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

by Teagan Kade

I look over the food myself. “To be honest, I don’t even know what half this stuff is.”

  Heather starts to point things out on the table. “We’ve got a torn lamb salad here, char-grilled sweetcorn with jalapenos, a baked ricotta in the middle there with a lemon salsa made by yours truly, and the pièce de résistance, a salt-baked barramundi with braised fennel, which was all Phoenix, I might add. So please pass any complaints to him.”

  Staff swoop in to serve. It occurs to me how it must look from an outsider’s perspective, this kind of silver service, but even Erin and Heather seem immune to it now.

  Alissa is seated beside my father in a red strapless that’s about twenty shades too bright, but I’ve warmed to her lately, as have the others. In her own way she’s helped all of us these last couple of years—silently and without fuss. I think we’ve developed something of a quiet respect for her.

  “It looks delicious.” She smiles at Phoenix and Heather. “And how’s the soup kitchen going?”

  Phoenix picks up his fork and knife. “Couldn’t be better.”

  “Phoenix is looking at cooking school as well,” adds Heather, “to sharpen his wider culinary skills.”

  “You’ll have time for that?” asks Dad, the perennial party pooper.

  Phoenix nods, bottom lip upturned. “I think I can made it work,” he says, elbowing Heather lightly. “At least with this one by my side.” He leans over to kiss her on the cheek.

  “I haven’t even started eating and I’m already gagging,” says Peyton beside me, Erin elbowing him in return.

  “Ow, babe,” he jerks back. “What was that for?”

  Poor Erin simply shakes her head in return. I don’t know how she does it, putting up with Peyton’s singular peculiarities.

  Dad takes his plate from one of the staff and starts to interrogate Peyton on his move to the Patriots. “I hear you’re looking at a new apartment.”

  “Erin’s going for a job with the New Yorker, which she’s going to get, because she’s a King, so we thought it might be handy to move closer to the action.”

  “The New Yorker, hey?” nods Phoenix. “Nice.”

  “Yeah,” Erin replies, “it’s a great opportunity. I really think I can bring something unique to the table over there.”

  “Bummer Titus couldn’t be here,” muses Peyton. “Did you see his last game, Dad?”

  “I did,” nods King Senior. “Still a bit of work to do on the outfield, but he’s coming along nicely.”

  “He’s not a house you’re renovating,” Phoenix cuts in. I know there’s still a bit of animosity between him and our father over quitting basketball, though Dad’s slowly getting used to the idea—emphasis on ‘slowly’.

  “You’re right. Boston’s lucky to have him,” Dad smiles. “And he has provided me with the most gorgeous granddaughter in the world.”

  Phoenix hands his plate to Heather. “I think you mean Titus and Maya provided Amelie, or do you need a birds-and-bees refresher, dear father?”

  “From you?” Dad laughs. “Son, it wasn’t until you were sixteen you realized babies didn’t come out of an asshole.”

  “Jesus!” we all cry in unison.

  “I’m trying to eat,” I continue, placing another forkful of the salt-baked barramundi into my mouth. Suffice to say, the master chefs have done it again. I almost want to hit up the soup kitchen for the food alone.

  Dad’s right about one thing, though. Amelie, Titus and Maya’s daughter, is the cutest thing you’ve ever seen with her big cornflower-blue eyes and pinchable cheeks that turn even a human cinder block like Stone King into a marshmallow. She’s crazy for her grandfather—god knows why—with Alissa happy to undertake babysitting duties whenever Ti and Maya decide to grace us with their presence. But the curly hair? I’ve still got no idea where that came from.

  The conversation turns to me. “And what are you up to, bonehead?” asks Peyton, “besides acting all secretive and shit. I know you. Something’s up.” He looks to Phoenix, who nods in agreement. “Spill.”

  I place my utensils down and lean back in my chair looking around the table.

  Erin eyes me. “Oh. My. God. You’re seeing someone.”

  Phoenix narrows in as well. “You’re right. He is. I’d know that twinkle in his eye anywhere.”

  “You guys know nothing,” I laugh, though it’s far from believable.

  “Who is she?” asks Peyton, perfectly serious. “We’re going to find out one way or another.”

  He’s not wrong on that point.

  Ah, to hell with it. “Her name’s Linnea.”

  Phoenix looks confused. “Her name’s sequential?” he asks, clearly thinking of ‘linear’.

  I shake my head. “No, it’s Linnea. L-i-n-n-e-a.”

  My father’s clued in. “Linnea, you say. What’s her last name?”

  I pull in a deep breath before answering unsure where this is going to go. “Marsden. Linnea Marsden.”

  He waves his knife at me. “Yes, yes, she plays basketball at the Academy, right? Center?”

  I don’t want to give out too much information. “That’s right.”

  “I’ve seen her play. She’s got a real future.” I expect him to put a dig in at Phoenix, but to my surprise he holds his tongue. “How did you meet?”

  “At a party.”

  “Tight with the information,” smiles Peyton, “but don’t worry, baby brother, we’ll do our own research.”

  “If you’re looking for nudes, you’re going to be sorely disappointed,” I tell him.

  Erin elbows him again in the side. “As will his wife.”

  Peyton turns to her. “Babe, you give me everything I need. How could I want more?”

  “Now I am the one gagging,” adds Phoenix from the other side of the table, Heather nodding in approval.

  “Save it for New York,” she says. “We’re simple country folk here.”

  “Speak for yourself,” says my father, smiling at Alissa, who seems unusually caught up in the lamb salad.

  He returns his attention to me. “Has your girl decided on a WNBA team then?”

  Damn it. I thought the subject might have dropped, but if it’s sports-related and my father’s around…

  “Ah,” unsure how to answer, I reply, “I imagine she’s looking at her options.”

  “When do we get to meet this lovely lady?” asks Erin.

  I swallow hard because this is all becoming a bit too real. I’m surrounded by swooning, sickly lovebirds and it’s kind of making me nauseous. “It’s not that serious.”

  “Yet,” adds Phoenix.

  “We’re taking it slow, seeing what happens. Casual, you know.”

  Phoenix and Peyton, the dirty bastards, high-five across the table. “Oh, we know,” they reply, which earns them both elbows from their respective partners.

  “So we’re not going to be adding another Mrs. King to the clan then?” asks my father, and I’d love to be sucked away into a nice big hole right about now.

  “Slow, I said.”

  That puts an end to it, the conversation turning to the Academy, Peyton drumming up one of his many war stories from the field.

  I eat—eat and think. I told them it was casual, yes, but I get the feeling it could become a whole lot more if I let it. Linnea is unlike any girl I’ve been with before. We could become serious. That could happen, and maybe I want it to.

  The more I play with the idea the more appealing it becomes. Linnea could be the one for me, that commitment unicorn I thought would never exist, but heck, here we are. I decide I need to get to know her—all of her, and not just sexually.

  A sound plan, I tell myself. Question is, can you stick to it?

  CHAPTER SIX

  LINNEA

  Tapping my pen against the paper isn’t getting this essay written any faster. Some have called me the queen of procrastination, but that’s just how I work. I perform when the pressure is on—not a week away from the due date.

  A bing from my
cell indicates a new, welcome distraction. I pretzel my legs underneath myself and cradle the phone in anticipation for a text from Nolan, but it’s from my father.

  I read through it quickly. It appears he is summoning me to dinner Monday night, which has about as much chance happening as Northwestern winning the NCAA.

  I delete the text and place the cell down next to my pen, getting off my chair and heading downstairs to where Mom’s busy working her way through all seventeen seasons of Grey’s Anatomy.

  I jump over the lounge, landing next to her with my legs folded. “How’s McDreamy? He floating your boat tonight?”

  She rolls her eyes. “If you’ve come to make fun of one of the finest actors of the twenty-first century, you can move right along, daughter.”

  “I think Dwayne Johnson would like a word with you, mother,” I retort.

  “Dwayne Johnson,” she laughs, “with his shelf of Oscars.”

  I raise a finger. “And mountains of money, but seriously, Mom, when are you going to start dating again?”

  “When all men aren’t selfish, arrogant pricks.”

  I whistle. “All men are not Dad. You could find your McDreamy out there somewhere.”

  “Hon,” she smiles gently. “I’m okay, but it seems like you’ve landed yourself something special. Don’t think I haven’t noticed.”

  I play ignorant. “Who, me? Dating? No. You must have me confused with your other daughter, Esmeralda.”

  “The one I keep in the cupboard and feed a steady diet of Pop Tarts?”

  “Doesn’t sound so bad to me.”

  I put my feet up on the coffee table, stretching out.

  “Seriously?” says Mom. “Don’t you have homework to do?”

  “I thought Grey’s provided all the life lessons you needed? Didn’t you tell me that once? ‘Always be open to love’? How does that one sound?”

  “How about ‘trust your instincts when it comes to your health’?”

  I pat myself down. “What’s wrong with my health?”

  “Plenty if you don’t get off this sofa and let me watch my show in peace.”

  “Fine,” I relent, swinging off the couch and heading to the kitchen. “But I’m making you a dating profile. It’s time we dusted off those cobwebs and got you laid.”

  “Linnea!”

  And god help me I can’t stop smiling.

  When I arrive back upstairs with my Frankensandwich of mayo, mustard, tomato, baloney and peanut butter, I see another text waiting.

  This one is from Nolan, telling me to meet him downstairs in five minutes.

  Where are we going? I text back.

  I get a winking emoji in return.

  I shrug. “Booty call it is.”

  *

  It’s not a booty call—yet, but it is nice to be out with Nolan.

  We turn down a dirt road heading into the large forest at the south end of town limits.

  “You’re still not going to tell me where we’re going? I’ve seen Dexter. You don’t want to fuck with me, mister.”

  “I’m sure you can handle yourself,” Nolan smiles, turning on the high beams. “But it’s nothing sinister, I promise. I’m saving the Satanic rites for our third date.”

  A short while later I see light through the trees ahead, Nolan parking next to a line of cars in a clearing.

  I hear music, see people dancing ahead, fairy-lights strung through the trees. “Whoa.”

  “Come on,” he says, getting out. “You’re going to love this.”

  It’s quite the set-up out here in the middle of the forest. There’s a makeshift stage with a band playing folky rock, tables and chairs set up around the perimeter, a literal pyramid of kegs by one tree. There’s got to be a two hundred or more people here.

  “How did you find out about this?” I ask Nolan as we walk towards the area where people are dancing and moving to the music.

  “Don’t know if you noticed, but my last name is King,” he replies, speaking loud to be heard over the music. “We know everything that goes on in this town.”

  We find a space in the middle of the crowd, Nolan coming behind me, his arms wrapping around my waist as we sway to the music. It’s like a dream, like I’ve slipped and fallen right into a romance novel. Vi Keeland couldn’t write this shit any better.

  Nolan leaves, returns with what I thought was beer but turns out to be some magic mulled apple concoction that’s got chili and cinnamon and tastes better than anything I’ve put in my mouth to date—the former inclusive.

  Everyone’s enjoying themselves and having a great time. Even the band’s getting into it, boot-stompin’ up there on the stage and belting out song after song with vigor.

  “So, what do you think?” Nolan asks, finding us a table away from the crowd where we can talk without having a shouting match.

  “I think I like this better than that pretentious restaurant of yours. Don’t get me wrong, the food was first class, but I’m a simple girl, Nolan King.”

  “Is that so? Should make anniversaries easy.”

  I raise an eyebrow in surprise and sip on my fourth mulled whatever-it-is, the warm liquid filling my mouth. “We are at that stage already, are we? Planning nuptials and what we’re going to name our second?”

  “Bartholomew.”

  “After the Simpsons character?” I joke.

  “Or Apostle,” he smiles. “Because you better be damn sure he’s going to be an angel.”

  “A King, an angel? How much of that mulled stuff you been drinking?”

  I yawn.

  “You want to head home?” Nolan asks.

  Strip you down and fuck the life out of that gorgeous body, I think, replying “Sure” instead.

  The sexual tension rises on the way home. I have to press my legs together hard to drive it away, but I’m still wet thinking about his hands on me.

  I wait until we’re through the door before pressing him up against it. I lock my mouth to his and he returns the kiss with equal enthusiasm, a hand going to the back of my neck to hold me in position.

  While Nolan’s busy I reach down and start to unbuckle his belt, take down his zipper, and that’s when he stops me.

  I pull back. “Is everything okay?”

  He holds my hand. “We shouldn’t.”

  “Why the hell not?” I laugh. “I don’t know if it was that mulled wine or simply that I’m horny as hell around you, but yes, we definitely should.”

  He lets go and takes my face in his hands, kissing me softer and more intimate.

  His cologne is different tonight—ocean-crisp and inviting. I drink it in, but it only makes my craving worse.

  When he breaks away his eyes cast a spell over me, and I’m pretty sure only hot, sweaty sex is going to satisfy this hunger.

  “I’d like to get to know you in other ways before we…you know…again. We started fast right out of the gate. Now I want to slow it down and explore who Linnea Marsden is.”

  I stand back and exhale with my hands on my hips. “Well, that’s a first—super sweet, yes, if a bit irritating, but I get where you’re coming from. You’re sure about this?”

  He nods, looks a bit silly standing there with that giant bulge in his pants.

  I look down to it, eyes wide. “You sure you’re sure?”

  He smirks, pulling me into him and kissing me on the forehead. “I am. It’s a first for me too, don’t worry.”

  “Fine,” I give in, knowing it won’t take me too long to change his mind.

  “How about we go out again Monday night? You up for that?”

  I nod against his chest. “Sounds good.”

  His hand goes to the doorknob. He opens it, pausing for one final kiss. “Until then.”

  “Until then,” I reply, waiting until the door is closed before I slump to the floor with the biggest lady boner of all time.

  I grunt loud and long.

  “You okay down there, honey?”

  Shit. I forgot Mom was home. She normal
ly sleeps through Armageddon.

  I stand, patting myself down and smiling even though I know she can’t see me. “Fine, Mom.”

  “Just damn fine,” I mutter to myself.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  NOLAN

  Monday night and all is well.

  “Do you each have one of those?” Linnea asks.

  We’re seated in the back booth of the diner. It seemed far more fitting. Linnea clearly approves. She hasn’t stopped smiling since we were seated.

  I open my shirt a little more so she can see the full tattoo. “The crown? Every King male has one. I guess it’s a kind of birthright.”

  She puckers her lips. “I suppose it is kind of sexy, all that ink.”

  I pick up my milkshake, heavy on the malt. “And yet you don’t have a single tattoo or blemish on your body, besides the ear.”

  Linnea pushes the ear in question forward. “Not even earrings.”

  “Because they make you look too feminine?”

  “Because basketball is a contact sport, and some bitch could rip them out on the court.”

  I laugh. “Fair enough.”

  “What you do, though,” she continues, hand gesticulating, “waving your stick around, smashing into everything…ice hockey as more of a collision sport. I’m surprised you have two brain cells to rub together, because boy, the hockey players I’ve met in the past—” she taps the side of her head “—not the sharpest knives in the drawer.”

  “You’re saying you weren’t attracted to my keen intellect?”

  “Pfft,” she whistles. “Compared to your brothers you’re basically Einstein.”

  “You’ve met Titus, right? The guy is basically Einstein.”

  She taps her chin as our burgers arrive. “You mean, the one you told me cracks fart jokes and walks around with his pants off?”

  She has a point. “Touché.”

  “How do you get along with your brothers? I’ve always wondered what it would be like to have siblings, but after me, Mom couldn’t…well…you get the picture. Plumbing problems.”

  I lean back, the vinyl of the seat squeaking in turn. “I’m sorry to hear that, but to answer your question, I suppose it’s fine. I’ve always been a bit of an outsider, I guess. I was never big into the party thing or sleeping through the A to Z of the Academy’s female population. I like to keep a quieter profile than my brothers.”