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

by Teagan Kade

  I think Dad actually moved to New York simply to be closer to her. Ever since she was born it’s like he’s softened up — butter on a warm summer’s day, just completely smitten by our bundle of joy. He makes a pretty decent babysitter, too. He might not have a wife or a girlfriend at the moment — Alissa long gone, and just as well — but he does have Evie and his sons, though I’m sure he’s tried to disown the twins twenty times over these last couple of years. He has us. Maybe that’s all he needs?

  “Peyton!” Someone’s yelling back down the tunnel for me. “They need you.”

  “It’s okay,” says Dad. “You go. Savor it.”

  “You’ll be fine with Evie?”

  He looks between Titus and me. “I raised you jackasses, didn’t I?”

  Technically, it was my mother and a string of nannies who did the hard yards, but I let him have his moment.

  I start to walk off. “Guess so.”

  I wave and jog away, surprised I can drum up the energy to do that after what a tough game that was out there. I’m going to be feeling like hell tomorrow. But tonight, with Erin?

  Top of the world.

  ERIN

  It’s 3am when the door opens. I’m sitting at the dining table in our apartment polishing off the last of my story for the sports section of the New Yorker. I know I’m on maternity leave for another few weeks, but I wanted to get everything down while it was fresh in my mind.

  Peyton enters in a white tee and jeans, hair wet, freshly showered. I left the team party at midnight, collected Evie from Stone’s and got her down at home. I wanted Peyton to enjoy himself with his teammates. He’s worked hard for this. He deserves it.

  He enters the apartment and places his duffel on the table, walking over and kissing the top of my head. “She’s down?”

  I smile up at him, taking off my glasses and sliding the baby monitor over so he can see. “See for yourself.”

  He leans down, smells amazing. “Have you ever seen someone look so at peace sleeping?”

  I look up at him suspiciously. “Uh, yeah. You.”

  “Daddy’s girl,” he smiles, shifting to look at my laptop screen. “Not another expose, I hope.”

  I shake my head. “You are never going to let me live that down, are you?”

  He comes around to me from behind, arms snaking around my neck. “Afraid not, Mrs. King.”

  The gig with the New Yorker was too good to pass up, plus it coincided perfectly with Peyton’s move to the Patriots. I never thought I’d be interested in sports, but being with Peyton has opened my eyes up to many things, sport included — not that I ramble out stats and figures like the other reporters. No, my role is to dig into the personal side of sports, to find those stories within the stories, to dive deeper. I love it. It’s given me purpose, and respect. I’ve been able to use my influence (and certainly Peyton’s) to help local charities and push the issues I’m passionate about — child abuse above all.

  Seeing what Peyton went through, brought to light by my own hand, I knew I had to make amends. Lorna didn’t escape unscathed. More guys — some boys, some men — came out after Peyton’s story ran — six or seven in total she’d abused over the years for her own evil gratification. Stone’s lawyers made quick work of her. She got five years, which didn’t seem like true justice, but for Peyton it was enough.

  The fallout from the Crimson article actually had the opposite effect than I expected. Far from being ostracized and shut out, Peyton was embraced and supported. Crestfall, much to their credit, really stepped up, even organized professional counselling for him. And I think it helped. It helped him realize what Lorna had done to him, the deeper effect of what had happened and how it had affected his life.

  I supported him as much as I could, but it wasn’t always easy. A year out of Crestfall and there were still no offers on the table. It was only when the Jets came knocking things started to pick up. Then it was the Patriots and I’m pretty sure they’re happy with that particular choice come today.

  “I thought you’d be out partying all night,” I tell him, resting my head on his arm.

  He lets go and slides my chair around to face him, crouching down between my legs so we can look at each other face to face. “You know I left my partying ways behind after I met you.”

  “But you should be out having fun with your team, enjoying yourself.”

  He smiles and I see a definite maturity developing in his features. That boyish cheek is gone and in its place is a husband, a father, someone dedicated heart and soul to their family.

  Of course, he’s still drop-dead gorgeous, making me the envy of who knows how many women tonight

  “Baby,” he says, voice low, “the best way to enjoy myself is with you.”

  I place my hands on his shirt, slowly slide them down to his belt. “So I guess you’re looking to get lucky tonight then? It has been six weeks, I suppose. You must be pretty frisky.” I start to undo his belt. “How do you want me?”

  His mouth moves to my ear and it never fails to turn me on. Five years and it’s like we’re still two horny college students trying not to wake Mindy, or his three brothers, up.

  He pulls back and I look into those dark, smoky eyes, see our wedding at Crescent Beach, our first fight (over who controlled the remote, go figure). I see the day I told him after practice we were going to be three soon. I see the equal measure of fear and joy when he was handed Evie in the birthing suite… passing out on the floor like a lump of lead the second he looked between my legs. I see all of this and I know I made the right choice all the way back then to take a chance on the bad boy, to look beyond the surface and see who he really was, could be. I see love, building, growing, and eternal.

  I see a growing bulge in his pants I’m pretty sure is going to keep me up ’til sunrise.

  Belt undone, I reach into his pants and find what I’m looking for, always surprised how quickly he’s hard for me, even though I’ve got stretch marks now and twenty-four-seven panda eyes. He sees beyond all that and sees the girl he fell in love with, the one who finally took down the Party King of Crestfall.

  I slowly start to stroke his cock, purring all the while. “Ready to throw down for real then, big boy?”

  He reaches forward and pulls me towards him. “Baby,” he smiles, “I’m a King. I was born ready.”

  Bringing It Home

  Teagan Kade

  * * * * *

  Published by Teagan Kade

  Edited by Sennah Tate

  Copyright © 2020 by Teagan Kade

  CHAPTER ONE

  TITUS

  I lick at the air. It tastes sweet. It tastes like victory.

  I bring the bat up and scan the bases.

  Fully loaded.

  My body’s tight, coiled, ready to deliver. I always deliver.

  It’s opening night and the place is packed. There isn’t a single seat without an ass.

  These folks have come to see me put on a show, and I’m not going to disappoint.

  That goes double tonight. I’m eyeing down Joe Pearson—pitcher for the Mules, wannabee playboy, and local soft cock. It would give me great satisfaction to slug his pitch right back into his ball sack, but we need a homer here. Personal vendettas will have to wait.

  I can tell by the smug curl of his lower lip he’s thinking the same. Our rivalry extends far beyond the field. It’s no surprise considering I dated his ex for a while… After she left him for me.

  It’s not hard to read ol’ Joe. He’s either lining up a two-seam sinker or a straight four-seam fastball, the hardest of all fastballs.

  Let him fucking try.

  He dips and rises, bringing his arm back. For a second, I think he might switch it up to a slurve, but when the ball leaves his hand it’s none of the above.

  It’s a fastball alright, but rising quick and…

  Shit.

  Approximately one second ago I was on top of the world, absolutely unbeatable, in my element. No one fucks with Titus
King on the baseball diamond, but it seems Joe Pearson’s going to give it a red hot go.

  There’s no point trying to swing. I simply have to decide whether to move my head left or right.

  But there’s some serious stink on this ball.

  I have to decide, and I have to decide fast otherwise it’s going to take my fucking head off.

  Left, I elect.

  Wrong decision.

  When the ball strikes my forehead, I actually feel it deform and change shape, less of a ball and more of a puck as it drives against the bone of my skull.

  It’s kind of amusing, actually. Funny.

  And that’s how I hit the dirt—smiling.

  I’m still smiling as the curtains close.

  *

  I’m seeing stars when I come to. No, like literal stars in the sky because, it would appear, I’m on my back.

  A guy who I vaguely think is some kind of medical professional is leaning over me, flashlight in hand. Fuck me, it’s bright. He’s saying something. It seems important, but I can’t make out the words clearly now that my head has become a boat anchor.

  Said boat anchor drops sideways and I see an ambulance drawing closer and closer through a railing, or maybe I am the one who’s moving? Who knows.

  Someone else kneels in front of me, peering in like I’m a museum exhibit.

  Behind them, I can see others trying to hold a blurry figure back, a woman. She looks determined to get to me, but I can’t make her out clearly. She’s shadowy, fuzzy around the edges. I try to focus on her, but my head suddenly becomes heavier, dragging me down into the deep.

  “Stay with me, Titus.”

  That I can make out because the guy saying it is, like, an inch from my face. Any closer and we’re going to be heading up Brokeback Mountain.

  I’m too busy trying to focus, concentrating, squinting. It only makes things worse.

  God, I just want to sleep.

  “Titus… Titus?”

  I… can’t…

  I let the anchor drop completely and drag me down into blissful unconsciousness.

  *

  Water—it’s the first thing that comes to mind when I open my eyes.

  It feels like I’ve been chewing sandpaper for hours, my jaw aching when I go to stretch it.

  “Water,” I say, but what passes from my lips is so quiet and muted I’m shocked it’s my own voice.

  Things hit me fast. I’m in hospital. The white-on-white décor and incessant beeping give that away. I’m lying down, attempt to wiggle my toes. They comply, thank Christ.

  “Water.” I try to say it louder, but I’m getting nowhere here.

  I lift up my right hand and start swatting at what looks like a remote control on the bed beside me. My aim’s off, but I manage to hit something, because a beeping starts, far more incessant than the others.

  Someone wearing scrubs appears at the end of my bed, takes a nice, long gander at me.

  “Water,” I repeat, but they rush out.

  Fuck me, I think. What do you have to do to get a drink around this place?

  A doctor appears now with the androgynous nurse from before. He looks like George Clooney—a discount, bargain bin Clooney.

  “Water.” I try it again, but Clooney’s more concerned with blinding me with his penlight.

  He pulls back smiling. “Welcome back, Titus. I’m Doctor Fiddler and you’re in the hospital. You took quite a hit to the head.”

  Doctor Fiddler? I think. Maybe I’m still unconscious.

  “Water,” I get out, slightly louder.

  Clooney nods to the nurse, who returns with a glass of water, directing the straw to my mouth. I drink and just like that the sandpaper pit becomes an oasis. It’s far easier to speak after that.

  “How… long… have I… been here?” I ask, trying to sit up but slumping back into the pillow when it all becomes too hard.

  The doc places a reassuring hand on my shoulder. “Easy now. You’ve been in a coma. For four weeks, actually.”

  Waking up in the hospital was shock enough, but four fucking weeks? I can’t believe it.

  I tell Clooney this. “No,” I state.

  “Yes,” he replies, hand remaining in place at my shoulder, “and I know that’s going to come as a shock, but you’re awake now and that’s a very, very good sign. We’ll have some tests, of course, but this is progress.

  He smiles the fakest, gummiest grin I’ve ever seen and moves to the corner with the nurse, discussing something quickly, using his hands to illustrate his point. As long as they’re not gearing up for a surprise enema, or lobotomy, I think I’ll be okay.

  A few tests quickly turn into twenty. Thirst becomes hunger. I down what looks like nuclear waste in seconds. I manage to move a little, even try to get out of bed before Miss Androgynous warns against it, wrangling me back into place.

  I’m weak, hella lethargic and generally running at half capacity, but I’m more concerned about the fact I can’t remember what the hell happened to me. Clooney’s asking me questions, simple questions, about my life, but answers are few and far between. It’s like they’re hovering there in my head just out of reach. I remember who I am, things from the past, but more recent events escape me. I’m not sure I even believe him that I was knocked out by Joe Fucking Pearson.

  Clooney has returned to my bedside with a folder of papers, smiling his gummy grin. “Your brothers tell me you’re quite the mathematician.”

  “I am?” I question, genuinely surprised.

  He selects a sheet of paper from the folder and hands it to me. “Look familiar?”

  I take it. It’s a common geometry problem known as Langley’s Adventitious Angles. The solution involves drawing one additional line. I scribble out a rough answer, announcing, “And thus BEF equals thirty degrees.”

  Clooney smiles. “Wonderful. He points to the main triangle. Perhaps you can tell me what kind of triangle this is?”

  I’m tempted to tell him to fuck right off until I stare at the triangle and realize, much to my horror, I do not have a clue what it’s actually called. “I, uh…”

  “Take your time,” he says, his calm demeanor only infuriating me more because I just showed him how to solve ‘the hardest easy’ geometry problem yet I can’t correctly identify one simple triangle.

  “Fuck,” I stammer, shaking the paper in front of me hoping for what? That the answer’s going to magically tumble out of it?

  Clooney takes the paper from me. “It’s fine, Titus.” He tucks the paper away in his folder and takes a seat beside the bed. “I’m sure it’s quite obvious to you now, and certainly confirmed by our testing today, that you have amnesia.”

  “Amnesia?” I try to recall everything I know about it, but all I drum up is dumb plots from bad TV soaps.

  “Yes, it’s difficult to say how severe, or when—if—your memory might return, but it’s important you understand what is happening. Do you understand?”

  “That some asshole pitched a baseball into my head and knocked out half its contents? Yeah, I kind of got that part.”

  And now a real smile from Clooney. “Well, that’s one way to put it. From my observations it seems like your long-term memory is fine, mostly, but the last several months seem to be something of a blank. ‘Patchy’ is how I would describe it.”

  “In your medical opinion?” I taunt.

  Another smile. “That’s right.”

  Two people appear in the doorway, Clooney rising to greet them. “Ah, Mr. King, Mrs. King. I’ll let you have some time.” He turns back to me. “We’ll talk later, Titus.”

  He leaves and Dad and Alissa enter, the latter looking suitably overdressed for the occasion in heels so high they might as well be stilts. I guess when you’re wife number ten you’ve got to make yourself stand out. I’m surprised she’s lasted twenty-three months, especially given she’s only a few years older than me.

  You remembered, I tell myself. You’ve forgotten everything except good ol’ Alissa.
Just dandy.

  They approach the bedside together, Dad leaning over and taking my shoulder Clooney style. “Son, it’s so good to see you awake. How are you doing?”

  “I can’t remember most of what happened in, I don’t know, three or four months, been sleeping my ass off while the world turned for the last four weeks… Guess you can say I’m doing peachy, Dad.”

  And there’s that signature King concern my father’s so famous for. He usually reserves it for the sidelines. It’s far less effective here. “You don’t remember anything before the accident?”

  “Bits and pieces.”

  That much is true. I’m getting fragments of memories, but they’re broken and jagged and do not want to fit together no matter how much I will it. To say it’s intensely frustrating would be an understatement.

  Dad shares a look with Alissa, though I’m not sure exactly what her blank, goldfish stare back is supposed to communicate other than ‘Did you say something?’

  Dad returns to me. “They say you can come home tomorrow if you want. You’re physically fine, that lump on your head looking a hell of a lot better than the grapefruit you came in here with. So, what do you say?”

  “We can hire him a nurse,” Alissa pipes up. She sounds almost excited by the prospect.

  Both Dad and I stare at her.

  “I don’t need a damn nurse,” I protest. “I’m fine.”

  I can see the cogs ticking over in her head. She’s so eager to please, to be something other than an ornament at my father’s side. “What about a tutor?”

  “A tutor?” Dad and I ask in tandem.

  She’s beaming, thinks she’s stumbled onto the World’s Best Idea. “They can help with your college work, maybe help you get your memory back too?”

  I want to cut her down, but I don’t have either the energy or an actual good reason why a tutor would be a bad idea per se.

  I can see Dad’s caught in the same conundrum. “We’ll see.”

  Alissa won’t let it go, determined to help and please her sugar daddy. She’s actually tugging on his shirt like a toddler. “We have to go back to the city, he’ll have company, someone there to talk to, help him catch up on what he’s missed, and there would be a lot, right? The doctor said he’s been struggling.”