Playing To Win: The Complete King Brothers Collection (A Contemporary Romance Box Set)

by Teagan Kade

  “Fuck you.”

  *

  Over the coming days I embrace the lethargy. I don’t do much of anything. I don’t feel much of anything. I live only to exist in that lucid space between life and death. Put simply, I’m numb — to everything and everyone.

  It doesn’t go unnoticed by my brothers, who try to cajole me out of the house at every moment, beg me to be their wingman or come get ribs. I resist and then soon tire, leaving me to my own devices.

  They didn’t seem to care they were in the story, either. Titus actually seemed kind of pleased about it all.

  I skip practice for three days straight, switch my phone off early on to stop the flood of texts and calls. I’m a husk of the person I once was.

  Dad uses the landline to detail me on the situation with Lorna. I have to hand it to the old man. He wasn’t lying. He’s hired an attorney, an investigator to dig into Lorna, even a PR agency to help out with public image, to ‘control the narrative,’ as he told me. He could have been a damn good politician if his private life wasn’t such a disaster. He talks me through it all with daily updates and questions. I answer robotically, but I’m far from myself, still caught in that web of detachment I can’t seem to crawl my way out of.

  Coach must be shitting a brick. He’s been around, as has the whole team more or less, but so far I’ve done a pretty good job of getting my brothers to keep them at bay. A few more days and I’ll bet they’ll just kick the damn door down, but until then I’m free to wallow in my own self-inflicted misery.

  I know Erin’s been trying to call. She’s tried Titus and Nolan, who both told her to fuck off. Titus was especially rude, conjuring up seemingly every swear word in the English language, and some borrowed from other tongues. I felt a twinge of guilt then, a drop of empathy, but it was swept away fast when I thought back to what she wrote, exposed there for the entire world to see, my deepest feelings and desires slathered out in ink for the masses.

  At least she hasn’t tried showing up here. She doesn’t have the balls to show her face around here.

  No, fuck her and fuck the Crestfall Crimson.

  Let them have their moment in the spotlight.

  Let them dig their own graves.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  ERIN

  I’ve become a permanent fixture at the King residence. I’m actually surprised no one has called the cops on me yet. I’ve tried to text, call, knock on the damn door — everything short of throwing rocks at the window.

  It’s day seven now and still there’s been nothing from within. Peyton’s brothers emerge, but every time they pretend like I’m not there, pushing past me and going about their business. I plead and beg, ask about Peyton, but I’m nothing more than a ghost. I can’t blame them, really.

  I gave Lewis a piece of my mind the other day, not that he seemed to care. Even when I handed him my resignation, he simply tore it in two, telling me this was ‘for the best’ that I ‘knew exactly what would happen.’

  I told him, very uncharacteristically, to go put a certain large purple vegetable in a certain private orifice.

  Amanda actually applauded me on the way out. For once, she was actually kind of cool.

  I’ve been knocking on the front door all morning, the sun moving overhead and making me rethink my decision to leave a perfectly good bottle of water on the counter at home. I’m sweating like a stuffed pig, rising once more to knock, calling out for someone to “please answer the door.” My finger goes to the doorbell, until I remember they disconnected it days ago.

  I’m about to call it quits, for good, when the door swings wide and Titus stands there stony-faced. “You got something to say, say it, ’cause if the others know I opened this door it’s going to be me outside.”

  I swallow, my mouth suddenly dry. “Is Peyton in there?”

  “I don’t think that’s any of your concern.”

  “I need to speak with him.”

  “You don’t need anything but to get the fuck out of his life.”

  I deserve this, but if any of the brothers are willing to let me in, it would be Titus, I just hope his capacity for forgiveness is greater than his desire to send me packing.

  “Please, Titus, I know I messed up, I know what I said should never have seen the light of day, so at the very least let me apologize to him, and you, one last time. Even if it’s only to say goodbye.”

  I hold eye contact and can see Titus trying to consider what to do.

  “Please,” I press.

  He opens the door wider and steps aside. “Oh, fuck me. Get inside. He’s upstairs.”

  I put my hands together and move inside before he has a chance to shut me out. “Thank you.”

  “You’ve got five minutes, then I call the others, got it?”

  I practically run up the stairs, pausing for one final breath before I turn the doorknob to Peyton’s room.

  You can do this.

  I turn it and enter, closing the door behind me.

  Peyton’s waiting, sitting on his bed in sweatpants and a white tank top. It doesn’t look like he’s left the room in days. He looks terrible, dark rings under his eyes, his shoulders hunched.

  He eyes me with suspicion. “I knew it would be Titus.”

  I point to the space beside him on the bed. “May I?”

  He doesn’t respond, so I sit, hands awkwardly pressed into my lap.

  I have to swallow before I can speak, the grapefruit-sized lump in my throat refusing to go down. “I’m sorry, Peyton, truly.”

  He laughs, shaking his head and picking up a copy of the article from his bedside table. He shakes it in his hand. “Was this whole thing a set-up? Was any of it real, or were you using me? Just tell me, honestly.”

  The fight’s left him.

  “Peyton—”

  He puts his hands up. “No. I don’t want to hear it, and you know why? Because you’ve laid it out all so eloquently in this article here, right?”

  I nod once.

  He exhales. “You paint a real good picture of me, huh? I guess you left out the part where I fucked you in the ass.”

  Annnnnd the fight’s back. He’s angry. I get it, but that’s no excuse. “That’s not fair,” I protest, going to move closer, but forcing him back.

  “I should write my own article, a rebuttal — free speech and all that, right?”

  “I was upset, Peyton. I did a stupid thing, but it’s done.”

  He gets up. “You’re damn straight it’s done.”

  I grab his wrist, stop him. “Wait, please.”

  Tears prick at the corner of my eyes.

  He twists out of my grip. “Why?” he says, lines drawn tight on his face. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t kick you out that door and never look back, because you want to know the worst part of it all, the real kicker? I’ve fallen for you.” He throws his hands up. “Yep. What a big, fucking sucker I was to actually develop feelings for someone, to put myself out there, exposed.” He shakes his head again.

  I block his path, breathing hard. “I never intended to hurt you. You have to believe that.” I can’t hold back the tears any longer. “If I could take it back…”

  I reach for his hand and this time he lets me take it. I add the other, sandwiching it between them, realizing how much I have missed him, missed us.

  I can’t hold back the tears. I let them flow freely, drip from my face to the floor. It all comes out in a single sentence. “I’ve fallen for you too. I have feelings for you and I love you and I didn’t ever want that version of the article to run, and it was wrong, and I’m stupid but you have, have to believe me when I say I can’t be without you, because I’m sorry, so, so, so sorry this ever happened.”

  He goes to say something but stops.

  I squeeze his hand tighter, balling my eyes out, blubbering like a baby. “Forgive me. Please. Please.”

  Whatever storm he was waiting to release has dissipated. He leans forward and embraces me, drawing me tight agains
t him while I cry against his shoulder. I’m pretty sure he’s crying too.

  “I’ve missed you,” I tell him, barely able to get the words out. “I’ve missed you so much.”

  “It was real?” he asks.

  “It was real,” I confirm. “It is real. I should never have hurt you like that, should never have betrayed your trust so openly. I just wanted to get ahead, to actually win for once.”

  “I can understand that,” he says, “but it still hurt.”

  “I know. I know,” I repeat.

  We hold each other and time doesn’t factor into it anymore. It might have been five, ten, maybe twenty minutes until we break apart.

  I try to smile, wiping at my face and eyes. “We make quite the couple, don’t we?”

  He nods. “We do.” His eyes are red and puffy, but he’s smiling and that’s all I wanted.

  “You think your brother’s going to come up, try to kick me out?”

  “The way we’re carrying on? No, he hates rom-coms. He’ll stay away.”

  “This isn’t really a rom-com.”

  “More like Amour.”

  “Or Keep the Lights On,” I counter.

  “Blue Valentine.”

  “Just without the dead dog and endless nihilism.”

  He laughs at that, settling down into my shoulder again.

  “I’m so sorry, about all of this,” I tell him.

  He wipes a matted strand of hair from my face, holding it in his hands, a thumb brushing over my cheek. “I believe you.”

  “It’s not so bad on campus. People want to support you. You’ve got friends.”

  He laughs. “Do I?”

  “Yes, you do.”

  He mulls that over for a second. “You know, my father arranged for me to take a high-school equivalency test yesterday.”

  “And?”

  “I passed with flying colors, of course. The dean assured him he’ll accept the GED results if the high school sets aside my diploma. Apparently, I’m not the first student Lorna tried to blackmail for a passing grade, though I do have the honor of being the first she blackmailed for ‘financial gain.’ Dad says there’s a bunch of guys filing reports, all of them underaged when Lorna… you know.”

  “That’s good, isn’t it?” I ask, hopeful.

  “She’ll probably go to prison, at least if Dad’s lawyers have anything to do with it. She’ll lose her teaching license at a minimum, certainly won’t be able to target boys like me anymore.”

  I hadn’t heard any of this, but it’s promising. If some good, even the slightest amount, has come out of this whole mess, it should be that. I don’t verbalize these thoughts, don’t want to jeopardize this.

  I look into his eyes, have missed the way they look back. “Can you forgive me?”

  He doesn’t reply, but nods, leaning forward to kiss me.

  And finally, just like that, the world returns to order.

  EPILOGUE

  FIVE YEARS LATER

  PEYTON

  I crouch down, one hand planted on the grass, and look at the crowd. The noise is deafening.

  I can’t believe it, cannot believe this moment is happening.

  We had the Big Fucking Workout at Crestfall, but what they do to you in the NFL…. Let’s just say it makes Mooney look like Martha Stewart.

  The football sits a yard in front of me, the touchdown made and victory sealed. I didn’t think I made it, was sure the clock would run out, but the scoreboard shows the touchdown.

  It’s done.

  We’ve won the god damn Superbowl.

  There’s no need for a backflip or cartwheel, a salute to the crowd. I simply stay there soaking in the moment…

  …until I’m crushed by my entire team.

  They lift me onto their shoulders, carrying me towards the sidelines.

  It’s fucking surreal. All those games at Crestfall in the cold, my dick an icicle at 5am practice sessions. Mooney’s in the crowd somewhere today, got him a box, but I only want to see one person.

  The noise doesn’t dissipate the closer we get to the sideline. If anything, it gets louder.

  I’m lifted down, shaking hands and embracing whoever pops up in front of me. Camera shutters fire like machine guns, an almost solid wall of flashing light wherever I walk.

  And then I see her. She’s wearing a blue-and-white Patriots jersey, oversized. It was the first jersey I received when I started with the Pats four years ago, lucky number nine. Erin said she’d wear it for luck, but all I want to do is take it off, take her home and celebrate this incredible thing for real.

  She rushes forward and the media pack parts. I crouch and pick her up around the waist, the two of us spinning together on the spot while the camera shutters become a hornet’s nest of sound and the cheering in the stadium threatens to lift the roof.

  It’s insane. This is insane, but when I pull back and look at her — my wife, my soulmate — I realize the Superbowl isn’t the biggest win of my life.

  She kisses me, the taste of cinnamon on her lips, a few granules of sugar on her cheek. I wipe them off and smile, placing her back to her feet. “Back into the donuts?”

  “Hey,” she says, her eyes sparkling in that evanescent way only true happiness allows. “I had to go without them for nine months, remember? I’m just making up for lost time.”

  I see Mindy approaching over Erin’s shoulder. “Speaking of which…”

  We turn together, Mindy smiling as she passes over the real joy in our lives, our one-month-old Evie.

  “I thought she’d be balling with all the noise,” says Mindy, “but look at her, sleeping away like Daddy on a Sunday morning.”

  Erin takes Evie and holds her between us, her chubby little face so perfect and innocent I can never seem to believe she’s actually ours, that we have brought a child into the world. Her tiny mouth opens and closes, searching for a nipple she’s certainly not going to get from me.

  Erin leans over to kiss me again, pressing Evie into my chest. “You take her,” she tells me. “Take her and enjoy it. I won’t be going anywhere.”

  “Go on,” pushes Mindy. It’s freaking me out seeing her dressed in Patriot colors. I spot her boyfriend over by the stands. He gives a wave and I wave back. Guy’s lasted almost three years now, which is kind of a miracle considering the dude’s a big banker on Wall Street, the antithesis of who I imagined Mindy settling down with. But people change. They move on. They adapt. Mindy’s the same, of course, probably the best godmother Evie could ever hope for.

  I nod at Erin and take Evie, tucking her into my arm like she’s the world tiniest football.

  I head over to the stands and start to shake hands, can’t seem to shake the big goofy grin from my face now it’s done. I stop when a kid I swear looks just like me when I was his age hands me a poster. I’m on it, looking tough in war paint, one leg up on a crate. It was some silly press shoot we had to do, but seeing the glint in the kid’s eyes, the way he’s looking up at me with such admiration, it’s almost too much.

  I take the poster, a marker appearing from one of the PR girls tailing me. I sign it and hand it over. “What’s your name, kid?” I ask him.

  “Joshua,” he squeaks, nervous.

  I crouch down and take hold of his shoulder. “You want to be a ball player, Josh?”

  He straightens up. “Yes, sir. I want to be just like you, Mr. King.”

  It reminds me of when Erin used such a formal title all those years ago. It feels like eons have passed since then.

  “You going to work hard, study?” I ask the kid.

  “Yes!” he beams.

  I rough up his hair, smiling at his dad. “Atta boy. Maybe I’ll see you out here one day.”

  I’m shuffled along by PR, but I can’t get the kid out of my head. It’s so strange to think I am the one inspiring people now, and after everything that’s happened.

  Evie coos, her eyes fluttering open, the security guys doing their best to press back the media so keen for
that once-in-a-lifetime shot that’s going to feature on every news site and paper nation-wide. This time the article will be quite different from the one that ran in the Crimson, even if it did start the snowball that rolled me all the way here.

  All this time.

  All this hard work.

  I lower my head and whisper to Evie, “Don’t worry, sweetheart. They’re really here for you.”

  *

  People come and go all day long, but I’ve only got eyes for Erin. It’s complete and utter madness. Everyone wants a piece of me. Mindy had to leave, so I meet Dad in the tunnel with Evie, yet another team rep running to meet me with Evie’s travel bag and favorite toy — a squishy that looks like a busted clam but I was assured is actually a heart.

  Dad’s standing there with Titus, probably the last person I expected to see here given everything that’s been going on in his life of late.

  Titus is the first forward, pulling me into a tight hug careful not to squash Evie in the process. “Holy shit. You actually did it.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate it, man. How’s things with you?”

  “Good,” he says, nodding. “Couldn’t be better, in fact, but that’s a story for another time, huh?”

  “Later then?”

  “For sure. You know the twins are here too, right?”

  “Probably drinking every bar in the place dry,” I muse.

  “Before I get a chance to?” laughs Titus, “not likely.”

  I lock eyes with Dad, Titus breaking away so I can move forward to meet him.

  The old man’s putting on a brave, stoic face, but I can see he’s about to crack.

  He stands in front of me, nodding once before rushing forward to embrace me, damn near crushing me to death while I hold Evie out to the side.

  “I’m so proud of you,” he says, holding me by the shoulders. “So damn proud, son.”

  There’s a tear in his eye now, perhaps the first tear ever shed by the mighty Stone King. Even when his team lost the championship in by a single point he still showed no emotion.

  Maybe it’s Evie. He smiles down at her, reaching to take her off me and cradling her into his arm. “And how’s my favorite granddaughter?”

  She opens her eyes and looks at him, eyes shuttering closed once more.