The Penalty Box

by Teagan Kade

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  COPYRIGHT

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  ALSO BY TEAGAN KADE:

  DEDICATION

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  EPILOGUE

  EPILOGUE II

  Teagan Kade

  * * * * *

  Published by Teagan Kade

  Edited by Sennah Tate

  Copyright © 2020 by Teagan Kade

  COPYRIGHT

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

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  ALSO BY TEAGAN KADE:

  HOT SHOT

  BRINGING IT HOME

  THROW DOWN

  THE LIFEGUARD

  LONG SCHLONG SILVER

  LIFE SUPPORT

  TROUSER SNAKE

  THE ROYAL TREATMENT

  BALLSY

  HOT PANTS

  SAVAGE

  VICE

  RECKLESS

  PUCK BUDDIES

  FERAL

  WINTER MIRACLE

  ADAGIO

  BRUTE

  BLAZE

  HUSTLE

  LAWLESS

  LONG GAME

  DEDICATION

  To all my King fans, thanks for the journey.

  CHAPTER ONE

  NOLAN

  A guy wearing nothing but a pizza box walks past. He starts hitting on a girl with a skirt made out of condom wrappers—surprisingly, a fairly cliché choice for a party like this.

  The Anything but Clothes party is a Crestfall classic. I’ve attended my fair share, but now, as a senior, I’ve seen it all before. That includes the short blonde in a life jacket and her friend in a bra of hundred-dollar bills.

  I’ve gone for the beach towel. It’s simple, effective, and easy to remove should the situation call for it. But I’m not feeling it tonight. There was a time we’d head out together, the twins and me, Peyton once or twice if we could pull him away from the mirror. These days all three of them are too busy with their better halves for juvenile shit like this. In many ways I’m looking forward to leaving this place.

  “Nolan King.”

  I let my eyes drop to a mousy brunette who’s speaking to my abs. She’s wrapped in a Twister mat, points to the blue circle over her left breast. “Your turn, if you want it.”

  Pass, I reply internally, winking instead. “Another time.” I press off the wall and move back into the main throng of the party. Someone’s spinning up Toosie Slide by Brake, dancers doing their best to look simultaneously slick yet apathetic.

  “I’m, like, really flexible,” comes the shout of desperation from Twister girl.

  I keep moving until I end up at the back of the loungeroom. I pull up next to Clay, our team goalie. He’s gone with the old duct-tape wrap. Given what I’ve seen in the locker room, the poor bastard’s going to be screaming blue murder tearing that shit off.

  “See anything that takes your fancy, King?” he asks, scanning the crowd.

  I breathe out and slowly shake my head. “Just a whole lot of STDs and regret.”

  He elbows me, beer sloshing out of his Solo cup. “Jesus, lighten up, Holden Caulfield.”

  “A Catcher in the Rye reference? Fuck me. And here I was thinking all you were good for is catching hockey pucks.”

  “And pussy,” he corrects me, with a wagging finger. “Lots of pussy.”

  I nod downwards. “If you can even get your dick free of all that duct tape.”

  He takes my shoulder, smiling. “Hey, you know what Coach says, ‘Weakness becomes my weapon, and pain my pleasure.’”

  “He was talking about working out, not waxing your balls,” I tell him, spotting Twister girl again and doing my best to slink deeper into the shadows—not an easy task considering the place is lit up like Las Vegas.

  I’m pretty sure Clay is a few sandwiches short of a picnic, but he’s harmless enough. I don’t know where I’ll end up next year, but I’ll miss the boys—the entire team.

  A girl I recognize from the track squad stops in front of Clay, the cling wrap she’s wearing leaving little to the imagination. Her hands glide over Clay’s chest. “It’s like you’re a big birthday present,” she chirps.

  Who the fuck wraps birthday presents in duct tape? I want to ask her, but I bite my tongue.

  Clay side-glances to me before grinning back to her. “I’m all yours for the unwrapping, baby.” He takes her hand. “Shall we?”

  They go off, Track Girl giggling away. I have to laugh thinking about the poor thing dealing with all that duct tape, Clay messing with the cling wrap in return. It will probably be sun-up before either one is naked.

  I watch the crowd and once again get the feeling I’m past this. Unlike my dear brothers, I haven’t slept my way through Crestfall. Some say I’m the odd King out, that my shy and reserved demeanor doesn’t suit the surname, but I think it’s a strength. I don’t want a series of quick flings I’m going to forget the following morning. I want something real and lasting, an actual relationship. I’d never openly admit it, of course. That would be high treason around our household.

  I think of the kind of relationship my father and mother had. I hated it as a kid, thought their constant tongue-wrestling and pinches on the ass were disgusting, but now I look back at what they had with a kind of deep-seated envy. Even though Dad’s been with Alissa for a number of years now, he’s admitted to me many times, even in front of Alissa, he’d still be with Mom if she hadn’t died.

  I indulge in the occasional hookup, have had a couple of relationships—a loose definition of the term—but nothing has ever felt like ‘it’ before. Nothing has been ‘the one’.

  And you think you know what ‘it’ is? I ask myself.

  I wouldn’t have the faintest fucking idea.

  “You look like you could use a drink.”

  I hadn’t noticed the girl in front of me. Her hand’s extended out with a wine glass.

  I take the glass cautiously. “Is this wine?”

  “Franzia, actually, so it’s hard to say, but you don’t strike me as the jungle juice type.”

 
I look over to the bowl of said beverage in the corner filled with god knows what. “You can say that again.”

  I sip slowly and get a better look at my mystery guest. She’s wearing an impressive dress made of fake flowers that runs diagonally across her body, a hint of skin here and there, haunting jade eyes made only brighter thanks to the downlights above. She seems at once familiar and not. I can’t place her. “Do we know each other?” I ask.

  She extends her hand. “Linnea Marsden.”

  I take it and shake, surprised how soft her skin is, the warmth below the surface where we meet.

  “And you are Nolan King, naturally,” she finishes.

  “My reputation proceeds me?”

  “Well, you’re hot stuff on the ice.”

  “And off it?” I question.

  Her eyes narrow. “The Batman of Crestfall.”

  I have to laugh. “How’s that?”

  She surveys me, doesn’t hide the fact she’s checking out every exposed inch of me. “You know, dark and broody and mysterious.”

  “I don’t spend my life holed up in a cave. The mancave that is the King house, maybe, but I think you’ve got me all wrong, Linnea Marsden.”

  It’s an unusual name, and again there’s that ding of familiarity. But I’d remember those eyes.

  “It’s Swedish, if you’re wondering.”

  “Sorry?”

  “My name. People often ask.”

  And it’s not the fact I’m standing here in nothing but a towel that’s got me feeling buck naked. “You’re a senior?”

  She nods, sipping on her wine, the way her lips linger on the rim of the glass strangely erotic. “That’s right. Do you want to guess what sport I play?”

  “I’m not into games.”

  “Says Crestfall’s star ice hockey player. Humor me.”

  I study her back and it’s not a hard thing to do. She’s tall, almost eye to eye with me, in itself a little disconcerting, with a confidence and air about her that’s throwing me way off kilter. “Long jump.”

  “I don’t like sand up my ass, sorry.”

  Where did this girl come from? I look around half expecting her flying saucer to be parked outside. “I take it beach volleyball is off the cards then.”

  “You’d need to be near an actual beach for that. Try the team sports.”

  “Soccer.”

  “I like to use my hands.”

  “Lacrosse?”

  “Too hoity-toity.”

  “Basketball.”

  She pretends to shoot me. “Got it. Think of me like a female Charles Barkley…but with boobs and a better attitude.”

  “So, you’re a—what? Power forward, aggressive, intense on the floor? Start the occasional brawl?”

  She plays coy, left shoulder tilting towards me. “I’ve been known to get a little competitive—a trait I imagine we both share.”

  “Mmm,” I mumble, still unsure how to take this one. But I am intrigued. She called me mysterious, but I get the same sense from her, that she’s a puzzle I want to dig into and play around with myself, mess with until all the pieces fall into place—or apart.

  “This doesn’t seem like your kind of party, Charles,” I tease.

  She looks behind herself at a girl twerking in what appears to be a Victoria’s Secret shopping bag. “Ah, no. It’s my first ABC party, actually.”

  Another surprise. “You’re a senior and you’ve never been to an ABC party?”

  “Any party, to be more precise.”

  “What, are you Moaning Myrtle, holed up in girls’ bathroom all this time?”

  She smiles at that. “I appreciate a man who knows his Harry Potter, but no. Unlike some, I came to one of the best sports academies in America to, you know, play my fucking sport.”

  The cussing takes me further off guard. I’ve got zero idea what to make of her at this stage. “So why now? Why tonight?” I ask.

  “Thought I may as well go to one, tick it off my collegiate bucket list, so to speak.”

  “Dare I ask what else is on this list?”

  “Let’s just say the night is young.” She holds up her glass. “Now, escort me to the kitchen. I need a refill.”

  I’m not used to being bossed around, but I can’t seem to say no, either. It’s that curiosity which has me hooked here. Everything she says, her hand movements and quirky nature, draw me in. She sits up on the counter in the kitchen like she owns the place, keeps the conversation going. I notice bruising on her knees, which probably proves her previous point she likes to be assertive on the court.

  Or bedroom, my head adds.

  I discover she lives off campus with her mother, has a wealthy father she’s not close with. Soon after, she turns the questioning back onto me and I find myself oddly floundering in her presence.

  “Don’t tell me I’m making the mighty Nolan King nervous,” she pouts, placing her wine glass down emptied for the third time. I haven’t checked my watch, but we must have been at this an hour or more now.

  “Put a hockey stick in my hand, ice under my feet, and I’ll be just fine,” I retort.

  “Pad you up like a giant tampon too?”

  I place my hands either side of her thighs on the counter, lean in. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were fucking with me, Linnea Marsden.”

  “Do you want to?”

  I’m confused. “What?”

  “Fuck,” she replies casually, though loud enough for a few nearby eyebrows to be raised.

  I lower my voice, leaning back. “You’re funny.”

  Her expression doesn’t change, those emerald eyes locked on and loaded. “I’m quite serious. I want to have sex. With you,” she adds.

  I swallow. “What, here?” It’s the first thing I think to say in lieu of something more profound. I’m still trying to get over the shock.

  “I’d prefer somewhere without sticky floors and a puke bucket, so my place? I’ll come first, if you don’t mind.”

  I can barely think straight, but I’m not entirely resistant to the idea. “Ah, sure, I guess.”

  She pushes herself off the counter so we’re standing face to face, leaning in to whisper at my ear. “Don’t worry. I give a great blowjob.”

  I can’t tell if she’s kidding or not.

  My cock hardens in my pants and I know I need to get the hell out of here now before I become a walking erection.

  I barely have time to place my glass down before she’s tugging me through the house. She’s pulled a cell from somewhere in the fake flower dress, texting away rapidly.

  We emerge outside and I’m tugged up to the curb, my heart starting to thump a harder. This is not the turn of events I imagined tonight. This is not how I roll.

  She holds the cell up to me. “Uber will be here in one minute. Anything you want to ask me now? ’Cause once we get to my place that mouth of yours won’t have time for talking.”

  I can’t help smiling. “Uh… You sure this is what you want?”

  She shifts to stand in front of me. “Let me tell you one thing about me, Nolan King. I know what I want and I go the hell after it, and right now I want you, between my legs. Is that simple enough for you?”

  I nod, can’t even dream up a reply that wouldn’t sound sleazy. I almost feel like I should reply, ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  The Uber arrives, Linnea holding the rear door open. “Well, what are you waiting for?”

  I get in, Linnea sliding in beside me and pulling the door closed, the fake flowers crinkling against the leather. “Step on it,” she tells the driver, watching me. “My friend here has somewhere he needs to be.”

  And given the way she’s spreading her legs on the back seat, nothing fake about what I see between them, I know exactly where that is.

  CHAPTER TWO

  LINNEA

  I open my eyes and breathe in, can already feel the welcome mass of a male body beside me in bed.

  I smile because yes, it’s going to be a beautiful day.

&n
bsp; I press up onto my elbows. There’s a framed picture of Michael Jordan on the opposite wall from the end of the bed. He’s holding a basketball underarm, smiling back as if to say ‘My man.’

  “Or woman,” I correct, Nolan remaining blissfully asleep while I silently lose my mind.

  I sit up straighter and the sheet falls away from my breasts, warm, morning light cutting across the bed.

  Even a bad boy like Nolan King can sleep like a baby, I muse. That’s not really fair, though. All the King brothers have a reputation, but you don’t tend to hear too much of Nolan’s escapades. Perhaps that’s what drew me to him—the mystique and mystery. I’ve always been obsessed with discovering how things work. Every toy my parents bought me I’d pull apart, much to their chagrin. Magic tricks? I just had to know the secret.

  As for Nolan, seems he knows a few tricks himself given last night. That sensation still lingers between my legs. I smile wider at the memory of him sliding into me, his thick length filling me like never before, hitting places no toy has ever reached. So one rumor, at least, is true.

  I like to come, but the Nolan King experience was something else—something new.

  And boy do I love new.

  I notice a bulge under the sheets and consider waking him with my mouth, but his eyes flicker open, Caribbean blue and so inviting. He sees me and there’s a moment of surprise as he realizes where he is before his face settles and his eyes shift to my breasts, lit hot white by the window light.

  He places an arm behind his head, a dark knot of hair under his arm, bicep ballooning against his ear. I noticed the tattoo last night, but illuminated by day it appears more detailed and intricate. Everything about his body does. The possibilities of exploring it further send a flicker of heat licking its way up my inner thigh.

  “Tell me I’m dreaming,” he says, voice gravelly, a grit to it that sends the flicker further.

  “You’re dreaming,” I reply.

  He gives a light laugh. “In that case, I don’t want to wake up,” he says, eyes dropping again. “Not with a view like that.”

  I look down. “I imagine you’ve seen your share of breasts. They’re not that special.”

  Even as I’m speaking the words, my nipples harden, the warmth of the window light turning them a vibrant, coral pink.