Breaking the Rules: A Brother's Best Friend Romance: The Rules Duet: Book 2 (The Dating Playbook)

by Mariah Dietz

  I’ve played two games since Raegan nearly died. I didn’t complete my routine for either fucking one.

  I tried. Hell, I even managed to get certain parts of my routine, but somewhere amid my preparations, thoughts of her hit me like a linebacker, knocking the air out of me. Today, I didn’t make it to my damn reps without thinking about her, my routine spoiled as Paxton shared with Arlo and me that they were releasing Raegan this morning. I hated the idea. She wasn’t ready. I knew in my gut she wasn’t ready, and that knowledge festered as I imagined the worst-case scenarios playing in my head like a highlights reel, again and again.

  Coach Harris strides into the locker room, snapping as he makes a path to the center of the room. “All right. All right. All right. Are we ready for tonight?” he yells. The team erupts, sounding like a well-trained militia as we promise to beat them. “I said, are we ready for tonight?” Coach Harris yells again, his voice louder. The team responds with more force, more volume. Coach Harris grins around his large wad of gum. “I want to see hustle. I want to see intensity. I want to see you whoop their mother fucking asses!”

  Everyone cheers while Pax and I remain silent. Pax is still and mute because he can’t focus on anything but not barfing in front of coach. Me, I don’t like this type of hype. It doesn’t build me up or get me into the “zone” like it does others. I use that as my excuse to remain quiet, my jaw locked as thoughts of Raegan infiltrate my routine for the billionth time today.

  Then Derek Jones leans into view, and my muscles grow rigid. Derek is a sophomore who transferred from Texas at the end of last year with a hunger for the spotlight that had me disliking him off the bat. And to add to that, he willingly threw two of our starting players under the bus by reporting them to Coach Harris for missing three mandatory weight-training sessions. Was it a coincidence that one of the two players who got benched was a wide receiver—the same position Derek plays? It sure as hell wasn’t. We knew they were missing practice. They had a final to take, and practice was the only time they could meet with their teacher’s assistant. And unlike Derek, both of them were actively working toward earning a degree, using football as their way of paying for college. That little act made my trust fall into the negative and my dislike soar. But what shot him straight into the loathing category was his interest in a girl, and like the players he had benched, I was confident he had an agenda. She wasn’t just any girl, either, she was Paxton Lawson’s—my best friend and our team captain’s—little sister. Raegan. The same girl I’ve spent months avoiding because I don’t do relationships and having an infatuation with my best friend’s sister reminded me far too much of a Caesar and Pompeii relationship if something were to go sour like it inevitably always does. Yet, I set sail on the Rubicon before sense caught up with my ass.

  Last week, Derek saved her from drowning.

  Not me.

  Hell, I didn’t even manage to stop her.

  No. I was stuck on a boat watching my world fall away from me because a stranger told us we’d make the situation worse by going in after her.

  Every hour—every minute—my regret for listening grows stronger.

  “Need a hand? Or a finger?” Arlo jabs Pax with a quick punch as Coach Harris concludes his spiel.

  Paxton blows a slow stream of air through his mouth, then jogs toward the bathroom stalls.

  “That’s such a disgusting habit.” Arlo cringes. “I don’t understand. How can he just make himself sick?”

  I shake my head. “I don’t know, but it seems to work for him.”

  “Glad I don’t have to deal with that.”

  I strive to turn off the channel in my brain that continually flips back to Raegan. “You’re superstitious as all hell, dude. You’ve got your own bag of nuts.” I eye his socks that are tinted brown because he’s been wearing the same damn pair for five fucking years and has yet to wash them because he’s afraid we’ll lose if he does.

  “Not everyone can be perfect like you.” Arlo clasps my cheeks, pinching my face.

  “Cute,” Derek says, slowing as he passes in front of us.

  “Does he know how badly I want to bash his face in every time he speaks?” Arlo asks, watching Derek walk away.

  “No. His head’s shoved up too far his ass to realize anything.”

  Pax appears with a sports drink in hand, sweat formed on his pale brow. He looks terrible, but he always does at this point.

  “Ready?” I ask.

  He nods before taking a long drink, and then the three of us go out toward the tunnel where the team is lining up, ready to take the field.

  The dull ache in my shoulder and my evolving thoughts about Reagan are things I don’t voice as we step into the lights, the last thing I want to reveal is weakness.

  Coach Harris slaps me on the back; his hat pulled low over his eyes. “You ready, son?”

  I flash a smile. “I’m always ready.”

  He chuckles, a large wad of gum visible between his teeth. Coach is always chewing gum, sometimes so hard I expect him to pop his jaw out of place. The man doesn’t know how to remain still. Between chewing gum, snapping, and pacing, he’s always moving. “I want to see your face on the highlights reel tonight on ESPN.”

  “You will.”

  He chuckles again. He loves my confidence—needs it to fuel his own.

  I put my earbuds in and pull my helmet on. Coach pats my back again, firm enough to feel his touch through my pads, but gentler this time with more endearment. It might be because I’m his meal ticket, having brought Brighton more publicity in the past three years than they’ve had in over a decade, or possibly because I go to practice early and stay late, and all those hours together have accumulated and formed a bond between us that often has me looking to coach like another parent. A parent who doesn’t have unrealistic expectations or a shadow of guilt each time he looks at me.

  We stream out onto the field, passing by the cheerleaders who scream and shout a rhyme and wave flags as the crowd cheers raucously. We’re anticipated to be a big contender this year, and announcers are already talking about us going undefeated. These types of news stories make Pax even sicker, but for me, they give me purpose.

  Arlo is next to me, his arms raised in the air, feeding off the crowd, and then Quinton joins him, jumping in the air and doing what looks like a jig. He’s a mountain of a linebacker, and like Arlo, he loves the pre-game. I focus on the music streaming through my earbuds to block out the chaos, and smile because that’s what people want to see when they see the highlight reel tonight. They want to see The President smiling and being the cocky bastard who leads his team to another victory.

  Coach snaps feverishly, the sound muted over the crowd. “Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go!” He looks over us as we stand in formation. I pull my earbuds free and hand them and my phone to Benny, one of the assistant coaches who works exclusively with us wide receivers. He pockets them and nods before handing me a clean towel to tuck in. It’s a dry night, but I still accept it because habits are as ingrained for me as they are for Arlo and Pax.

  “Derek, you have strong side. Lincoln, you’re the weak side, son.” He looks between us as adrenaline swells in my chest t as I debate if she’s watching me.

  It’s a ridiculous question. Few enjoy the game as much as Raegan, and Paxton is my insurance that she’s watching. The reminder of that night creeps into my thoughts, recalling how she had looked me straight in the eye—straight into my heart—before jumping into the ocean. She didn’t give me the chance to say one fucking thing. Not stop or don’t or even good-bye. I was stuck in the midst of a silent battlefield that night, standing on the deck of the boat, searching for her while I felt myself dying in response. Derek was closer, and he didn’t have Paxton and some crazy-ass lady holding him back, telling him he was going to scare the dolphins who were circling her body, making loud sounds as they chaotically moved and weaved through the water. Derek saved her, and in doing so, he spared what was left of my sanity. Unfortun
ately, she’d already taken nearly all of it, letting it fall to the bottom of the Puget Sound, where it sits, lost like a forgotten pirate ship.

  3

  Raegan

  “Hey, are you feeling okay?” Poppy intercepts my route to class, her head dipped as she examines me.

  An automatic ‘yes’ leaves my mouth out of habit. It’s been a week since I went home from the hospital. I’ve been given a clean bill of health except for the cough that still steals my breath periodically, but even that, they assure me, will end soon.

  “He still hasn’t called?” She sees through my lie.

  I breathe out a heavy sigh, watching my breath float in the cold air before shaking my head. “I was stupid enough to believe I meant something. That I might be different.”

  Poppy winces. “Something doesn’t add up. It’s too weird. He was going crazy. If Paxton hadn’t been so blinded by his own fear, he would have realized Lincoln’s got it bad for you. That doesn’t just go away overnight.” She’s given too many empty assurances, and he’s ignored me for too long for the words to provide any sort of ease or comfort.

  “We could go out to a party. Track him down?”

  My traitorous heart beats faster with hope. “If he’s not responding to my calls or texts, do you really think he’s going to talk to me in person?”

  “I think you scared the shit out of him.”

  “I wasn’t trying to.”

  There’s something foreign about her expression, something that resembles doubt or possibly resentment that makes my heart thump louder and faster.

  “You know I wasn’t trying to actually drown myself, right?”

  “I know. But, what would’ve happened if you’d died?” Her eyes rim red as she stares at me. “Did you even consider how we’d survive that? The guilt Lincoln would’ve lived with knowing he brought you out there, and Paxton for not having stopped you, and me on both of those fronts? Your parents, your sister, your grandpa?

  “I get it. I know how much you love the ocean and the animals, and you reacted. But, Rae, you almost died.” Her eyes turn glassy with unshed tears. “I want to hug you and throttle you every time I see you, and I’m terrified you’ll try something crazy again.”

  A myriad of emotions push and pull at my heart, wanting to argue my independence and how that situation was the exception, not the standard, but guilt and shame silence me as I play out the past few weeks in a reverse role, with her jumping. Pax jumping. Lincoln jumping.

  I release the unspoken words in a long breath and wrap my arms around Poppy. It takes her a couple of seconds to register my hug, and a couple more before she weakly wraps her arms around me, her breaths heavier and longer as she openly cries. “I don’t know what I’d do without you,” she says between tears, her voice raspy and uneven.

  I hold her tighter, the pain in my side pinching, but it only encourages me to grasp harder. Pain reminds me I’m alive, and I no longer wish to avoid it.

  When Poppy pulls away, her hands remain gripping my arms, bridging us. “I’m sorry. I know it’s not fair to be mad at you. My mom says it’s part of the grieving process, which doesn’t really make sense because you’re here, and even when they said you weren’t breathing, I refused to believe you wouldn’t make it, but…” she gasps, fresh tears rolling down her freckled cheeks. “I’ve never been so afraid. I spent the drive to the hospital thinking about everything we’ve done together, all the times you’ve been there for me, and it made me feel so stupid for being upset about Mike these past couple of months.”

  I shake my head. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  She hugs me again; her grip is tighter. “You owe me some really good wrinkle cream for my birthday because I’m pretty sure you aged me like twenty years.”

  I laugh, nodding as we separate. “Deal.”

  “And Lincoln might just need to process for a bit. Or yell at you.” She pauses. “Maybe both.”

  I fake another smile, nodding with understanding.

  Poppy wipes at her cheeks with the heels of her hands. “I’m going to be late for class. Are you working tonight?”

  I shake my head. “I’m off all week.”

  “Maybe we can catch up later? I’m working at my Mom’s office until six, but I’ll call you after.”

  “Sounds good.”

  She smiles, every bit of her expression familiar before she waves and turns, walking in the opposite direction of my next class. I debate skipping, lying, and saying I was too tired, or that I got dizzy, or one of the other hundred excuses at my disposal. Everyone is still looking at me like I’m going to keel over at any second—another consequence of nearly dying, I suppose. Not only is everyone upset with me on some level, but there’s also zero trust between those I need it from most, and everyone’s looking at me like I’m as fragile as an ancient glass ornament that’s been cracked and will shatter at any moment.

  I could grab some coffee and try to warm up—I’ve been permanently frozen since that fateful night. I could go home and spend the day with Maggie and the documentaries she loves. But, being absent will only make that crack they all see more prominent, so I hitch my bag higher on my shoulder and head in the direction of the science building.

  I slide into my seat with only a few minutes to spare before class starts. The room is uncomfortably cold, so I leave my jacket on as I pull out my laptop, considering Poppy’s advice. Could anger be what’s keeping Lincoln from returning my messages?

  “Hey.”

  I glance up, spotting a guy with short brown hair and light brown eyes. I stare at him, waiting for him to request to borrow something or ask if I have notes.

  He swallows, blinking several times as he shifts his feet, kicking them out in front of his desk and crossing one over the other. “You’re Raegan, right?”

  I nod. “I’m Ben. That’s Megan,” he says, pointing to the girl with auburn hair and a quick smile behind him. “You’re always quiet, so I just wanted to say hi. Introduce myself.”

  “And Megan,” I point out.

  He chuckles humorlessly, but his features are friendly. “We’ve been friends for like two years.”

  I nod again, reminded why I hate small talk and meeting new people so damn much. “It’s nice to meet you both.”

  “You okay?” he asks. “You were gone.”

  I tuck my fingers into my coat. “Yeah. I just had a small accident.”

  “Oh, man. Like a car accident?” he asks.

  “Um…” I glance at the door, wishing the professor would appear. “No. I got stuck in a fishing net while diving underwater.”

  The guy on the other side of Ben suddenly looks at me, as does the guy behind him, like my story warrants the attention I’ve diligently avoided.

  “Holy shit. What happened? Did you, like, drown?” One of the onlookers asks.

  “No, moron. Drown means to die.”

  I swallow the uncomfortable words from the other guy who I know as Bennet because he often answers questions or fires them off, causing us to release late on multiple occasions.

  It feels like everyone’s eyes are on me then, silent questions and judgment from a few. Their narrowed eyes and stitched brows are working to determine if I’m lying—if I’m looking for attention.

  I’m not. Not from this crowd, at least. Not this type from anyone.

  “How long were you stuck underwater?” Someone asks.

  “Why were you underwater?”

  “Isn’t it, like, freezing?”

  A girl giggles in the distance. “How did she get caught by a fishing net? Was she trying to pretend she was a mermaid?” More snickers and giggles.

  “It was in the newspaper if any of you morons read or paid attention to anything.” A guy pokes his head out from behind his laptop, a mess of dark and unruly hair as he combs over my sea of onlookers. “She was saving a dolphin, and you’re a bitch.” His attention stops at the girl who called me a mermaid.

  The professor enters then, and the stran
ger doesn’t move his gaze to meet mine as I silently debate if I’m grateful he stood up for me or if he’s just opened the door for more punchlines.

  Without work and with everyone being upset at me, I’ve spent far too much time with my homework, catching up for the classes I’ve missed as well as reading ahead. Any excuse to stay in my room has been welcomed. So, when the professor begins talking about something I’ve already studied and know, my thoughts drift freely, thinking about Poppy’s words. I debate if Lincoln’s anger will subside on its own or if we should try and find him at a party? I can’t show up at his door and demand we talk because my brother lives with him. I could try texting him again. A call he might ignore, but it’s tough to ignore the words in a text.

  I tuck my things away as class ends, my thoughts volleying between my angry football god and the hurt I caused, and the pain he’s returning in spades. My pen falls off the corner of my desk, and the sound of it hitting the floor is lost in the shuffle of others, but then someone reaches out and snags the pen, dropping it on my desk. I glance up to catch the same dark, disheveled hair, dark eyes, and clear skin that makes it appear like he doesn’t spend much time in the sun. He’s all edges and darkness with a grim smile that doesn’t hit his eyes. Blake Matthews. That was the name he responded to when the professor called his name.

  “Thanks,” I say, depositing it into my bag.

  He nods once and moves for the door.

  I briefly debate telling Poppy about him. My best friend loves the broody type—don’t we all, unfortunately?

  I file him away as ‘maybe’ and head toward the offices.