me, her eyes soft. “Are we going to bed?”
“Unless you want to wash the glasses again.”
She smirks. “Not unless you’ve got something else to seduce me with in the kitchen.”
I kiss her once, slow and deep, then step back and take her hand.
We head upstairs, quiet except for the soft sound of our steps and the shuffle of Priscilla circling her bed in the living room. When we reach my bedroom door, I pause, pressing my hand to the frame before looking back at her.
“You sure?” I ask.
Her answer is simple, certain. “Yeah. I want to be with you tonight.”
And as she walks past me, sweater slipping off one bare shoulder, her hips swaying in those snug jeans, I know I’ve never wanted anything more.