Broken By A King: The King Brothers #3

by Lang Blakeney, Lisa

  We'd been running a play Coach B designed for the offense for an entire week at practice just for this very situation, but once I got to the line and saw how the defense was moving around, I decided to trust my gut and more importantly my teammates and change the play.

  The new play would mean I'd have to specifically trust my tight end Cooper. A player that my brother of all people asked for me to give a chance a while back.

  "Hey little brother."

  "Hey, Mike."

  "Thanks for taking Jake to the mountains, man. He couldn't stop talking about his awesome Uncle Saint."

  "I knew the little stinker loved me."

  "Listen I'm calling to put a bug in your ear."

  "About what?"

  "The man Cooper on your offense."

  "New tight end? What about him?"

  "He's the son of one of my old coaches at Georgia."

  Mike and I went to different universities. Both of us on full athletic scholarships.

  "So?"

  "So I need you to look out for him. He's a good kid, and for some odd reason he's a fan of your arrogant ass. I'm not asking for much, just give him a chance."

  "Mikey."

  "Haven't I always looked out for you?"

  "Yes but–"

  "Don't you want to win your fucking division?"

  "Obviously but–"

  "So do your job. Trust your veterans and teach your rookies. Starting with Coop."

  Remembering that conversation, I knew I had a split second to make a decision. So I decided to go with the play action pass. A play where I would get the ball, fake it to the running back, and then hand it over to my tight end, Cooper. The play would call for him to pretend to be blocking for me, then he'd suddenly break open, and I'd throw him the ball so that he could run it in for a touchdown. It's a call that can be practiced until you get the timing down a million times, but it's a play that really works best when there's chemistry between a quarterback and his tight end.

  When I called the play, I could see the excitement and determination in Cooper's eyes. The Texans had been fucking with him a lot today. That's what's crazy about football. All the shit that's said on the field that the fans never hear. When analysts say that it's as close to war as you can come to, without actually being in a war, they are right.

  Testosterone was flowing through our veins. Guys were talking about people's mothers. People's wives. Players were threatening to break each other in half. Anything to get into their opponents heads.

  But I blocked all that out.

  I had a game to win.

  A girl to get to.

  When I passed the ball to Cooper, it was a cathartic moment. A total release. Everything was happening without sound around me. All I could do was watch Coop.

  Finding a hole in the defense.

  Holding onto the ball like his life depended on it.

  Running his fast rookie ass off.

  And not stopping until he made it into the end zone.

  The sound finally returned when I heard the stunned silence of the crowd and the roar of my teammates and coaching staff on the sidelines. They were running towards me at record speed. Cheering wildly.

  We'd won the game.

  We'd won the fucking game.

  And it wasn't because of me or in spite of me. It was a team effort. It was chemistry. It was trust. It was passion. It was a belief that we actually could do it. And while I know that may not be enough to carry us all the way to the big dance this year. It's enough to make me rethink free agency and staying with the New York Nighthawks.

  Leadership, trust and chemistry are grown and cultivated. I can't just pick up and go to another team every time I hit a wall. No matter how good the players are on another team. It still would be like starting all over. And I realize that even though I've been with the Nighthawks for almost four years, I'm really just beginning.

  * * *

  "Saint over here! Amazing win today. Tell us how it feels to finally be getting your rhythm back."

  "Oh I've always had my rhythm, we just all danced a little better together today."

  My teammates laugh.

  I've decided that I'm not going to do any more solo press conferences unless it's league required. That's why I've brought some of my teammates to the table with me. Today that's Cooper and Kimball.

  Next.

  "Saint, right here. What do you think you need to do to keep up this momentum?"

  "Thanks for the question, Jim, but the answer still is the same as usual. Score and win."

  Next.

  "Saint–"

  Brad walks over and whispers in my ear. I've got to wrap this whole thing up. My girl is waiting.

  "Last question," I announce.

  "Saint, word has it that you have you been strategizing where you might want to land next year since you'll be a free agent. Care to divulge where you might take your talents to next year?"

  Debbie downer, Myra Kitch, strikes again. We play an amazing game, pull out a win, and she always has to put a damper on things with her negativity. Never mind that she says the word talents as if it's synonymous with herpes.

  "All I'm thinking about is next week's game in D.C. Nothing more, Myra."

  I get up to leave.

  "Have an awesome day everyone, and direct the rest of your questions to my guys here." I place my hands on their shoulders. "The best players in the game today."

  I'm starting to wonder if Myra's problem is that she's always had a thing for me. When I get up to leave she watches me as if the real story is wherever I'm going. Like she's dying to follow me. She packs up her things to leave too, so she obviously has no interest in asking Kimball or Cooper any questions, which is stupid. They were a big part of why we won today.

  * * *

  I'm already on a high because we beat Texas, in their own house, but that feeling only mushrooms once I see her pretty ass. I have to forcibly restrain myself when she approaches because standing right beside her are four of Carson Financial's finest, including that nutsack Jason. Gah! This royal pain in my butt has been sniffing up her ass so hard lately; it's taking every bit of self control I have not to say something. But I know I can't. I've promised Sabrina that we'd keep things private and professional at work. So why the fuck did she bring her coworkers to my game then?!

  "Hello, everyone."

  "Hey, Mr. Stevenson!" Kate waves.

  Everyone says hello and congratulates me on the win. Sweet little Kate describes their flight in great detail and how lovely it was to fly first class.

  "And we had mimosas for free," she says. "And a nice chicken sandwich."

  "I'm glad you liked it, Kate."

  I notice that both Sabrina and Jason are a little quiet, but I leave it alone for now.

  "I thought you guys could get cleaned up at the hotel and then we can go to dinner and maybe to this karaoke bar next door," I say.

  Something I had Brad arrange when I thought it was going to be some of Sabrina's college friends. I was going to win them over with good food then some of my bad singing.

  "Can't wait," her friend Marisol says.

  "Thanks, Saint." Is all Sabrina manages to say. It's bugging me how quiet she's being.

  "You're welcome."

  Jason looks silently between us with a sullen look. I wonder what that look is all about.

  "You coming, Jase?" I blurt out.

  "Wouldn't miss it," he counters.

  Twenty-One

  SAINT

  On the way to the hotel ...

  Jason: By the way, I met a friend of yours.

  Saint: How'd you get my private number?

  Jason: It's in the file at work.

  Saint: What friend?

  Jason: Her name is Adrianna

  Saint: Why are you talking to her?

  Jason: She's a friend of a friend.

  Saint: Well she's no friend of mine.

  Jason: That's not the story she's going to tell Sabrina.

 
; Saint: I haven't seen that bitch in years.

  Jason: She says differently. So Sabrina's off limits to you. You picked the wrong girl to play games with. Go find another.

  Saint: You're about three years too late, asshole.

  Twenty-Two

  SABRINA

  I've come to the distinct conclusion that people tell you not to shit where you eat for a good reason. Messing around with a client is bad business. I'm living this huge lie. I'm miserable. And now Jason is involved.

  On the flight to Houston, Kate sat with Marisol, Samuel sat next to a business traveler, and Jason and I sat together. After the stewardess served us lunch and a drink, we started talking ...

  "Are you a nervous flier?" he asked.

  "No, do I seem nervous?"

  "Yes, but I'm starting to think it might not be due to flying at all. You've been kind of distant with me lately."

  "How so?"

  "I mean I guess your busy right? Now that you have Spin."

  "Totally busy. They have so much going on it's unbelievable. I had no idea it took so much to take care of three grown men."

  "Yeah," Jason chuckled. "I guess it was a good thing you got a little experience working with Saint under your belt."

  "Right! It's like three Saints plus all of these other people in their lives."

  "So what are your thoughts about possibly leaving the sports division now that you have Spin full time."

  I lifted my head off the window and turned it completely towards him.

  "I didn't have any thoughts about leaving. Is there a problem?"

  He sighed.

  "A little one."

  "What? I thought I've been holding my weight. I got Saint three major endorsement meetings, and all three sent over pretty decent proposals. I mean you should know all of this seeing as how it's documented to death."

  "Don't get snippy, Sabrina." He looked around to see if anyone was listening. "I'm just trying to have a conversation with you."

  "Is this coming from both you and Sam?"

  He sighed again as if our conversation was so painful for him.

  "I know all about Saint Stevenson specifically requesting you be his account manager," he said in an almost accusatory tone.

  "Peter told you that?"

  "He's worried."

  "Not worried enough to say no to Saint's demands."

  "Why didn't you tell me something? I could have helped you."

  "With what?"

  "Sabrina, this is all a game to someone like Saint. I've worked with all sorts of players before, and while I wouldn't stereotype all of them this way, a lot of them can be real pieces of work. This guy's probably never heard the word no his entire life."

  "I thought the same thing at first, but the more I get to know him, the more that I think I've misjudged him."

  "What are you saying right now? He's the poster boy for it! That stunt with him taking you to his family's house. He was trying to convince you that he was a good guy. Meet the family. Trust him. I know it seems farfetched and ridiculous that he would go through all of this to get in your pants, but he's used to women who will do anything to get into his. He wants a challenge so badly, that he signed over a year of his life to Carson just to get it."

  "You guys all right up there?" Marisol tapped the back of my seat.

  "Yeah, we're good," I answered when I was anything but.

  It's not like I hadn't thought about any of the things he was saying. I'd raised the same questions to myself over and over. I fought what I was feeling for so long and now that I've lowered my defenses, I wonder. Have I made a mistake?

  "There's a reason why you asked me to go to this game, Sabrina. Just like there's a reason why your best friend back there doesn't know anything about what Saint has been up to. You know it's wrong and you want me to stop you."

  "That's crazy," I angry whisper. "I invited you all here, because I thought the sports division would like to go to one of our client's games, and because Marisol and Kate are my friends. There were no other hidden meanings behind the invitation."

  "You sure about that?"

  "I'm sure."

  After that I turned my head back towards the window and stared at the various cloud formations we were flying over. Playing every doubt Jason managed to dredge up over and over in my mind. After about ten minutes, he spoke again.

  "I'm sorry. I'm just looking out for you."

  "I know."

  "I really like you, Sabrina. I have for a very long time. I didn't want to complicate our work relationship by starting anything serious, but I'm starting to see that may have been a mistake."

  I turned my head back in disbelief.

  "What?"

  "You can't possibly think I would drive all the way to Brooklyn every Sunday just to teach you about football. I wanted to spend time with you outside of work, and I was using any excuse to do it."

  "Why wouldn't you just ask me for a date?"

  "I was being respectful of our work relationship. Like I said, I may have handled things wrong. But that's over now. I'm throwing my hat into the ring. I'm asking you to consider having a real and honest relationship with me. One where we grow our careers and our lives together in a true symbiotic way. One that you can tell your friends about. One that you can talk to your partner about work with. One that's going to last. One with me."

  * * *

  Saint didn't string together more than five sentences to me before dropping us off at the hotel. I've never seen him so annoyed. I'm starting to become paranoid. Wondering if by some magical way he knows all about Jason's confession to me. Of course he doesn't. But now that I've let Jason get into my head, I'm losing my grip on reality and questioning everything.

  Gunslinger: Be downstairs at 7.

  Me: Okay

  Gunslinger: You're going to eat right?

  Me: Yes

  Gunslinger: What's with the one-word answers?

  Me: Just tired

  Gunslinger: I'll see you in an hour.

  Dinner is at a five star steak and seafood house. Everything is char-grilled over an open fire (not really sure how they do that), but it tastes really good and the room is beautiful. The restaurant has unique very long family styled tables that can seat up to five or six dinner parties depending on the size. The only thing I didn't care for was the moose head on the wall but I try my best to pretend as if it wasn't staring at me all night.

  Jason stays close to me through dinner although we don't say much to each other. I didn't know what to really say after he threw down the gauntlet like that. It would have been nice to hear all of that a year ago, but now? Not so much.

  Things have changed.

  Saint is being his usual outgoing self. Flirting with waitresses. Ordering drinks. Graciously giving autographs to the line of people that seemed to recognize him. Yet through it all, I can feel him watching me carefully out of the corner of his eye.

  When it's karaoke time, I'm ready to go back to my room and go to sleep. I don't feel like singing, but there was no way Marisol or bubbly Kate were ever going to go for that. They were in Texas, and they wanted to party.

  Sam goes first. He's a quiet man. Married with two kids and he keeps to himself, but I could tell that this was a trip he couldn't wait to tell his buddies all about. He's oblivious to all of our drama and seems to genuinely enjoy the evening and Saint. His song selection is the old classic Hall & Oates song "Private Eyes." An appropriate selection for the evening.

  Next up is Marisol. She's miffed that they don't have any current salsa hits by balladeer Marc Anthony to choose from, so she settles with "Rhythm is Gonna Get You" by Gloria Estefan. Marisol can actually carry a tune and is probably going to be the best singer of the night.

  Kate steps up next and thankfully brings the room into the twenty-first century with "Ex's and Oh's" by Elle King. She drags me up kicking and screaming for the latter part of the song, but I'm glad that she does, because it raises my spirits and temporarily gets me out of
my own thoughts.

  Jason asks me to sing the "A Whole New World" duet from the Disney movie Aladdin, but when I decline, he decides to pass on performing a song altogether. Then sits there with a screwed up face.

  Saint on the other hand is feeling no pain and it's almost as if he's chomping at the bit to sing. I know this is going to be bad. I just didn't know how bad. His song selection is Ginuwine's "Pony." Complete with raunchy stripper moves and dedicated especially to me.

  He's a little angry.

  And a lot drunk.

  I know the best thing would be to cut the night short and get him back to the hotel where he can sleep it off.

  But after his last pony gyration in front of my face, and a lot of Marisol and Kate's whooping and hollering to add fuel to the fire, Jason can't take it anymore. So he stands up and yokes Saint back by the neck.

  Then fists started flying.

  Sam tries to get in between them and accidentally gets clocked in the eye.

  Kate is screaming.

  Marisol runs out the room to get some help.

  And I am literally on Saint's back.

  "Get off me!" he yells and swings.

  I'm not sure if he is yelling at me, Jason, or both of us but I'm not budging. I hope that if I don't get off of him, he'll eventually stop. I can't even believe they are scuffling this long. That's how I know Saint's drunk. Sober he would have been able to put someone like Jason down with one swing.

  "Stop it, Saint," I beg.

  "Fuck that!" he roars. "I'm sick of this motherfucker."

  Marisol comes running back in and speaks to the room like a high school principal.

  "The police are going to be called in three minutes if you don't stop right now, Mr. Stevenson. Is that the kind of press you want after the game you've had today!?"

  Saint stops moving, but is still holding Jason by the collar.

  I'm still on Saint's back relieved that they've stopped.