Lessons in Heartbreak: Chapter 2

How many almost-thirty-three-year-old professional athletes got their asses grounded by their agents?

Not many, I’ll tell you that.

Oh sure, he told me over and over that I wasn’t grounded when he sent me away for three weeks to his big fucking house in some tiny town outside Fort Collins, Colorado. He told me over and over that it was for my own good, that I should go somewhere quieter, get some rest, stay out of the public eye. He told me over and over that I’d end up appreciating the peace and quiet.

I didn’t believe him the first time he said it. Didn’t believe him the third or fourth time he said it.

And it took me exactly thirty-six hours before I was bored out of my skull.

Obviously, there were people in the world who would love this shit. A big-ass house to themselves, sprawling land all around, mountains in the distance, green fields, unobstructed views of the sunsets. I’m sure those people would do things like read books and nap and cook meals. They’d probably meditate and become one with nature, deep-breathing while they cleared their minds of everything that was troubling them.

My first attempt at meditation lasted less than a minute. There was no slowing my thoughts. No centering of anything.

In fact, the attempt just made me feel like I was crawling out of my skin, immediately sending me downstairs, in the direction of his home gym, where I worked out until my muscles shook. Then I searched all the cupboards, wandered through the bedrooms, lay on the big couch and tried flipping through one of the many books lining the shelves of the two-story family room with the gorgeous mountain views, and generally wondered exactly how much money my agent made.

After tossing the book onto the floor, I pulled out my phone and brought up his contact information.

Me:Your house is nicer than mine.

Steven:That’s because my wife has excellent taste and no problem spending the money I make.

Me:That sounds like something you should bring up with a marriage counselor.

Steven:Oh, I’m not complaining. She spent a fortune on lingerie last week after I finalized your new deal with Nike. She loves you just as much as she loves me right now.

Me:It’s my deal, but you’re the one getting laid and buying the giant house. Why do I feel like something’s wrong here?

Steven:You’re also the one who ran his mouth to the press about his brother now coaching in the division in which you played. Maybe if you’d refrained from doing that, you wouldn’t have to disappear for a few weeks to let it die down. Or change teams, for that matter.

The scowl appeared on my face before I could stop it.

The truth of both things sat like a rock in my gut. Changing teams wasn’t ideal, but I’d been unhappy in New York for years—friction with a new coach, and an owner who looked at me like a show pony instead of someone who could actually help lead the team—and Denver had a huge amount of space in their salary cap and a weak left side on their defensive line.

Not only that, but Denver was in not just a different division but also a different conference from the one I’d left. The one my brother now coached in.

And I really, really didn’t want to have to play my asshole brother twice a year for the rest of my career—hence the running of the mouth.

One interview over some drinks, and I got a little too comfortable with the woman on the other side of the table. It wasn’t like she’d tricked me; the mic was sitting right in between us, plain as fucking day, and because we’d spent the previous fifteen minutes laughing about something completely unrelated to the interview, my guard was down.

“So your brother will be coaching your divisional rival now. How’s that gonna feel? You two haven’t gotten along in years.”

And she’d asked it so smoothly, like we were just talking as best friends.

“It’ll feel like a fucking root canal,” I’d said offhandedly. “With no numbing shot.”

“That bad?”

“Worse.”

She hummed. “I have a sister like that. We fought like cats and dogs growing up because we were only a year apart and constantly in each other’s business. Was it like that with the famous King twins when you were still at home?”

A derisive laugh slipped past my lips before I could stop it. “No. Growing up, we were inseparable, even though we were complete opposites. Always competitive, of course. But most brothers are.”

The rift had crept up slowly. Unnoticeable at first. Healthy competition through high school was honed into something sharper in college. Less comfortable. If he showed up to the weight room an hour before he was supposed to be there, I started showing up two hours before.

If I did conditioning six days a week, he started doing it seven.

Everyone around us fed into that competitive streak—starting most innocently with our father, then our coaches and our teammates. If the saying was true, that iron sharpened iron, then my brother and I were made of something even harder than that.

The difference was, everyone saw him as the disciplined one, despite the fact that I was toe to toe with him the entire time.

Not that there weren’t times I’d made regrettable choices, but no matter how I changed, my brother and I were firmly cast in our respective roles, and there seemed to be no changing that.

“Can you do that”—she motioned to her temples—“twin-telepathy thing?”

Briefly, I arched an eyebrow. “I don’t think I’d want to read my brother’s mind even if I could.”

The thought of being privy to Barrett’s thoughts made me shudder. It was probably all spreadsheets and statistics and to-do lists, and so fucking regimented that I’d lose my grip on my sanity after about ten minutes.

He’d probably say the same of me. But if we had been able to read each other’s minds, maybe we’d still be speaking now, I thought with a tight swallow.

Falling in love with the same woman had a tendency to split even the closest of brothers apart.

Difference was, my brother married her. Had a couple of kids with her. Had the unfortunate task of discovering she was a narcissistic attention-seeker who’d thought the eldest King brother could do a better job of tending to her emotional needs.

When he didn’t, after years of coming second to his demanding job as a head coach and deciding the tedium of motherhood wasn’t for her, Rachel attempted to come back to me.

Even though she was wearing a see-through bra to showcase her latest, very successful surgical enhancement, a thong so delicate it would snap with very little effort, and those thigh-high garter things I had a particular weakness for, I slammed the door to my penthouse in her stunned face after hustling her out of the kitchen.

Less than a minute later, a brisk knock had me yanking it back open, expecting to find Rachel.

And I did. But my brother was right next to her.

“Didn’t expect to see my wife getting into the elevator on your floor, Griffin,” Barrett said in a low, dangerous voice. Behind him, Rachel crossed her arms tightly across her chest and slicked her tongue over her teeth.

“You might want to keep a tracking device on her,” I said, leaning my shoulder against the doorframe. “But I’m guessing you won’t like what you find if you do.”

Rachel stepped forward, eyes blazing. “You son of a bitch.”

I whistled. “That’s not nice. You weren’t calling me names when you tried to undress in my kitchen.”

“Fuck you, Griffin.” She cut a look over to her husband. “Expect papers from my lawyer, asshole.”

Then she stormed off in a whirl of long, dark hair and trench coat tails, and the ding of the elevator echoed down the hallway toward my penthouse.

I couldn’t help but laugh, rubbing a hand over my neck while my brother stood there glaring at me.

“Is everything a fucking joke to you?”

I arched an eyebrow. “No, not really.”

“How long was she here?” Barrett asked.

Did you sleep with my wife? He couldn’t say the words. Even unsaid, they sliced straight through my chest.

How did we get here? That was the thing I wanted to ask. How had my life ended up in a place where my brother entertained even the slightest notion that I would sleep with his wife?

Stubborn King pride kept both our mouths shut, and briefly, I wondered if his stomach churned with unease like mine, a bitter by-product of keeping those important questions buried deep.

“Does it matter?” I asked with a deceptively casual tilt of my head. “She showed up at my house in nothing but a coat and some tacky lingerie, and you think it matters if she was here for five minutes or fifteen?”

Barrett sighed heavily, and I felt a quick, bright flash of pity.

“Less than two minutes,” I said, crossing my arms over my chest. His brow furrowed as he studied my face. When he didn’t say anything, I let out a dry laugh. “You don’t believe me, do you?”

“I don’t know what I believe anymore, Griffin.” Barrett shook his head, swiping a hand over his mouth. “You always do this, you know? See something shiny and exciting and fun, and you don’t think about the fucking consequences. Do you know how many times I saved your ass in high school because Coach wanted to kick you off the team for screwing around on the weekends? How close you came to losing your scholarship in college if I hadn’t stepped in and begged them to give you a second chance?”

Anger flared hot, and I kept my arms crossed. “I’ll make sure to send you a gift basket tomorrow for my entire career. Thanks, brother.”

“Don’t put words in my mouth, Griffin. You just don’t think things through. Like letting her in here in the first place. What did you think was gonna happen?”

“Now it’s my fault that she showed up on my doorstep? That’s rich.”

“No, it’s not.” He looked so fucking tired as he shook his head again. “But she showed up here because she knew you’d be the only other person who might hate me as much as she does. Can you blame me for not believing either of you?”

Before I could say anything else, Barrett turned and left, and in his wake, I felt the cold shift of that rift between us. But this time, it was irreparable. Irrevocably broken.

My jaw tightened dangerously at the memory, the pressure building up underneath my cheekbones as I pressed my teeth together.

“The King brothers aren’t inseparable now, though,” the journalist said easily. “But he’s certainly making a statement by taking this job, isn’t he?”

With a snort, I tossed back the rest of my drink and sighed.

Barrett King never backed down from a challenge. Neither did I. That’s what made us so dangerous at our respective jobs. Dangerous to each other too.

“Every game we play against each other will be dissected by millions of people, and I have no desire to live underneath that kind of scrutiny, like a fucking bug trapped under the glass.”

“Ahhh, so should we be on the lookout for news of a transfer?” she asked lightly, like she hadn’t just baited the absolute hell out of me.

I didn’t pay attention to the look on her face, staring down instead at the melting ice in my highball glass. Maybe if I had looked up, I’d have seen that sharp-eyed interest that covered every journalist’s face when they got a big, juicy bite on a story.

“My brother is obnoxious when he wins, because he always prepares as if there’s no other possible outcome,” I said, only the slightest tinge of bitterness coloring my tone. “And hopefully, he’ll be a very ungracious loser in his new divisional team, whoever he goes up against. I can’t wait to see it.” The moment the words came out, I pinched my eyes shut. “Shit, I shouldn’t have said that.”

But what I didn’t say was Can you keep that off the record?

She merely hummed, sitting back in her seat and studying me openly. “You two certainly generate enough headlines to keep us busy all year round, don’t you?”

I quirked an eyebrow. “You asking him about me too?”

This particular reporter was enough of a professional that she merely answered with a small sphinxlike smile. “You know I can’t kiss and tell, Griffin.”

I leaned in, holding her relentless eye contact. “Kissing my brother would be like sucking face with a dead body. He has no sense of humor.”

Her wineglass immediately went in front of her face, and if she smiled at what I’d said, it was well hidden. After a long sip, she set it down. “Off the record, I will say this—you are definitely the fun one of the King twins,” she whispered, moving in closer so I could hear her clearly.

I sat back in my chair and gave her a smooth smile, the kind that showed my dimple. “Of course I am. My brother wouldn’t know fun if someone shoved it up his ass.”

Her delighted laughter had my smile growing wider.

Until the moment her article hit the internet, the entire thing had felt so innocent. Like I could’ve been sitting with a teammate or a buddy who knew exactly why my older-by-two-minutes brother drove me up a fucking wall. Like she just wanted to commiserate about some slightly complicated family dynamics over a drink.

Oh, we’d commiserated all right. Right up until the article ran, front and fucking center in the biggest sports publication in the world. Sound bites from that tiny mic sitting right in the middle of the table were blasted everywhere. The one about kissing a dead body was a particular social media favorite. Women and men made countless videos saying they’d happily compare, if the King twins were down for sharing.

My uptight, type-A, militantly disciplined brother came out smelling like fucking roses, and I was the single playboy asshole who couldn’t keep his mouth shut.

Now I was commiserating with my damn self about my agent-induced exile while the entire fan base currently obsessed with my brother was calling—quite loudly and quite insistently—for my head on a metaphorical platter.

Reminiscing about the interview wasn’t going to help. I pinched the bridge of my nose and sat up on the sprawling couch, eyes focused on the distant line of the mountains. In my hand, my phone dinged again with another message from my agent.

Steven:Go for a walk on the property, it’ll clear your mind. Head into Welling Springs and get something to eat, there’s some great little restaurants.

Me:So the good people of this town can tar and feather me because they’re probably obsessed with my brother too?

Steven:Please. If anyone approaches you, I’ll pay you a thousand dollars. They don’t care around there, that’s what makes it a nice place to visit. I bring clients out to that house all the time and no one has ever bothered us.

Me:You’ve never brought here before.Me

Steven:Because you’ve always said no.

My brow furrowed. I had a vague memory of Steven asking more than once if I wanted to spend a weekend with him and his family after they’d bought this place.

Instead of answering—because I still felt an uncomfortable wash of embarrassment over the fact that I was already bored—I set my phone aside and wandered over to the large folding sliders that opened up onto the massive back patio in front of the pool.

He told me people would filter in and out, tending to the landscaping and the pool. An assistant had already dropped off enough preprepared food to last me the next week, but the thought of heating up a large dish just for myself sounded like fucking torture.

The surface of the pool glittered underneath the bright sun, and I decided I would swim laps later, try to expel some of this pent-up energy making me feel like I was stuck in a cage.

But first—food.

Exiting my car with sunglasses covering my face, I gave a quick look around to see if anyone was watching. The small stretch of a downtown was fairly quiet, with only a few people meandering down the sidewalks.

Less than five thousand people, he’d told me. Enough that there were some good food options, a handful of shops, a library, and schools. Standing at the curb where I’d parked, I glanced down the street in both directions and decided to head into the closest restaurant.

The sign hanging over the door was a sleek brown-and-white logo featuring a coffee bean and a steaming cup, and the smell of baked goods wafted from the open door as I approached.

There were bowls of water for passing dogs, and tied up next to the propped-open door was a beast of a dog, with a sleek bluish-gray coat and the perked ears and bright eyes of a pit bull–type mix. His tongue hung out the side of his massive mouth, and he glanced up at me with a slight tilt of his head.

Bruiser, his ID tag read. Attached to the light-green collar was a handwritten note: I’m friendly and love head-scratches. Please don’t feed me, though, even if I beg.

“No muffins for you, huh, buddy?” I said, bending down to scratch the top of his head.

With a groan, he leaned into my touch, that panting tongue still unrolled. He looked like he was smiling.

Giving Bruiser a final pat, I slid my sunglasses onto the top of my head and entered the coffee shop with a glance around the inside. It was filled with overstuffed furniture, grouped together in a way that you could easily sit and spend hours there comfortably.

An elderly couple sat in two chairs, splitting a blueberry muffin, steaming cups of tea sitting in front of them. A young guy sitting at a high-top table had headphones on, typing away on his sticker-covered laptop, oblivious to my entrance. In the back corner, a petite woman sat by herself, her messy blond hair hiding her features as she bent to read something in her hands.

At the back of the shop were two teenage girls, and they both eyed me as I strolled in, hands tucked into my pockets. When I gave them a friendly smile, they giggled, and I approached the long gleaming counter and studied the neat rows of confections underneath the domed glass.

“Morning. Can I start a drink for you?” a woman behind the counter asked. She had two tiny gold hoops through one nostril, heavy winged eyeliner, and bright-blue hair tied up in a knot on the top of her head. Her arms were wrapped in intricate black tattoos. She was probably midtwenties, with the kind of sharp, striking features that made her very interesting to look at. Long legs too.

God, I hadn’t had sex in months.

The end of the last season had been particularly brutal, my body too tired for me to even think about finding someone who was okay with casual. But I wasn’t tired now. I was very not tired. And I was very, very bored. Maybe a tattooed, blue-haired local would want to help me break in the pool.

Leaning a hip against the counter, I gave her a slow once-over. “Everything looks delicious. What do you recommend?”

She arched an eyebrow. “Personally, I always get a dark roast over ice. One sugar and a splash of cream so it’s not too bitter.”

Crossing my arms over my chest was a strategic choice, and she noted the change in my stance with a slight narrowing of her eyes.

“I don’t like it when things are too sweet either,” I said in a low voice, keeping my eyes on hers. “I could go for . . . whatever you like.”

Briefly, her lips pursed. “Interesting,” she mused.

“Yeah?” My eyes traced her face. “I love the blue. It’s bold.”

Setting her hands on the counter, she leaned in, and I found myself slightly mesmerized. “My wife likes it too,” she said smoothly.

Suitably chastened, I cleared my throat and straightened. “Right. A large iced coffee, and two of those blueberry muffins, please.”

With a quiet snort, she started on the drink, scooping ice into a plastic cup. “The raspberry are better,” she said easily. “Just brought those out of the oven, so they might still be warm.”

“Wouldn’t you know—a warm muffin is my favorite thing in the world,” I said, giving her a friendly smile.

She rolled her eyes, lips fighting a smile, pulling the tray from the case. “I bet it is. For here or to go?”

“Here, I think.” If I went back to that house too soon, I’d start climbing the freaking walls. What had Steven said? Go for a walk or something?

Nodding, she set the muffins on a plate, then added a lid onto my iced coffee. “Cream and sugar are on the counter over there,” she said, tilting her head toward the back of the shop, where the blond woman sat at the table closest to the back entrance.

“Thanks.” But her back was already turned. Definitely not a football fan.

Blowing out a slow breath, I glanced around the shop, but it didn’t seem like anyone was paying me much attention. Before I slid my wallet back into my pocket, I glanced down at the counter. The tip jar next to the register had a few singles in it, and while her back was still turned, I slipped a fifty inside.

Balancing my plate of muffins and my coffee, I wandered back to the counter to fix my drink, my eyes snagging on the woman sitting by herself.

Her hair had blocked most of her face when I walked in, but when I set my coffee down, she was staring directly at me. Or rather, staring directly at my hands.

She was a tiny thing, her petite frame covered in a simple ivory blouse, with a collar buttoned up past her collarbone, and black pants that hugged her legs and ended high on her waist. But it was her eyes that had me narrowing mine.

Something about those eyes—dark silvery gray and huge in her face, surrounded by thick, dark lashes—tugged at something in the back of my mind.

I knew her.

How the hell did I know her?

She must have noticed I was staring, because she finally yanked her gaze off my hands and up to my face. Her mouth fell open slightly, and without realizing what I was doing, my lips curled into a pleased little smile.

Oh yes. I knew her. Hadn’t seen her in years, but I could see the hints of her younger self in the more refined features in front of me.

Briefly, I turned away and added a splash of cream and snagged two packets of sugar for my coffee. When I turned back, she had her gaze firmly locked on the table. I walked closer, gesturing with my plate of muffins to the empty seat across from her. “Anyone sitting here?”

If she recognized me, I couldn’t read it in her face. She rolled her lips together for a moment, sucked in a short breath through her nose, then shook her head in a quick jerky motion.

Setting the plate of muffins on the table halfway in between me and her came first, then the coffee in front of my chair. I took a seat, easing my long legs out while I studied her.

“Good morning, Ruby Tate,” I told her.

She blinked a few times, but I tilted my head when there was no shock or surprise or . . . much of anything. Her cheeks flushed a pretty pink, and the slender column of her throat worked on a swallow. At the notch in the base of that throat, I could see her pulse flutter wildly.

I took a slow sip of my coffee and watched her. Her mouth was wide, almost too wide for her face, but something about her features was . . . nice. Not too perfect. I liked that they weren’t perfect. “Imagine my surprise at seeing you here. After so many years.”

The slightest pinch in her brow was the only reaction she gave me.

She’d been a quiet kid—a little prickly, in fact. In the back of my head, a memory sprang up: her climbing into the tree that straddled our backyard and hers, watching my brother and me play football or soccer or whatever it was we were training for at the time—all big gray eyes and a serious expression, like she could never quite figure out what the fuck we were doing, why we were so loud and boisterous.

I blew out a slow breath, crossing my arms as I sat back in my chair. “Do you not recognize me?”

Her pink lips finally fell open, then snapped shut again. Her eyes pinched shut, and based on the minute movement of her mouth, she was counting breaths.

Waiting while she reached ten was as close to meditating as I’d ever come, because for those ten seconds, I wasn’t thinking about anything else.

Not my brother. Not my new team. Not the inevitable end of my career because my body was so fucking tired that each season got harder and harder to complete.

Under her breath, she muttered something like This is not happening, this is not happening.

My smile spread. I’d never been met with this particular reaction before.

Why was this so fun?

Her eyes fluttered open, landing unerringly on me. “I recognize you,” she said quietly. With a smile playing around my lips, I watched her gather her composure. She wasn’t doing a very good job. “But I didn’t expect you, Griffin King.”

“But you know it’s me and not my brother. Well done.” I held up my coffee in salute. “Our parents can’t even tell us apart half the time.”

That was bullshit, but she didn’t call me on it.

Instead, she eyed me warily. “I always found it easy. Your brother never smiled.”

“Still doesn’t. I’m much more pleasant to be around, trust me.”

Ruby ignored that, which was probably wise. Her fingers were long and graceful, tipped with sensibly trimmed nails in a clear gloss, and at the moment, they were shredding the absolute hell out of a napkin.

“Want one of these muffins?” I asked, pushing the plate closer to her.

Instead of answering, Ruby stared over at me, a slight furrow in her brow.

I broke off a piece of the sugar-topped confection, moaning slightly when it melted in my mouth. “Fuck, that’s good,” I said, my voice a pleased rumble.

She did that nervous-swallowing thing again, another soft flush of pink blooming over her cheeks.

“This feels like a monumentally bad idea, Griffin,” she said carefully.

My eyebrows shot up. “It’s breakfast, Ruby.” I smiled, and her eyes darted to the dimple buried in my three-day-old stubble. “Granted, when I partake of a morning meal with a beautiful woman, we’ve usually enjoyed other activities leading up to it . . . but I digress.”

Trembling hands came up to cover her face, and her entire frame slumped as she sighed. “No. No, no, no. I can’t do this,” she muttered.

“Can’t do what?” Consider me officially fascinated.

Oh, and fascination was dangerous, wasn’t it?

She dropped her hands, motioning wildly between us. “This.”

Swallowing another large bite of the muffin, I eyed her as I licked a leftover crumb off my bottom lip. Those big dove-gray eyes tracked the movement. “Why’s that?”

After a short exhale, she crumpled up the decimated napkin and smoothed her hands out on the table. Her eyes locked on mine, and over the sudden jump in my pulse, I realized just how very incredibly, wildly not bored I was.

“Well . . . when I hired an escort, I didn’t expect it to be the former neighbor boy.”