Broken By A King: The King Brothers #3

by Lang Blakeney, Lisa

While this isn't a date by any stretch of the imagination, I'm having a nice time. He's only looked at his phone during random commercials, and he helped me clean up the mess we made with the wings. All in all, I feel like this was progress in more ways than one. With Jason and with learning the game.

  So why can't I seem to get off of my mind the fact that Saint was thinking about me of all people on game day.

  * * *

  "I'm going to head out now. I'll see you in the office tomorrow."

  "Thanks for helping me clean up, Jason, and for the tutoring session."

  "No problem. Make sure to watch the Nighthawks later, and pay attention to the commercials. Maybe you and I can come up with some sort of strategic endorsement plan for both of our players."

  Jason was given player Douglas James to manage. A newly drafted basketball player for New York City. Sounds like he wants us working even further together. Marisol is going to pee in her panties when I tell her.

  "Okay, sounds good," I say casually.

  I watch as Jason crosses the street and then bends over and makes a complete circle around his car with his hands checking for scratches or dents. I'm not really surprised. He's already expressed his reservations about living in Brooklyn (he's a Jersey boy), and he definitely loves that car of his.

  I chuckle to myself as I'm reminded of Saint's comment about Jason possibly overcompensating with his car. Eh, like he's one to talk. I'm sure someone like Saint has a ton of expensive toys he uses to overcompensate his shortcomings with. Although I'd be hard pressed to name what one of his shortcomings would be.

  Oh that's right, his personality.

  I pour myself a mug of herbal tea and sit back down in front of the television, but this time with my laptop, so that I can take notes and start outlining a strategic plan. I've been thinking back on my conversation with Abby and it sparks something inside of me. If I'm ever going to show that I'm ready to be promoted to the next level, I'm going to have to make my mark with this Cro-Magnon athlete, and the only way to do that is to make the egomaniac some more money.

  So that's what I'm going to do.

  Ten

  SAINT

  I'm pretty sure that this day couldn't get any shittier. Even though it was only by a narrow margin, we still lost the game by a field goal. On top of that I'm going to be fined, because I didn't feel like answering any questions at the press conference after the game. They were dumb ass questions as usual, and I was pissed that they were waiting to throw daggers at me about my lack of performance. So I walked out.

  I can't believe that the league expects me to take that shit from those vultures week after week. I'm not a machine. I'm flesh and bones with fucking feelings believe it or not.

  I've been warned before by management to stop avoiding the press. That's why most games I try to answer some questions and avoid some of the others, but today I couldn't do it. We should have won that game and everyone knows it.

  Everyone blames me, because I'm the star. The draft pick that this city has been waiting eons for. Fans are chomping at the bit for me to deliver, and I wish I could, but not with this ragtag team of players I've got backing me.

  I can't wait for free agency status. Then I can finally leave New York. It would be the best thing for everyone involved. They don't want me anymore, and I don't want to be here. It's as simple as that. And the icing on this shitstorm cake is that my family is here tonight, because I'm playing in my hometown of Philadelphia, one of the Nighthawks biggest division rivals.

  I feel a familiar and powerful thump on my back.

  "Tough loss today, Gunslinger."

  Kimball is the most respected veteran on the team and captain of the Nighthawk's defense. He knows how much I wanted to win this one for my hometown. Even though they're the competition, I realize that I have plenty of people who follow my career and kids who look up to me here, and I feel like I've let them down.

  "Yeah, it sucked ass."

  "No doubt, young boy, but let me tell you something a player once told me when I was a rookie. Everyone doesn't make it to the pros. It's not your right to be here. It's a privilege. And the real measure of how much you honor that privilege is how you face adversity when it meets you week after week on the field."

  "I'm trying my best, Kimball."

  "No, you aren't. Not by a long shot. Your head isn't right. I caught some of your games when you were in D.C. You're used to being the star of a team. The best player on that team. The best player in your division no doubt. But it's not like that in the pros, man. Everyone was the star of their college teams in the pros. Everyone was that go to player. So now you have to set yourself apart from an entire league of elite players. And the only way you're going to accomplish that magical shit is to get the fifty-three men here invested in helping you win week after week. That would be trying your best."

  "I would've thought that their paychecks would be all the motivation they needed to become invested in winning. That and the fact that losing sucks."

  "Then that's your first mistake, and one you've clearly been making your last three years here. Most football players aren't moved and shaken by dollars. Real warriors have to be motivated by something more. Something bigger than dollars and cents."

  "Let's keep it real, old timer. This locker room doesn't give a shit about me or winning."

  "It's your job to get them to care. About you. About the team. About winning. I can help you with defense, but it's up to you to get your offensive men on board."

  I slam my locker shut in frustration. I'm not angry with Kimball, but it's just a frustrating situation.

  "I feel just as fucked up as you, Gunslinger. I've been busting my ass in this league for thirteen years and am only holding out maybe one more season, because I want a championship. I want a Superbowl ring before I retire, Stevenson, and you're going to give it to me. You just have to step the fuck up."

  Now I'm ready to curse Kimball out, but not because he's saying shit that I haven't already gone over in my head a thousand times, but because this is not the day or time I need to hear it. At this point he's kicking a man when he's down.

  "We'll talk about it more later, chief," I answer dismissively.

  Kimball shakes his head and then walks away towards the showers. He's been in the league for over thirteen seasons, and he's definitely to be respected, but I think that if he had said one more damn word, I was going to have to pummel him.

  * * *

  I take my family out for dinner at my mother's favorite steakhouse. She always gets a piece of prime rib and a crab cake and my dad and I always get the lamb chops. My father and I are alike in many ways, but in others, we're as wide apart as two people can be.

  "You guys sucked, Uncle Saint!"

  Little shit.

  Not only are my parents here but so are my aunt, uncle and my brother's son Jake. My brother Michael and his family live in Pennsylvania, even though he plays for Seattle. They both decided that they'd rather raise their children on this side of the country near my parents. So his wife, Kennedy, occasionally flies to wherever he's playing to see him, especially because they are trying for kid number two. Their son Jake typically stays back with my parents when she's gone, because he has school.

  My nephew is a good kid, but he's twelve, and twelve-year-old boys are pubescent, annoying and smelly. That's just a fact. And today is no different.

  "How'd your dad do today?" I change the subject already knowing the outcome of my brother's game.

  "They won," he replies proudly.

  "They always win," I say.

  "Yeah they do," he replies chuckling. "And you guys don't."

  "Mike and those boys are going to the championship for sure," my father interjects. "There's no stopping them. They've got their division sewed up already."

  My parents love me and they love my brother. There is no doubt about that. I know that parents repeatedly say that they don't have favorites when it comes to their children, but for some reason I th
ink my father has a soft spot for Michael. He's much harder on me and always has been.

  "Michael did have an awesome game today, but the season just started. I feel it in my gut that Saint is going to make things happen for his team this year too. It's such a toss up right now. No one team dominates in his conference," my mother says with a degree of confidence that I don't necessarily share.

  My mother is just as much a football fanatic as the men in my family. She has always supported and encouraged mine and Michael's dreams to become professional football players. Yet unlike my dad and uncle, she always made sure that the two of us had as much of a healthy balance as she could create for us.

  Making sure we went to all school dances, making sure we joined at least one other extracurricular club when we were in school (I did ski club), and making sure she carved out time for us to concentrate on our studies and some public service activities. Athletics has always been the number one priority for my father, but a well-rounded life is very important to my mother. If only they made more women like my mom.

  "That's so true," my aunt adds while my uncle stands there quietly. His lack of a response speaks volumes. He's either disappointed in me or for me. I'm not really sure which, but it bugs me just the same.

  "Stop filling the kid's head with fantasies. They still haven't surrounded him with good enough players yet. It's not going to happen this year. What he needs to be thinking about is what he's going to do with his free agency status next year. He needs to get out of New York."

  "New York sucks!" Jake interjects.

  "Jakie!" My mother scolds as if Jake is still five years old and doesn't know any better. What he really needs is a good smack upside his head.

  "Ma, stop babying the brat."

  Jake gives me the evil eye. I bend over and whisper something to him.

  "You want to go snowboarding right?"

  His eyes pop up and he rapidly nods yes.

  "Then stop talking crap about my team. Got it?"

  He nods again.

  "Saint, what's all this your mother tells me about you meeting with a business management firm?"

  I tell my mother everything, so there was no need to tell my father that I've met or worse actually signed on the dotted line with a business management firm. I knew she'd save me the trouble by telling him herself.

  "Yeah, I took a meeting."

  "You got a problem with the way I'm managing your money? Stevensons have never let outsiders handle our money."

  "I'm a franchise quarterback with no endorsements, Dad."

  "You've got Lucky Sports."

  "Okay so let me rephrase that. Lucrative endorsements."

  "Well that's an agent's job."

  Funny how that works. His brother, my uncle is my agent.

  "Exactly." I deadpan and look straight at my uncle.

  "It's hard to get you the elite endorsements right now, Saint. I've explained that to you a million times," my uncle says defensively.

  "I'm sorry son, but your uncle is right. You've got to win some more games before you get the kind of big deals you're looking for."

  "If there's a chance that this management team can get me a good endorsement without a winning record being a requirement, then I want to try. It's worth signing to them for a simple twelve month commitment. If they don't get me anything good within that time then they probably won't be able to at all, and I'll leave."

  "So are you telling me that you've signed already?" My father raises his voice.

  "Ooh, Grandpop is going to kick your ass," Jake says without even looking up from the video game that he's playing on his phone.

  Somebody please get me the fuck out of here. I need a distraction, so that I don't act on the strong desire I have to dump an entire steak dinner on top of my nephew's head. That's why I pay the check, say my good-byes, and call my adorable new business manager.

  Eleven

  SAINT

  "Hello?"

  Her voice is so sexy.

  "What are you wearing?

  "Again with that?"

  "Please tell me it's one of those skirts that makes you look part librarian, part stripper, part Lois Lane, part video vixen."

  "You have a serious mental problem."

  "That's what the team psychologist told me when I was licking her–"

  "Shut up right this minute."

  I can't help but laugh out loud. I love getting under her skin. She is immune to my usual Stevenson charm, and I find it utterly intriguing and refreshing.

  "And stop laughing like that. What do you want? The adults are working."

  "Just checking in on my favorite financial manager."

  "I'm your only financial manager."

  "Did you watch the game?"

  "Yep."

  "Good girl. So did you learn anything?"

  "I finally understand where the red zone is, and thanks to you, I know what interceptions and fumbles look like."

  She's such a smartass.

  "You should probably be a little nicer to your ticket out of loserville."

  "I don't know where such a land exists."

  "Is that right? Well I did my homework too, Miss White. Your client roster consists of reality show wannabes, and let's face it, I'm prime time. So yeah, I'm the one that's going to make you a star at Carson Financial and get you out of a cubicle and into a corner office."

  She sighs heavily. No doubt tired of hearing the unfiltered truth.

  "If you don't have any pressing business to discuss, I need to get back to my life, ball boy."

  Why is she always trying to get rid of me?

  "Do you talk to all of your clients this way?"

  "Just the frustrating one."

  "Well this call is about business. I think I'm going to buy a new car when I get back into town. Want to help me pick it out?"

  That was so random. I don't need or want another car, but I'm not ready to hang up with her. I enjoy talking to her. Playing with her. Plus I'm waiting to see just how long it's going to take her to remember who I am. Is she going to force me to start dropping obvious hints?

  "You already have a car."

  "I want a nicer one."

  "For what?"

  "Because it's nicer."

  "Are you ten years old?" she scoffs. "As your new business manager I would strongly advise against that sort of impulsive purchase. Cars depreciate right off the lot. It's not a sound investment. Leonardo DiCaprio drives a Prius. Just one."

  "Does every purchase have to make complete fiscal and ecological sense when I'm a millionaire? And what the hell do I care about what some soft, baby-faced actor drives."

  This woman is so serious. Way too serious and way too rigid for her own good. I'm going to have to save her from herself.

  "Eww, who calls themselves that?"

  "Calls themselves what?"

  "A millionaire."

  "Is it obnoxious to say when it's the truth?"

  "Totally obnoxious. Especially from someone like you. I'd expect this sort of behavior from someone who doesn't know any better, but didn't you grow up with money?"

  "We did okay."

  "Oh please. Let me ask you something, Mr. Stevenson–"

  She says my name like it physically makes her ill. This conversation is definitely not headed in the right direction.

  "Why did you hire Carson Financial? Why me? The complete truth. If that's even possible for you."

  I'm not a hundred percent sure what I'm doing myself. I just know that there was something endearing about her when I met her three years ago. She was alone, drunk and gorgeous. Not to mention that she had zero clue who I was which was something I hadn't experienced in a while. Even back then a lot of people knew my face. So when she didn't, I liked it. I felt normal.

  Then I see her again years later. Filled out in all the right places. Sexy as all hell. Funny even though she doesn't know it. And still no clue who I was. And I couldn't help myself. There's something about her that I'm totally drawn
to. She's not like the cleat chasers that I'm used to fucking or the models that I use as arm candy. Filling a void in her life with my success is not her end game. She has her own life. Her own goals and dreams. And she could care less that I could help her get there faster. She wants to forge her own path. Who wouldn't be attracted to that all wrapped up in a mouth watering, curvy, package?

  I can't say that I know exactly what I'm doing with this woman. This is totally out of character for me. Ever since Adrianna, all I've had are a variety of expendable women in and out of my life. Nothing serious. Nothing even past seven days. But Sabrina isn't that. And until I'm sure what's happening here, I decide to stretch the truth a bit and tell her what I think she needs to hear in order to continue working for me.

  "I won't be a football player forever, and I don't want to be one of those broke players begging for work from the league in fifteen years. You asked me what I want from you. Well what I need is some additional income coming in. I need endorsements."

  "I could live forever on the interest alone of twenty-two million dollars."

  "Well I'm sure that you and I live very different lifestyles. Mine requires a certain amount of funding since I like to go out and live a little. I don't just work, work, work like some people I know."

  "Some of us have to work harder than others to make a living," her voice rises. "Some of us will always have to work harder than others to get ahead in life. In my opinion, what you really need is someone to help you make smarter decisions about the money you already have coming in."

  "Pretty sure that's the same thing that I just said."

  "Not the same thing."

  "Did you ever tell me what you were wearing?"

  "Oh my God, you promised."

  "Wait–what did I promise again?"

  "That you would behave and act like an adult if I allowed you to basically strong arm me into working for you."

  "I am on my best behavior, Miss White. Especially when I've been at war on the field all day with a bunch of men who want nothing else but to kill me. Especially when what I really want to do is fly to New York and lay my head in between somewhere soft, warm, wet and very much female."