Breaking the Rules: A Brother's Best Friend Romance: The Rules Duet: Book 2 (The Dating Playbook)

by Mariah Dietz

  “I don’t want to go.”

  I breathe out a sigh, my convictions for bringing her out here weakening, succumbing to fear that she’s going to be angry with me and pull back when she already has an entire set of dominos stacked against this working, and I might be the one who tips the stack. I steal a glance at her, noticing how wide her blue eyes are, how rigid her shoulders are. “I know.”

  “Then why are we going?”

  I glance at her again, working to lower my defenses that tunnel past vulnerabilities into a territory I loathe because I’ve spent too much time here in the past few months: weakness. “Last year after I blew out my shoulder, I was so determined to get back out on the field, but then my first game back, I was legit hyperventilating on the field. Even now, it will flare up and get tight and ache and it fucks with my head. I worry I’m going to hurt it, that I’ll be forced to quit. But, the doctors have assured me it’s fine, that tendons just take so damn long to heal. Most of my pain is likely mental. Psychosomatic because I’m so damn worried about getting hurt that I delude myself into thinking it does.” I clear my throat, trying to bridge this situation to one of the many subjects we’ve skated over. “Kind of like what I did with us.”

  I make the right turn that leads into the marina, the gravel lot she’d fled to after Maggie had left and has since avoided. My tires crunch over the gravel as I pull into a spot, keeping the engine running in an attempt to comfort her.

  The water is dark this morning, a shade of blue that is so black it reminds me of a painting in my father’s art collection where the waves are reaching for a boat like arms, ripping it apart. Rain falls against the windshield like tiny taps, encouraging us to step outside.

  “Sometimes I feel like I’m drowning again,” her voice is quiet, but clear.

  Her words gut me, making the regret that lives at the hearth of the fire that’s been burning in me for so many weeks expand. “You can’t allow that moment to define your future.”

  She faces the windshield. “My fear of drowning keeps me from going out on the water, but things between my parents has had me thinking for weeks. Marine biologists aren’t exactly a booming market. It’s tough to get jobs in the field and tougher to get one with cetology. I don’t want to have to rely on someone else to support me.”

  “Fuck that. Fuck him. Don’t lose your dreams over your dad and his mistakes. You can’t let that dictate your future. This is your dream, Rae. You can’t put a price on that.”

  “It’s not that easy. My parents never had money. This lifestyle of catered events and trips to Europe is not what we grew up knowing, and it terrifies me that I’ll have to decide which bill to pay even if I’m successful.”

  “You can’t think like that. You have to focus only on what you can control, and what you can control is overcoming this fear and doing what makes you want to get out of bed every morning.”

  Still, she doesn’t look at me, her blinks slow. “They’ll never allow me to be on a team once they learn what I did. I endangered so many that night.”

  “Someone once told me making my own obstacles was stupid.”

  Her gaze kicks to me, the ghost of a smile on her lips. “I’m pretty sure I said something more insightful than that.”

  I grin. “Fuck the rules. We make our own rules.”

  “Is that your motivational speech that segues to us getting out and facing my fear? Or are you going to tell me about some historical figure who nearly drowned and then faced their fears and became something significant?”

  I chuckle, shaking my head as I reach for her fingers to tie with mine. “That’s the end of my speech.”

  She releases a long sigh. “Let’s go.”

  “Do you remember all of it?” I ask her as our feet cross the gravel, our strides short as her gaze remains on the dark Pacific.

  “I think so. I guess it’s hard to know for sure, though, right? I mean, I don’t remember getting out or the helicopter or any of that.”

  Likely because she had one foot on each side of that fragile line.

  “I remember hearing your voice,” she says, taking her first step onto the floating dock. “I remember how my muscles were so cold they ached and then stopped feeling anything. I didn’t feel anything when I’d cut myself.” She glances at her forearm, though it’s covered by her jacket. She moves her blue gaze to me. “Are you still angry with me for that night?”

  I swallow the immediate yes that is both instinctual and instant because it’s the selfish response, and I’ve already realized that. “No. We should all be willing to fight for things that are important to us—for what matters.”

  We stop several feet from the end of the pier. Rae’s chin is raised, her eyes closed. She looks like she’s having a silent conversation with the sea breeze and waves licking at the dock, a truce with the current and her fears.

  Several minutes pass, and my sneakers and jeans growing wet, but I remain silent, waiting for her to find the peace that’s been missing in this vital relationship of her life. Then, she opens her eyes, her eyes glittering with tears. “Thank you for bringing me out here.”

  “When you’re ready, we’ll take a boat out.”

  She smiles, and though it’s faint and her eyes still hold tears, there’s something in it that makes me feel whole. “This was what I needed. I needed to just be here.”

  Rae doesn’t expand, doesn’t mention if her confidence is restored or if she’s ready to be back out on the water, and after pushing her this far, I respect her space, not pushing her any further—not yet, anyway.

  “This is what we’ve been working toward. We have two games left,” Coach Harris smacks his gum, pacing in front of us in a pair of slacks and his customary red Brighton sweatshirt. “I want to see focus. I want to see hustle, and I want to see you sending motherfucking Utah home with their tails tucked between their goddamn legs.”

  Arlo’s leg bobs, knocking against mine before he stands. I pull in a breath, my thoughts tracing over the hours of tape we poured over last night. Each risk and opportunity for tonight running through my head like they’re already a memory.

  Pax stands, angling toward the bathroom. I pat his shoulder before he moves away from us.

  A clip to my shoulder has me snapping my attention forward as Derek passes.

  “What the fuck?” I demand, shoving him.

  He propels himself off the wall, getting in my face, his eyes burning with anger and resentment, void of the fear he ought to be feeling. “You need to stop meddling,” he warns.

  I shove him back again, gaining a solid foot of space, enough for me to rotate my hips before driving my fist into his face, but before I can connect, Coach Harris appears, confusion and annoyance marring his silver brow. “Jones, what in the hell are you doing? If you derail my team tonight, son, you’re going to wish you never left Texas.”

  Derek shrugs off his invisible grip, moving toward the tunnel. I stare after him, every cell in my body wishing to follow him and seek a revenge that’s been like a tide in my head, consuming too many of my thoughts and regrets. Coach Harris stares after him, waiting to ensure he doesn’t return before looking back at me. “You want to share what that was all about?”

  “Beats the hell out me,” I say, though I know it must be about Rae. Thoughts of the cranes and their cryptic words infiltrate my mind, filling me with a rage that places a bullseye on his back.

  “Hey,” Coach Harris barks, grabbing the front of my jersey. I slowly move my gaze to meet his. “Not here. Not tonight. This is your team. You carry them to another win or you carry them to a loss. It’s on your shoulders, President. Be their leader. Show these assholes what you’re made of.”

  I roll my shoulders, but my muscles are still tight with the realization that for the first time. Something matters more than the game—more than the win.

  “Beckett,” Coach Harris growls my name, a warning that’s mere decibels from a threat because as much as he attributes this winning season to our
futures, his own stands to benefit heavily as well.

  “He’s good. He’s good, Coach,” Arlo says, patting my shoulder before slinging his arm around me. “He’s just ready for the game.”

  Coach Harris stares at me, a silent threat of the hell he could make reign on my life.

  I nod, turning to follow Arlo, who remains at my side. “What the fuck was that?”

  A single look, and he knows. “I was wondering how that was going…”

  “He’s pissing me off.”

  Arlo nods. “He’s trying to get into your head. He wants you to fuck up. Don’t give him that.” He pounds an opened palm against my chest. “Rae doesn’t give a shit about him. You know that.”

  I can’t get into how my fears are spiraling, hitting far beyond the possibility of Rae liking him and straight into what type of threat he could potentially pose to her safety—again.

  “Focus on Utah now. We’ll deal with asswipe tonight.”

  We hit the field, and the lights, the noise, the adrenaline take over the second I step onto the grass.

  Arlo pats me a couple more times. “We’ve got this. Don’t sweat it.”

  Pax catches up to us, a sports drink in his hand. “What’d I miss?” he looks across the field.

  “Nothing,” I say automatically, knowing if I tell Pax about my assumptions, he’ll lose all sense of sanity.

  30

  Raegan

  “Wait. Rewind.” Poppy says, her feet dancing as her smile spreads, pausing with her half-opened bag of cotton candy still in one hand. “You slept with him, and you didn’t call me?”

  “I tried calling you a million times yesterday.”

  “I know, but this is newsworthy of you hiring one of those airplane guys who write words in the sky.”

  “I’m not addicted to pain. In fact, I’m trying to avoid it. Can you imagine the crowd of pitchforks coming at me? Paxton in the lead.”

  Poppy flinches, but her face relaxes before my concerns. “I think he’s going to be fine with it.”

  “I think you’ve had too much sugar.”

  She laughs. “Seriously. Pax loves you. Your happiness matters to him. If you tell him Lincoln makes you happy, he’s not going to get in the way of that.”

  My thoughts take off on their own, considering the different responses Paxton might have to the news and how my words might impact his reaction.

  “When are you guys going to tell him?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, since you’re not going slowly anymore, you guys should consider doing it soon because I don’t think he’ll take the news very well if it comes from an outside source.”

  “It’s only been a few days. We don’t even know what is going on between us. There have been no labels or expectations.”

  Poppy stops herself from saying something more by pressing her lips together. I know she doesn’t agree—that she wants to shrink talk me in hopes of getting all my emotions to the surface so we can neatly sort and label them and thus Marie Kondo’ing my thoughts and make everything better.

  “Have you tried calling your mom again?”

  I give a single nod. “She didn’t answer, but my aunt said she’s still planning to fly home on Monday. Maggie called me today.”

  Poppy’s face scrunches. “That couldn’t have been an easy conversation.”

  “It wasn’t. There were a lot of tears. I think that’s the hardest part of this whole situation—none of us saw this coming. It’s like we’re all paralyzed and don’t know how to react or move forward.”

  She nods thoughtfully. “But you will. It’s going to be hard, but you guys will figure this out.”

  “Is it strange that I worry about him? I worry he’s all alone and will do something awful. I mean, he lost all of us, even Grandpa, and his job… But, then I think of how he reacted that day we packed up my stuff, and it makes me wonder if I even know who he is and if I want him to be in my life?”

  “That’s a decision you’ll have to make. But, there’s no timer on it. You don’t have to decide today or tomorrow or even next week. Focus on these things that are bringing you happiness now, and the other things will find a way of working themselves out.”

  I nod, hating the nervous energy that still exists in my chest when I think of all the unfinished pieces of my life at this time. “Lincoln invited us to a party tonight,” I tell her. “He said most of the rugby team will be there.”

  She fishes out a large handful of cotton candy, hesitation clear in her green eyes.

  “You’re afraid to run into Chase?”

  “Not afraid… I just don’t want to make a bad decision if I start drinking, and he’s there.”

  “I’ll be your wing girl. Pax is going to be out, so I was planning to spend the night with you, anyway.”

  Thankfully the teams both take the field to start the third quarter. Paxton started the first quarter slow, his strides unsure and his vision tunneled, but Lincoln cornered him two minutes into the game, bringing their facemasks together, and since that moment, Pax has looked like himself, being the natural leader and breaking down all the barriers set forth by the opposing team.

  “How’s Pax doing?” Poppy asks, nodding toward the field.

  I shake my head. “He could probably use some of your EQ.” I bump her knee with mine. My voice is teasing, but I’m truly considering if it might help him. Paxton has always struggled to face his emotions, but once he does, he’s always been good about discussing them. Meanwhile, I have a penchant for avoiding both.

  “What about Derek?” Poppy asks, her voice a little quieter, more serious.

  I glance at her. “You mean, have I told him about Lincoln?”

  “Just that you’re not interested in him…”

  I shake my head. “He texted me this weekend, and I ignored it.”

  “Maybe that’s the best course of action. I mean, it’s not like you guys were actually together, together. But, if he keeps trying, you should just tell him you’re not interested. You don’t want him to get too invested and leave a wasteland of hearts at your feet.”

  Her words haunt me, drawing my attention over the field, watching Pax, then Lincoln, and finally, Derek.

  “Maybe we should swing by my house and change,” Poppy suggests as I help her gather the wrappers from her concession stand dinner.

  I glance at my purple coat concealing my red Brighton U sweatshirt and black matchstick jeans. “That sounded more like a suggestion than a question.”

  She nods. “It was.”

  “Of course, it was.”

  My phone vibrates in my palm, and though I was expecting a text from Lincoln, actually seeing it sends a shiver of anticipation down my spine.

  Lincoln: Meet me in an hour at the house. Poppy optional.

  Me: Where are we going?

  Lincoln: An athlete-themed party. Costumes required.

  Me: You hate me, don’t you?

  Lincoln: Don’t forget, my number’s 44.

  “What?” Poppy asks, reading my flustered expression.

  “It’s a themed party.”

  “What’s the theme?”

  “Sports?”

  Poppy laughs and then begins to giggle, bending at the waist because she can’t catch her breath.

  “I really don’t see the humor in this.”

  She stands, wiping a tear caused by her laughter. “I’m dying to see how you make an excuse to Pax about wearing Lincoln’s number.”

  I groan. “Yeah. I can’t. I need to at least let this season wrap up, so I don’t mess that up for him.”

  She’s still hiccupping with laughter as we arrive at her house, digging through her closet.

  “What do I wear?” I ask.

  “You have to dress like a football player. If you were a dude, you’d be on the team.”

  I shake my head. “No. I’m more of the mathlete these days.”

  Poppy throws her head back, a fresh wave of laughter tickling her. “Oh. That�
�s perfect. We’ll make you a sexy nerd.”

  I should have said no.

  I should have messaged Lincoln and canceled.

  But should have and I are starting to cross boundaries a lot, and so here I am, dressed in a short plaid skirt, a black pushup bra visible with my low white blouse tied at my waist and the necklace Lincoln bought me around my neck.

  “I should have been a mathlete,” Poppy says as we park at the address Lincoln had texted me after I told him we were running late and would meet him at the party. The cold air promising rain has me regretting my decision as it licks at all my uncovered skin, reminding me of how exposed I am.

  “This is going to be so weird.” I scrunch my nose. “Seeing my brother in this violates, like, a dozen sibling codes.”

  Poppy takes another swig from the invisible laughter bottle she’s clung to all night. “I’m so intrigued to watch tonight play out.” With her midriff exposed and a tiny pair of black shorts she used to wear under her tennis skirt, she climbs the driveway, our hands linked.

  My heart thunders in my chest, making me feel lightheaded. “I have no idea how I’m going to talk to Lincoln with Pax around.”

  Laughter teases Poppy’s lips. “You’ve been doing it for days. You’ll be fine.”

  A guy opens the door as we reach the porch, his intentions diverted as he takes a long look down me and then up Poppy, a grin splitting his face. “Wow.” He nods, his attention split between us—mostly our breasts, his face vaguely familiar. “I’m Johnny,” he says, reminding me of my first college party and meeting him then.

  A guy with shaggy brown hair appears behind Johnny, slapping a hand to his shoulder. “Where’s the keg?”

  “I got distracted,” Johnny admits. “My definition of perfection just arrived.”

  I exchange a look with Poppy, but she’s beaming, a sucker for flirting, even the worst and cheesiest lines.