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

by Teagan Kade

I start the car, pushing in the clutch and shifting out of neutral. “Like I said, I’ve been through worse.” Truer words were never spoken.

  He pushes off my car, walking backwards to his own. “Coffee then, tomorrow, and don’t worry, I know where to find you.”

  “Yeah,” I laugh, “just look for the bad-ass racoon.”

  I wind up my window and give him a short wave, wonder how this night went so wrong so fast, or is it right? I should stick with my policy of ignoring him because I know, deep down, nothing good will come of leading him on, but at the least he deserves my thanks.

  Maybe that will be enough.

  CHAPTER THREE

  PHOENIX

  It wasn’t my intention to creep Heather the fuck out last night, but she was lucky I was there. Might even be fate if I was that way inclined. I wasn’t joking, either. If I find that asshole who mugged her, I’m going to string him up by his balls from the campus flagpole.

  Today I got a smile when I rolled up to Heather’s station in the dining hall. Two black eyes and graze that looked a lot more gnarly in the daylight, and yet that smile overrode it all. She tried to maintain her usual air of indifference, but it slipped when I mentioned our date. I certainly noticed the bottle blonde behind me raising a quizzical eyebrow at it.

  “I’m a woman of my word,” Heather told me, spooning what I really hoped was ratatouille onto my plate.

  I couldn’t help my eyes dropping to take in her tight body. “That you are… a woman.”

  She just shook her head, but I could see the smile playing there, that inner charm waiting to be let off the leash.

  So now it’s four, classes wrapping up for the day and here I am sitting with her in the somewhat new chocolate shop-slash-café that’s opened on Main Street.

  Heather sits opposite me at the small table in the windowfront wearing a Sex Pistols tee reading ‘Never Mind the Bollocks’, and matching jeans that have been distressed through sheer use, not bought that way off a rack. She pauses to stoop forward in her chair, pulling her auburn hair into a ponytail and tying it off with a rubber band previously wrapped around her wrist. Most Crestfall girls I know wouldn’t be caught dead using office supplies as hair accessories, but Heather pulls it off. She looks so comfortable, so herself sitting there in the low afternoon light.

  “What?” she asks, catching me staring.

  She looks down at her tee. “You a fan of the Sex Pistols or breasts?”

  “Both,” I confess, leaning back and noting the cheesy instrumental jazz this place has playing on repeat. “Why? Do you like the Pistols for the music or are you simply anti-establishment?”

  She laughs at that. It’s light and airy and perfect, the sound of life. “I’m more taken by punk’s do-it-yourself attitude. Times have moved on, but the core issues remain and, at least from my experience, you want something done, something changed, you do. It. Yourself.” She punctuates this by tapping the table in time.

  “I’m sure you know,” I tell her, “the Pistols album actually sold very little upon its release in the States, but it kept on selling, trickling in and in until it finally reached gold status in ’87.”

  “You trying to show me how cultured and smart you are, or you genuinely trying to make a point about playing the long game?”

  “What makes you think I’m uncultured?” I fire back. “Because I play basketball and act the part?”

  “So it’s an act, is it?”

  “Sometimes.”

  She whistles. “Deep.”

  This hasn’t started off how I’d hoped. I wasn’t expecting her to slip into my pocket, but I wasn’t expecting such resistance either. I’d have better luck conversing with a brick wall.

  Mercifully, a waitress arrives with our drinks, mistakenly handing Heather my cappuccino and me her black. I switch them around when she’s gone, looking to Heather.

  “You want to know about me? Sure,” I tell her. “I can barely bring myself to pick up a basketball these days. It bores me, it’s dull, and the only reason I check the clock is to find out when the damn thing’s over. That’s the honest truth and you’re the first person to hear it. I have all these expectations on me to sign to a team, play in the NBA, but honestly? It sounds like a prison sentence.”

  Heather’s still eyeing me with suspicion, but I sense I’m inching forward. “So what do you want to do then?”

  I throw my hands up. “Beats me, and you? Because as novel as the dining hall seems, I’m pretty sure you’re not looking at a long-term career there.”

  She picks up her coffee, lips red and plump placed on the rim, a light stain of lip gloss left behind. “Right you are.”

  But she doesn’t elaborate. She’s holding back and I don’t know why. Sometimes the only way through a brick wall is with brute force. I lean over the table holding my coffee with both hands. “I like you, obviously, but I get the sense the feeling’s not mutual.”

  “Again, right you are.”

  “Why?” I push. “You honestly going to judge me because of who I am, because of a surname and one I’d happily go without if given the choice?”

  She places her coffee down and exhales, looking into it before lifting her eyes to meet mine. I notice they’re the same chestnut color as the vintage wallpaper behind her. “You want honesty? I like honestly and I can tell you I don’t like the fact I somehow, god knows why, seem to like you. I mean, I’ve heard you guys are persistent, that Pistols album just slowly chipping away at the prize, but you don’t know who I am, Phoenix King. You don’t know where I’ve come from.”

  “So tell me. Tell me everything about your life down to the last detail, because I genuinely want to know.”

  She relaxes. I see it in her posture, the way her shoulders drop. “I don’t hide who I am. I had a shit time growing up. I came from an abusive home where the next hit meant more to my parents than my wellbeing. I ran away from that shithole when I was fifteen, lived rough for a few years until I got friendly with the owner of this soup kitchen I used to frequent. He took me under his wing, helped me get a leg up on life, and here I am, warts and all.” She pats her chest as if to solidify the point, but all I’m seeing is a beautiful, strong woman I want in with—under, on top, inside, every which way.

  She lifts her butt off the seat, turning it sideways to show me. “See? No silver spoon stuck up there.”

  I can’t take my eyes off it. “No. It would appear not.”

  She resumes drinking her coffee. “I don’t need to hear about your life to know we’re worlds apart.”

  “I’m not sure we are,” I fire back. “So different, that is.”

  “You’ve lived on the streets then, gone without a solid meal for days, shivered so hard one night you thought your teeth were going to fall out?”

  There was a time my brothers locked me outside in the middle of winter because they wanted to find the porn stash in my room, but I don’t think Heather would appreciate the comparison. “No, but—”

  She laughs. “Like, what could you possibly say that could compare? Daddy didn’t buy you a Porsche? You missed out on dessert one night? Gulfstream didn’t have enough fuel to make it to Spring Break in Los Cabos?”

  “It was San Miguel, actually.”

  She slaps her hand on table. “I rest my case.”

  It’s pointless trying to argue this, because I know she’ll win out every time. And she’s right. What can I complain about, really?

  I sip at my coffee, need a moment to think. I place it down and turn it slightly to the left on the saucer. I lock her gaze. “Alright, so we come from different worlds, but I don’t see that as a reason to deny our attraction.”

  She’s quiet, unmoved. I don’t know how to take it, so I continue on. “Give me a chance. That’s all I’m asking.”

  “So you can seduce me with your game theory, Neil Strauss BS? You might like what you see, think I’m maybe a little kinkier than your regular fare given my nose ring and tatts, think maybe I’ll peg you or tie
you up.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “Would you?”

  She breaks composure just a smidge, enough to know I have a chance, small as it is, here. “Anally penetrate you with a strap-on dildo?”

  She says it loud enough to catch the attention of half the café, though I’m pretty sure her sudden rise in volume was deliberate. She bounces her head from side to side. “Guess it could be kind of fun turning the tables.”

  “No, tie me up.”

  She nods slowly. “Oh, I wouldn’t mind that either. Maybe just tie you up and leave you to all those bleeding broken hearts, let them have their wicked way with you.”

  “What makes you think I’ve broken hearts?” I ask.

  “Call it the dangerous glint in your eye, that mark of the hunter. Trust me, when you’ve lived like I have lived you get to recognize it real fast.”

  “You still haven’t answered my question. Tomorrow evening, a real date. What do you say? Let me change your mind, break up that cliché you seem to have attached me to.”

  “What’s in it for me?

  And I get a glimpse of her with cuffs in hand, nothing but a pair of suspenders and that killer look she seems to have mistakenly seen in myself. “Life experience, scintillating conversation, a good meal.”

  God, even with two black eyes and road rash she looks adorable, all that pent-up anger and sexual frustration just waiting to be released, simmering under the surface. “I never say no to a good meal,” she replies.

  I bet, my head interjects, but this isn’t the time for innuendo. “It’s settled then.”

  “I suppose it is,” she replies.

  I keep cool, but instead I’m doing cartwheels knowing this is almost a sure thing. I may tire of her like the rest, get my fill, but it will be nothing if not interesting.

  “Are you going to break my heart, Phoenix King?”

  “Do you have one?”

  She pulls back like I’ve mortally wounded her. “Ouch, and here I was thinking you might actually be more than a walking, talking penis.”

  It’s harmless banter, I know, but it’s a good sign. “Where do you want to go?”

  She places a finger on her lips, fingernails a mix of pink and green. “In this town? Anywhere but the diner.”

  I breathe in. “Well, that doesn’t leave many options, I’m afraid. We might have to go further afield.”

  She smiles. “Guess you better fuel up the Gulfstream then.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  HEATHER

  Early morning and the sun is still low in the sky. Most people are still sleeping. I’ve learnt the early bird doesn’t necessarily get the worm, but it sure as hell can cram a lot more into a day.

  Some would call this part of town the ‘wrong side of the tracks,’ given the literal train tracks that divide the town, but it’s home enough for me.

  Gordy’s house is an old Craftsman made of mixed stone with a wide porch I spent way too much time dreaming on when I was younger. He’s the one who owned the soup kitchen, who took me in and finally provided that father figure I’d never had.

  He pulls the door wide with his signature smile. “Heather! What a nice surprise? Come on through.”

  Something smells amazing, but that’s Gordy for you. He’s always been an incredible cook—also the reason he’s pushing three-hundred pounds these days. Six-foot-six to match, he’s always been quite the imposing figure, but now he’s nothing short of a giant.

  He directs me to a chair at the kitchen table, darting over to the stove. “Let me just get these eggs off the heat. You’re staying for breakfast, right?”

  “Well—” I start to protest, but I see him serving me up a plate regardless.

  “You know what the secret to a good Hollandaise sauce is?”

  I do. He taught me. “Handheld immersion blender,” I reply. “It provides enough heat to temper the egg yolks and voila, keeping in mind to add the butter slowly.”

  He turns around still beaming that smile that seems to draw everyone to him. That’s what I’ve always loved about Gordy. You can’t help but be swept up by his soft, gentle nature, his endless positivity. “That’s my girl.”

  Technically, we’re not related, but I do consider him my surrogate father of sorts. When I showed up to the soup kitchen he ran, he never pressed me or thrust a bible in my hand, never had any other agenda than making sure I was fed and looked after. Soon I was the one doing the serving… then the cooking… then staying in the granny flat down the back of his place, completely free of charge. I owe him more than he can ever imagine and yet he asks for nothing. That’s the kind of man Gordy Yates is. I don’t know where I’d be if he hadn’t taken me under his wing.

  He sets a plate before me loaded with enough Eggs Benedict for a small family, but I won’t waste a morsel. I know better than that. “Bon appétit,” he says. “You got a shift at the Academy today?”

  I nod dig in, trying my best to talk through mouthfuls. “Any word on the soup kitchen?”

  A month ago the state funding for Gordy’s soup kitchen was stripped away, and so was the lease on the building. The whole reason I’m working at Crestfall is to save enough money with some of the others from the kitchen to buy a food truck or space so we can get back to helping people.

  Gordy doesn’t turn around, looking out the kitchen window. “As far as the Powers That Be are concerned, no, we won’t be seeing any funding, but the upside is we don’t need a building, a brick and mortar place to help those in need.”

  As positive as Gordy is, it can be hard to help him see the obvious sometimes. “We don’t?”

  Now he turns, seating himself at the table opposite me and the poor Windsor chair he’s sitting on openly groaning in discontent. He taps his chest. “The soup kitchen is an idea, an ideal, and it lives in here, in all of us.”

  I try to tread carefully, stabbing at an egg. “True, but doesn’t it help to have a physical location where people can come to?”

  He smacks his hand on the table. “We could set it up right here in the house, do it old school.”

  I doubt the Powers That Be would be open to such a compromise, but I don’t vocalize my thoughts.

  He reaches over and places his hand on mine. “Look, Heather, I know why you’re working at the sports academy. I know you and the other guys are trying to put together money for a truck, and I appreciate it, I really do, but that money should go to you. You should keep it, enjoy yourself. You deserve it.”

  Enjoy myself—there’s a foreign concept.

  Bet Phoenix King could help with that, my head interjects. I ignore it.

  “You helped me get my GED,” I tell him, “get financing for culinary school. I think it’s time I gave back to you.”

  He pulls back shaking his head. “You’re too kind for this world, Heather. I hope you realize that.”

  I keep eating. “As you yourself like to tell me, kindness is a gift everyone can afford to give.”

  “Amen.”

  He picks up his fork and knife and digs in himself. For such a large man, he stills eats like an old nanna, bite by bite, chewing thoroughly. There’s a properness about him that belies his giant stature.

  “Say you were to get this truck happening,” he starts. “How would it work?”

  Now we’re talking. I act casual. “We’re still several thousand short of being able to buy the equipment we’d need, so I’d say it’s a tentative project at the moment, but we’re determined to see it through.”

  “And how’s life, generally? I haven’t seen you for what, a week, and here you come in looking like you’ve been five rounds with Ronda Rousey.”

  I’d totally forgotten about the black eyes, but like I said, Gordy’s never been one to push. “I was mugged, actually.”

  He drops his fork, immediate concern flooding into his face. “You were what? Did you call the police? Did they find him? How bad are you hurt?”

  I lift up my knife hand, holding a couple of fingers out. “I’m fine, Gord
y, honestly, and yes, I put in a report with campus security. They’re looking into it.”

  “But—”

  “I’m fine,” I reiterate. “It’s not like there was much in my bag worth a damn—five dollars at most, a packet of gum. Besides, someone was there to help me, wanted to go running after the mugger, in fact.”

  “Oh?”

  I chew over how much to tell Gordy, but we’ve always had an honest and open relationship. That’s another one of his sayings: Honest hearts produce honest actions. “You might know him—Phoenix King. He’s like a big basketball player on campus.”

  Gordy places down his utensils. “Did you say ‘King’?”

  “Yeah. Is something wrong?”

  Gordy places his hands together, but I don’t think we’re about to pray given the increasing concern I’m seeing. “You know, I went to Crestfall in my heyday.”

  I’ve heard this story many times. “You were the best linebacker they’d ever seen, before you blew your knee.”

  “That’s right.” He looks down at himself. “I wasn’t always like this. Some have even said I was quite the looker in those glory days.”

  “So I hear.”

  He waves his hand. “Anyhow, Stone King was the team’s quarterback.”

  “Phoenix’s father? You were in school with him?”

  “I was and I know a lot about the sports legacy that’s attached to that name. You know it’s unlike me to speak ill of anyone, but it was well known what the King name meant back then, and I don’t imagine much has changed now. You’ve probably heard the rumors, but I saw it with my own eyes.”

  This is unlike Gordy. “What are you trying to tell me?”

  He exhales. “Boys like that, Heather, they have a reputation. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

  “I never even said I liked him.”

  All Gordy has to do is raise an eyebrow.

  I roll my eyes. “Fine, I’ll be careful. Yes, I know he’s a player, a bad boy, but nothing’s going to happen. Trust me.”

  He leans forward and places a reassuring hand on my shoulder. It’s like someone’s dumped a load of bricks there. “I do, always. You know that.”