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

by Teagan Kade

  I sit on the edge of a deck chair and toss my cell in my hand trying to work up a game plan of how this is going to run. I need to find out what my father is up to. That’s the key.

  I dial, bring the cell to my ear and wait.

  He answers on the second ring. “Linnea.”

  “Father,” I reply, doing my best to keep the acid bite out of my voice.

  “I hope you’re not upset about yesterday.”

  “I should press charges.”

  I picture him smiling. “My men are well trained. I can’t imagine anyone saw you being—” he chooses his words “—taxied here.”

  I laugh, shaking my head at how ridiculous he sounds. “Your men missed the cell phone in my pocket. You’re over there acting like Tony Montana but you can’t even get the basics right.”

  “Getting your boyfriend and his ape brothers to show up was a bold move, I’ll allow you that. Perhaps you haven’t fallen as far from the tree as I thought.”

  God, he wants me want to throw up.

  “Perhaps,” I counter, “you can start by telling me what the hell it is you want, because I sure don’t think you dragged me all that way to say hi. Spill it. What’s your play?”

  “Hmm,” he muses, thinking it over. “All right. I need to secure a merger and let’s just say neither myself nor my counterpart are big on trust.”

  I can’t quite fill it in yet. “And? How do I fit into any of this?”

  “I need you to marry his son—a mutual insurance policy so we won’t screw each other over.”

  Now it makes sense. Harry Brenton, the son, and the father, Ben Brenton, I recall.

  “You should have skipped straight to the screwing-each-other part,” I say. “Save everyone the trouble because it is not happening. You’d have to cut my fucking finger off before I let you put a ring on it.”

  A sigh of frustration. “That dirty mouth of yours is unbecoming, Linnea. Your mother knew that all too well.

  He’s baiting me. “Leave her out of this.”

  “You could do far worse than Harry Brenton, Linnea. You’d never want for a thing.”

  “He didn’t exactly seem head-over-heels for me.”

  “He’s willing to sacrifice his personal happiness for the greater good of his company and family, as should you.”

  Now he’s getting to me. “Can you even hear yourself? I’m not a pawn or an object or part of your stupid corporate games and I never will be. I want no part of it, or this—anything to do with you.”

  He’s not giving up. “Think about it, Linnea. The marriage is in your best interests.”

  “Merger,” I correct.

  “Semantics. What else are you going to do with your life? Pretend you’re a sports star, wind up in some back-alley school teaching whining brats to dribble?”

  Enough. “The answer is no, not in a million years,” I tell him. “Stay out of my life.”

  I hang up and place the cell down, looking out over the pool.

  There’s a certain sense of satisfaction to be found in standing up to a man like Rex Marsden, but I worry my reluctance will only spur him on. He’s not one for letting things go so easily. I know how important this merger will be to him. But he can’t make me marry Harry.

  He can’t make me do a damn thing.

  *

  “Another.”

  Carrie tosses me a ball and I send it up, the resultant swish telling me I’ve hit home.

  Carrie’s staring at me in disbelief. “That’s ten for ten. Where’d you find your mojo, superstar?”

  I gesture for another, Carrie sending it to me. “In telling my father to fuck off out of my life.”

  I shoot, score again.

  “Guess we’ll have to find you some more fathers then,” says Carrie, reaching for the ball rack once more.

  I’m about to shoot when Coach claps me on the back. “Marsden, looking good. Happy to see you took my advice on board.”

  ‘What advice?’ mouths Carrie to the side.

  I suppress a laugh and smile. “Of course, Coach. You always know what’s best.”

  Hamilton likes that. She goes sauntering off with a smile, clipboard in hand.

  Carrie points to my face. “What’s that?”

  I reach up. “What?”

  Carrie squints. “Looks like you’ve got a bit of shit on your face there. You know, from burrowing so far up Hamilton’s ass just now.”

  I fire the ball at her. “Says the World’s Biggest Kiss-Ass.”

  Carrie shrugs. “Hey, you got to do what you got to do to get ahead.”

  “You’re sounding like my father.”

  “Or Monica Lewinski.”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you on your knees.”

  “Only in church.”

  “Or at church, for that matter.”

  “Hey.” She tosses the ball back, offended. “I’ll have you know I’m a good, Christian girl.”

  “Who just last week told me she’d been in a threesome with those twins from the gymnastics team,” I finish.

  She shrugs again. “They were flexible. You ever seen a guy put his legs behind his head? You should have seen what he could do with his mouth.”

  I make a gagging motion as Carrie skips off for a lay-up.

  After practice Coach asks me for a word in her office. I’d be concerned if there wasn’t more praise than yelling today. Usually Coach is looking for blood. I swear every coach at this place is a carbon copy of each other, scooped up from wherever washed-out drill sergeants go.

  “Close the door, will you?” Hamilton asks.

  I enter and seat myself. “You asked to see me?”

  The smile’s a good start. “I like what I saw out there today, Marsden. You bring that to the next game and you’re going places—places far away from here.”

  “I don’t think China’s scouting for American players at the moment.”

  She levels her finger at me. “Which is precisely what I’m getting at here: You need to start looking for an agent.”

  This I was not expecting. “You think so?”

  “I’ve been here twenty years, believe it not. I’m practically baked into these boards and your talent I’ve only seen the likes of once or twice. It’s not just me, either. I’ve heard rumors from the scouts, your name mentioned in certain hallowed circles. You’re going to be a star Marsden and when you’re out there kicking ass, I expect you to mention me in your post-game interviews. But first, an agent.”

  I can’t hide my excitement. “Yes, Coach.”

  She pretends to look for paperwork and play despondent. “Better get going then.”

  I stand and straighten myself, do my best to look business-like. “Yes, Coach. Thank you, Coach.”

  Nolan’s waiting for me in the parking lot leaning against his car in a slim white tee and straight-cut 501s. Hang a cigarette from that mouth and you’d have yourself a modern-day James Dean.

  He pushes himself off the panel-work, meeting me halfway and taking my bag off my shoulder.

  “You got the window fixed,” I note.

  “I did. You look like you’re in a good mood. I didn’t see you leave this morning.”

  I poke him in the chest. “I didn’t want to wake you, and yes, I might be a little, teensy-tiny bit excited.”

  “Because…?” he leads.

  “Coach told me I need to start looking for an agent, that I have what it takes, so to speak.”

  “A big account and friends in high places?”

  I shove him. “I’m serious.”

  “So am I. Our family friend, and top gun sports agent Jamie, does fit the bill.”

  I’m shocked. “You guys have a family agent?”

  He slides his hands into his pockets, shrugging in nonchalance. “Doesn’t everyone? I could have a word with him, offer to put you guys in touch…while touting your on-court supremacy, of course.”

  The good news just keeps on coming today. “That would be great.”

&nbs
p; “So you’ll accept?”

  “Of course.”

  “Come on,” he says, moving towards the car. “Phoenix and Heather are making dinner tonight. Trust me, that’s something you don’t want to miss.”

  *

  Peyton is busy surveying the meal Phoenix and Heather are plating up. “Anyone would think it’s Thanksgiving.”

  Heather fiddles with the garnish on the mashed potato. “You don’t need your turkey pants to be thankful.”

  Phoenix rushes a tray over from the oven, stuffed peppers from the look of it.

  I’m seated by the counter. “Wow, this all smells and looks amazing. You do this every night?”

  Both Heather and Phoenix laugh in tandem, Phoenix replying, “Hell no. We have a cook for that, but we thought we’d make an exception tonight, show you all what we’ve been working on.”

  Peyton’s rubbing his belly. “Fine by me.”

  Nolan returns from upstairs, his hands falling on my shoulders. “They’re not bothering you, are they, baby?”

  “I was just saying I might have to move in permanently given the caliber of cooking around here. I didn’t know you guys have a chef, too.”

  “And a cleaner—a team of cleaners thanks to these two.” Phoenix is nodding to Peyton and Erin, who both look at each other as if to say ‘Who, us?’

  “You think we are the messy ones?” says Erin to Phoenix. “Your room’s like a perpetual frat party.”

  I tick off my fingers. “So a cook, cleaning service, the pool… Yep, definitely moving in.”

  Nolan leans to my ear so the others can’t hear. “Why not?”

  I was mostly joking, but Nolan seems serious. “No,” I tell him. “I’ve got to go back home eventually.

  “Yes,” he replies, firm. He massages my shoulders. “Easy access and all.”

  Phoenix throws a dishtowel at him. “God, get a room… Just not ours. Haven’t you heard? It’s a perpetual frat party in there.

  I’ve got to admit, I love the banter and comradery between the brothers and their better halves. I feel like part of the club already. Whether I’m ready to take that to the next level is another question entirely.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  NOLAN

  Given we both had a free day, I decided to do something a bit different. I wanted to take her mind off Rex and all that shit, just do something with the two of us.

  Linnea looks surprised when we rock up to the Crestfall ice hockey stadium, affectionally known as The Turtle given its large, domed roof.

  I meet the caretaker out front. He looks around waving us over to the doors, using his keys to unlock them and smiling at Linnea. “Just for an hour, okay? I’ve got the reserves coming in for practice right at nine.”

  I give him a short salute. “Appreciate it, Bruce. I really do.”

  He pushes the door open and puts the keys away. “Yeah, yeah, but you owe me one, King.”

  “And I hope you’ll call it in.”

  I take Linnea’s hand. “Shall we?”

  We enter the stadium, the door swishing closed behind us and the immediate temperature drop forcing Linnea to rub her arms. “If you brought me here so you could skate around and show off, got to say I’m not going to be impressed.”

  I stop by the edge of the rink. “Your mom told me you could skate. That true?”

  “You spoke to my mom?”

  “Dropped around after school to pick up some of your things, make life easier for you. She’s great.”

  She eyes me with new suspicion. “What exactly did you two talk about?”

  He acts dumb. “Oh, the weather, the Dow Jones, how you got your braces tangled Frenching a kid called Billy back in sixth grade.”

  She’s starting to blush, puts her hand up. “I do not want to know. Let’s just pretend it never happened.”

  I’m doing my best to suppress a laugh. “Your call, but was she right, about she skating?”

  Linnea rolls her eyes. “I haven’t skated in like seven years. I doubt I’d even remember, to be honest.”

  “I guess we’ll find out.”

  I let go of her hand and walk over to the hire desk, jumping the counter and searching the racks at the back. “You about a nine?”

  “Ten,” she shouts.

  I select a pair of skates and jump back over the counter, walking over. “These should do it. Follow me.”

  I can tell Linnea is apprehensive when we enter locker room. She walks in whistling. “Flashy stuff. Have you seen our locker room? It’s basically a spare closet.”

  I breathe in the welcome scent of hockey, of Kevlar, ozone, wax, and rubber. “I suppose we do get a fair chunk of the Academy budget.” I open my locker door, showing her what’s inside. “I managed to procure you a full set-up from a friend, think it’s about your size.”

  She comes closer, curious now. She takes out the neon pink helmet. “You want me to wear this?”

  “I don’t want to give you a concussion”

  She laughs aloud, the sound of her voice echoing through the locker room and showers beyond. “You want a bit of one-on-one, do you?”

  “I want to see what you’ve got.”

  “I did figure-skating, you do realize, and only for a few months.”

  I hand her pants and guards, piling it all up in her arms until she’s teetering there before me. I place a spare cup on top out of habit.

  “What’s that for?” she laughs. “I know we’re in the men’s locker room, but I didn’t grow a dick overnight.”

  “You don’t want to protect your lady parts?”

  “I won’t be needing no damn pussy protector, no.”

  I take it away and toss it back into the locker. “Suit yourself. Now, you need a hand getting into that stuff?”

  “I’ll manage.” With that she heads over to the changing bench.

  Got to say, it’s fun watching her strip down. She leaves her shirt and pants in a haphazard pile. It becomes far more amusing after that watching her trying to work out how the myriad of guards go together.

  I walk over fully kitted. “Here, allow me.”

  I fix her shoulder pads, get her garter into position. She’s laughing, half toppling over as we try to wrangle her socks on.

  “Do I really have to wear all this stupid shit?” she says.

  “The socks cover the shin guards. It’s a required part of the uniform.”

  “By the time we get this damn thing on our hour’s going to be up.”

  Ten highly painful minutes later we’re ready to go. Linnea looks adorable suited up in pink and white. I’m half tempted to forget the hockey and strip her back down.

  She sees the way I look at her. “I know what you’re thinking.”

  I can’t help smiling. “What’s that?”

  “You wish I was wearing just the jersey, don’t you?”

  I lick my lips, using my stick to support myself. “Something like that.”

  She looks down at my crotch. “What’s it like getting a boner wearing one of those things?”

  “Good question. Let’s just say you pitch the tent up rather than out.”

  She nods to the locker. “Pass me a stick and let’s see if I can get you hard then.”

  I reach in and take out one of my spare sticks, tossing it across the room. She catches it in one hand.

  “Let’s do it.”

  We walk out. I hit the ice and sprint off to the far end, looping back in a wide arc, working the toe of my stick on the ice. “You need some h—” But when I look down to where I expect to see Linnea entering the ice, she’s not here.

  “…Help?” she finishes, from somewhere behind me. “No, I don’t believe I do.”

  She whips past, whacking her stick against my ass.

  “Oh, you’re going to pay for that, babe.”

  I tuck in and pace after her, but she’s quick. I expected she’d be able to skate maybe at a basic, amateur level, but I wasn’t expecting whatever this is.

  She pulls in
to a tight circle, tapping her stick against the ice. “Come on, big boy. Drop that puck and let’s see what you’ve got.”

  I take the puck and drop it, moving it side to side while I approach her. “I don’t think you were being entirely truthful with me, Ms. Marsden.”

  She’s smiling. “Like I said, I’m a fast learner.”

  She powers forward not showing an ounce of fear. Such is her conviction, I’m forced to shift sideways, the move allowing her just enough reach to snake in and steal the puck. She goes off with it down to the end of the rink, stopping in a spray of ice and slap-shooting like a pro. There’s a sharp thwack as the puck meets the back of the net.

  What. The. Fuck.

  She retrieves and puck and skates back to me. “Maybe I wasn’t being entirely truthful, no.”

  “You Hilary Knight under there?”

  “I wish.” She pulls up. “But I did used to play a bit with the boys in school. Roller hockey, but hey, what’s the difference?”

  “Uh, a hell of a lot, actually.”

  “Hockey is hockey, Nolan King. It’s the competitive spirit that counts.”

  “So, let’s make it competitive.”

  “First to five?”

  “You’re on.” She drops the puck and speeds back off towards the goal.

  “Shit,” I mutter, squatting and chasing with everything I have.

  I expected to show her my skills, maybe selfishly, yes, but this is going to be an actual workout.

  I can’t catch her. She scores and fires the puck back to me, meeting me in the center of the ring, our sticks snapping together.

  “Better get moving, pretty boy,” she winks.

  This time I’m prepared. I manage to take possession of the puck, a one-eighty around her enough to gain some distance. She pulls on me, coming in from the left, but I manage to skate out and shoot.

  “One all.”

  It goes like this, tit for tat, until Linnea manages to deflect one of my backhands, saving the goal.

  “Come get me!” she calls, laughing as she moves up the inside and scores.

  I’m breathing like a flogged fucking donkey, need to take a moment to wipe the sweat from my eyes.

  “That’s four-three,” Linnea says, slowing the puck. “One more and you’re mine.” She’s skating up against the wall, yelling, “Come on, you big pussy. Is that all you’ve got?”