Bending the Rules: A Brother's Best Friend Romance: The Rules Duet (The Dating Playbook Book 1)

by Mariah Dietz

“Damn,” Gramps remarks, opening a beer. “This game is practically a wrestling match.”

  I don’t comment. I can’t afford to look away as Pax completes a perfect throw, the ball sailing into the hands of Derek, who races down the field to complete a touchdown.

  Mom’s clapping, and Dad and Gramps are reliving every touch of the ball, but I’m noticing Lincoln pull of his helmet, his jaw tense as he approaches Pax, saying something that looks far too similar to anger than celebration. Before they show Pax’s response, the camera focuses on Derek, catching him run a hand through his short hair, smiling as he jogs back to the huddle.

  The announcers spend halftime comparing Derek and Lincoln. I loathe each second of it.

  “Oh man,” Dad says, filling a small plate with crackers. “I think I’m team Lincoln,” he says.

  I roll my eyes. “I think you might be a little biased.”

  “You have to admit it, he’s a better player.”

  I shrug, attempting indifference. “I don’t know. Derek is having a strong game. He’s got speed on his side.”

  “Lincoln’s got those Velcro hands though,” Gramps says. “I’ve never seen that kid drop or even fumble a ball.”

  “And he practically dances out there. He’s so smooth. It’s like he’s skating.” Dad reaches for more cheese.

  The wound on my hand winks up at me, the ghost of Lincoln’s lips on my neck, his hands on my waist. My chest feels tight as I frantically work to chase every last detail—including some I’m fairly sure I’m fabricating.

  The doorbell rings, scattering my thoughts. Relief curves my lips, but reluctance and regret make it difficult to breathe. For several weeks, I’ve lost entire hours obsessing over the details, desperate to understand each motive and touch.

  “Hey, Poppy,” Mom says, swinging the door open wider so she can enter.

  “Hi,” we call, waving from our seats.

  “You’re late,” Gramps calls from his chair.

  Poppy stops at his side, kissing his cheek. “I know. I had to work this afternoon.” Poppy works part time for her mom, organizing files and rescheduling appointments. “How are they doing?”

  “Up by two touchdowns,” Dad says. “Hungry?”

  “Starving,” she says, sitting beside me, her black slacks and floral blouse a stark contrast to my yoga pants and red Brighton U hoodie. She fills a small plate and sits back, her arm brushing mine. “This was on your doorstep,” she says, dropping a folded crane in my lap. I stare at the paper for a second.

  “What is it?” Mom asks.

  “A paper crane,” I tell her.

  “That’s odd. Where did it come from?”

  “Didn’t we see one of these recently?” Poppy asks absently, kicking off her shoes.

  I move the crane to the table, my attention pulled back to the game as they span over the team.

  “Intense game?” Poppy asks.

  I nod. “These guys are out for blood, and Brighton needs this win.”

  “Here we go,” Dad says, announcing the start of the second half.

  We watch in silence, Poppy gripping my hand when Pax is taken out, and sharing a breath when he stands. She re-fills her plate twice, complimenting dad’s cooking and offering to get me a drink when the silence stretches too long for her comfort level.

  The intensity lessens as Brighton switches to defense, Dad joking with Poppy. Mom talking about the cold front, until we return to offense. They don’t work to include me. They know after too many years that I don’t like to chit chat during games, my focus on the field and the players, studying each play like it’s a new theory which I dissect and separate into facts and schemes.

  Pax counts, his steps too short. He’s hesitating. Several states away, I can sense his trepidation, causing my back to go rigid. His release is perfect, drawing a defensive tackle. The cameras follow the ball into Lincoln’s fingers.

  “No,” I whisper. “No.” But it’s too late, and he can’t see the player creating a solid wall that he hits with enough impact it makes the defensive player fall as well.

  He lies on the field, the ball still clutched in his hands, the only small piece of comfort.

  “Ladies and gentleman, what a hit. I have a feeling Becket is going to be seeing stars after than one,” the announcer says.

  Time seems to stop. I can’t breathe or think or even hear anything as I stare at the TV, hating the fact they’re cutting to an ad when we’re several states away.

  Poppy grips my hand, her fingers pressed so tightly against mine, a dull ache surfaces. It’s a welcomed reprieve to the current hurricane that’s stirring in my chest, immobile and wreaking absolute havoc.

  “It was a low hit,” Dad comments. “I hope his knees are okay.”

  “It’s the concussions that always worry me. They’re kids, playing a sport that could injure them for the rest of their lives.” Mom reaches for her glass of wine.

  The ad cuts, returning to the game, showing the same hit twice with different angles, and then it goes to a current shot, showing Lincoln still on the ground, Pax and two medics from Brighton at his side.

  “He’s talking,” Poppy says.

  More importantly, he’s also starting to move. Pax leans over him, grasping his hand and helping to haul him up.

  Gramps claps. “There we go. There we go. That kid is one tough son of a bitch.”

  Lincoln rolls his shoulders, moving his neck side to side, before moving the rest of his limbs as though confirming they still work.

  This is the problem with Lincoln: I don’t feel anything small when it comes to him. Everything is bigger and more intense. It makes me lose my footing and my thoughts, and sometimes I worry that if he ever noticed me as something more, I’d lose myself entirely.

  I’m sucking down my second Dr. Pepper of the morning on my way to my math class which, has become the bane of my college career. I stayed up past 2 a.m. last night, my thoughts focused too much on Lincoln’s injury, making digesting any of the homework I had practically impossible.

  They’re flying back this morning, and I’m struggling to stop making excuses to go visit to ensure Lincoln’s really okay. I know it’s the very last thing I should be considering, especially since I have a date this afternoon with Derek.

  “How fast does your mind go?” The familiar voice hits me like a cold wave, clearing my thoughts and making me stop in my tracks. Lincoln grins. It’s lazy and slow, a confirmation he knows how much he affects me.

  I look past his smile and bright eyes, scouring his body for any sign of injury.

  “Go ahead and feast,” he whispers, leaning closer.

  “Are you okay?”

  “You watched the game on Saturday?”

  I roll my eyes. “You know I did.”

  He shrugs. “You’ve been busy.”

  “How’s your shoulder?”

  “You probably read the play before it happened, didn’t you?”

  “I had the advantage of seeing the entire field.”

  “And you can read plays like you’re in their heads.” I’m fairly certain I see admiration shining in his eyes.

  I don’t know what to say. Intuition is urging me to flirt, but that doesn’t feel right. Not now. Not after thinking about my impending date with Derek. Not after the way Lincoln spoke to me in his kitchen.

  “How’s your beach?” he asks.

  “How’s your shoulder?” I ask again.

  “You’re relentless, aren’t you?”

  “This is hardly being relentless.”

  “How’s your hand?”

  “You’re hurt,” I say quietly, trying to keep my tone from being accusing.

  He presses his lips together, closing his eyes a fraction too long to play coy. “It’ll be fine. I wasn’t stabbed.” His tone is flippant as his gaze refuses to meet mine, but then he reaches forward, his finger blazing a trail across my skin, following the crooked path of my scar like he can see it beneath my sweater.

  “Why does
weakness scare you so much?” My question is a lit match dropping in a dry field, sparking a reaction I should have seen coming. I can see his reaction instantly, the squaring of his broad shoulders, the defiance in his clenched jaw that is confirmed as he pulls away from me, the harshness that makes his eyes appear icy.

  “See you, Lawson.” He starts to walk away.

  If I were braver, I’d push him with more questions and accusations, force him to give me something besides an easy copout that his him going in the opposite direction. But I’m not, and he’s already walking away.

  “What’s with you?” The words leave my mouth before I can stop them. It’s the very definition of word vomit. Embarrassment creeping over my skin, wishing I could take back the mess and be sure no one heard it happen. And dammit if my feet aren’t following the disaster, leading the trail right to Lincoln.

  He turns, indifference etched across his features. “You’ll need to be more specific.”

  “You’re always playing games. Like it would be so terrible for someone to actually know what you’re thinking. I can’t tell if you like me or if you tolerate me or if you’re simply bored and looking for a few minutes of entertainment because everything is meant to amuse you. Sometimes it seems like this is your world, and we’re merely existing in it.”

  He laughs. It’s mirthless, and I know in every particle of my being that I should heed his warning and walk away. Ignore the mess and chalk it up as an embarrassing moment that I look back on and cringe, refusing to admit I ever broached the gauntlet I’ve just laid.

  “If only it were that simple,” he says, staring at me with a million silent words kept behind an indestructible dam that I’m beginning to believe others don’t even see. Likely because defiance masks it so well.

  Later today, or likely in a week—a cunning remark will pop into my head. But right now, I can’t think of anything to say that won’t exacerbate my vulnerability and highlight his don’t-give-a-fuck stance. So instead, I turn, allowing the mess to remain out there, muddling the very thin definition of a relationship we’ve constructed.

  “You’re his sister,” he says.

  I flip around so fast my head spins, hoping to catch something more obvious on his face than his words have exposed. He’s standing still, his dark hair a teasing mess or perfection. “I’m way more than that.”

  He purses his lips and shakes his head. “You can’t be.”

  20

  I park at the coffee and wine bar Derek had asked me to meet him at. It’s a twenty-minute drive from campus. The parking lot sparks a sense of familiarity, but the memory doesn’t seep in until I open the front door and hear a poem being recited. I came here twice before, both times with Maggie while she was dating Jeff Sievers. They had dated for nearly nine months—a record for my sister. It began when she was a junior in high school, and Jeff was one-year post graduation—our parents had lost their shit. Maggie, in true Maggie-fashion, rebelled against each order and rule they set in attempt to keep the two apart. After a couple of months, Dad insisted he come over to the house so they could meet. It began as a blatant attempt to break them up—Dad talking about lawyers and coercion, Maggie freaking out and crying, and Mom filling in all the blank spaces by talking about all of Maggie’s ex-boyfriends—I never knew if that was in attempt to remind Maggie about other love interests or try to scare Jeff away—regardless, it was memorable in a worst-date-ever kind of a way, ending with Maggie slamming her door and crying, Dad slamming their bedroom door and yelling, and Jeff telling Pax, Mom, and me that he had a mentally and emotionally unavailable wasteland of a heart, filled with broken promises. He proceeded to cry, and in that moment, realization dawned upon Mom to stop fighting at keeping them apart, realizing that was only forcing them together. Over the next couple of weeks, Maggie bribed me to go with her—her girlfriends from school refused after meeting Jeff only once. We had sat in the front, drinking hot chocolates and chai tea, listening to Jeff pour what he referred to as his twisted soul, often crying during his performances.

  I move farther inside, automatically sweeping over the stage and tables to see if Jeff is still here.

  “Hey.” A deep voice pulls my attention from the stage to Derek beside me. His blond hair is freshly cut and his caramel eyes look like the color of steel with a dark gray team sweatshirt stretched across his strong chest. He smells good, and looks even better, smiling at me.

  “Hi.” Air fills my lungs, surprising me. I’d been considering canceling up to the second I walked through the door, my thoughts so tangled and consumed with Lincoln that it didn’t seem fair to either of us for me to come. But, Poppy encouraged me to try, reminding me that the only way to move forward is by actually trying. I’m shocked to realize Derek’s presence brings a sense of calmness and ease.

  His eyes shift over my face, and then he cracks a smile. “I kind of thought you weren’t going to show me up.”

  This shocks me more than my ease with him, my eyebrows shooting high. “Oh my gosh, what time is it?” I look at my watch, which confirms I’m ten minutes early—something I’m not sure is good or bad.

  His smile broadens before he dips his face. It’s a shame because I’d like to study his features longer, memorize this side of him that seems so far from what Pax and the others assume about him. “No.” He shakes his head, and then sucks in a deep breath and meets my stare. “I figured your brother would talk you out of coming.”

  His words run through a long course of reasons, stretching them for truths and snark, then for passive aggressiveness before settling on what I think is an admission. “Did you want him to?”

  Derek lifts his chin. “No. Definitely not. I was really hoping you’d come, I just was trying not to hope too hard. Rejection from you seems like it would be a tough sack.”

  It’s not the most eloquent compliment—still, my heart speeds up and my lips begin tilting upward into a smile.

  “Have you been here?”

  I nod. “Yeah. Kind of. It’s been a long time. My sister used to date a guy who performed here.”

  “Yeah?”

  I find myself nodding again, words suddenly farther than Maggie as I stand in place, thinking far too much about where I should place my hands—at my waist, crossed over my chest, bent? Awkwardness and nerves manage to successfully swallow me in one large gulp.

  “You want to get a coffee, or some wine?”

  “I’m only eighteen,” I admit.

  “Oh, yeah. Yeah. Sorry.” He shakes his head, his eyes blinking rapidly. “So, coffee?”

  “Sure. Coffee’s great.”

  We spin at the same time, my left foot kicking his right, making us both stumble. My trip is accompanied by a small shriek which has numerous people turning our way.

  “Sorry,” we both say. His eyes are narrowed in the corners, a frown marring his face like he’s embarrassed.

  I shake my head, hoping to dispel the sudden hurdle that seems larger than the Great Wall of China, and try on another smile. “Let’s start again.”

  He licks his lips, then breaks out a grin. He gestures forward with one hand, and we fall into line. On stage, a girl is crying, thick black lines of makeup staining her cheeks as she talks about stabbing someone’s tires like they stabbed her in the back. Derek twists toward me, silent questions sitting heavy on his brow. “My roommate suggested this place when I asked where to take a smart girl on a date. He said this place would impress you. But, if this isn’t your scene, we can totally go.”

  “Do you like mini golf?” I ask him.

  “Mini golf?”

  I nod.

  “Depends. How badly do you hate losing?”

  My smile turns genuine. “Oh, prepare your concession speech.”

  “I might consider it if I had any experience with losing.”

  Laughter hits as quickly as the awkwardness did. “Let’s go.”

  “Just for the record, I have nothing against people crying or poems or…” he trails off as we reach t
he parking lot. I’m about to tell him that it’s okay, that I’d prefer to spend the date doing something else, when his fingers wrap around mine, leading me to his car. It’s black and sporty, the windows tinted so dark I can’t see the interior. The inside of the car smells of his cologne—woodsy and fresh, the seats a soft, buttery leather. A maze of lights and buttons on the dash scream of wealth.

  Nerves course through me the second he puts the car in gear and places his hand on my thigh, resting it there like this is comfortable and normal.

  “Tell me about yourself.” He glances at me, his eyes expressive and open—the opposite of Lincoln.

  “There’s not much to tell.”

  His smile hitches. “That lie again.”

  “I work at a coffee shop near my house. I volunteer at the aquarium because I want to be a cetologist when I graduate, and other than that…” I lift my shoulders. “I just like to spend time with my family and friends. What about you? I’m sure it’s been quite a change to not have anyone you know here.”

  He nods slowly, like the realization is percolating through his thoughts and forming words. “I didn’t think much of it at the time. I thought it would be fun and exciting to move so far away and be independent, and in some ways, it has. You know? Not having my parents there to fall back on has forced me to be a little smarter and more responsible, but I miss them, and I miss my friends like crazy. Football keeps me busy, though. I swear, I spend more time in the gym and on the field than I do in a classroom.”

  He doesn’t mention a job, and I’m not surprised. Most college athletes don’t have much time for work, at least not during their sport’s season, and I can tell by Derek’s clothes that always fit perfectly and are thicker and softer than the cotton tees most college students wear, his wide brushed nickel watch, and his car that is newer and nicer than what my parents drive, that he comes from money.

  “Are you going home for the holidays?” It’s not even Halloween yet, but I’ve been hearing this question a lot recently.

  He flashes a quick smile when he turns to check his blind spot. “Yeah. My mom’s big on traditions. She’s likely already planning the menu and all the details for both Thanksgiving and Christmas.”