Chapter 25
Josephine
I stayed up until two in the morning Googling.
Internet creeping makes me nauseous. I know firsthand just how misrepresentative and twisted that shit can be, but after the revelations at The Boatyard, I felt way too out of my depth to walk around this mansion completely unaware any longer.
I need to know what I’m dealing with. And who I’m living with.
There wasn’t a ton of information about Kylian or Locke. Scholarships and academic achievements in the local paper for Kylian. A few pictures from high school featuring Locke on the football field.
Kendrick’s search results were more fruitful. I found football news. Blog posts. National media coverage. Promotions for a ton of sports brands and athletic companies he’s done endorsements for or been tagged in.
His reaction when I caught them at the med spa makes a lot more sense now, given his notoriety.
And then there’s Decker.
Prodigy. Golden boy. Legend in the making. The number of articles I combed through regaling his ability and raw talent started to go to my head. It’s no wonder the guy walks around thinking he’s god’s gift to football.
And then there’s his dad. Everything Kylian said was true.
And now that I really think about it, the name Thomas Crusade is familiar.
I’ve never followed sports—I was literally banned from attending extracurricular functions at my own high school after my junior year—but I have enough common sense to recognize that the man is a big deal.
Once in a generation. And also the father of the next prodigal son.
The most recent articles talk about Thomas and Decker as a unit: father and son. A story of hope birthed from tragedy. I was already wondering about his mom when I stumbled upon the first clip.
Because that’s what it was. A video clip. A grainy shot on an outdated cell phone with hundreds of thousands of views.
A young Decker at his mother’s funeral. Little Decker next to her casket at the gravesite.
I stopped watching as soon as I realized what it was. That a person would take a video like that and upload it is sickening. And the sheer number of views makes my stomach roil in disgust. Nothing irks me more than nonconsensual filming or photography.
He was a child. A heartbroken, grieving child. And this is a blatant invasion of privacy. There were tons of pictures, too.
The whole thing makes my heart ache for the devastated little boy in the photos. His expression in some of them? Fuck. How could anyone think it’s okay to exploit him like that?
My sympathy toward Decker Crusade is short-lived though, because a few days later, I’m reminded that he’s not the heartbroken little boy anymore. No, he’s an icy, domineering asshole who’s on a mission to make me as miserable as possible.
Locke and I are in the kitchen on Wednesday night, prepping veggies for dinner and cooking up a stir-fry to share. Kylian is up in the Nest, I think, and Kendrick and Decker are holed up in the media room, watching game footage.
“Are mushrooms okay?” I ask over my shoulder. It’s not just pretzel sticks and beer that flare up his arthritis. We’re using brown rice instead of white, and something called coconut aminos instead of soy sauce. Peppers are a no-go, as are all other veggies in the nightshade family.
“Mushrooms are fine,” he confirms from where he’s rinsing rice at the sink. “Smells awesome,” he comments as he saunters up behind me.
Leaning toward the stove, he ghosts his chin against my collarbone.
That’s the extent of the contact. If I had to guess, he’s making a concerted effort not to touch me anywhere else.
But his heat soaks through the thin material of my shirt, and the sheer presence of him engulfs me as he peeks over my shoulder.
The tension is as delicious as it is torturous.
We’ve settled into a purgatory. One where he doesn’t push, and I don’t take. One that’s undefined, because we keep putting off the conversation I know he’s itching to have. But the sexual strain is there—a connection humming between us when we’re in the same room.
He’s waiting for me to make the first move. Although I guess it’s not really the first move. Just the next move?
I’m paralyzed with indecision.
The unfettered attraction that hit me when I met Locke hasn’t dissipated. If anything, it’s grown. That’s more than apparent by the way my nipples pebble under my tank top, pressing against the thin lace of my bralette and making me so damn glad I’m facing the stove.
But I’m still holding a grudge of sorts. I’m salty that, despite what I thought was an instant and mutual bond between us, Locke didn’t—or couldn’t—reason with Decker. Maybe he tried. But I don’t know, because we haven’t talked about it.
We’ve danced around the issue, letting the anticipation build as we spend more time together and sink into a rhythm I’ve never experienced with another person.
Life is easy with Locke. He makes things fun. I’m okay staying in purgatory for now. I fear that if I push, I’ll be faced with the possibility that what he did or didn’t do is unforgivable.
I need more time to sort through my feelings. Or maybe I need proof that if I give him another chance, he’ll have my back when I go toe to toe with Decker.
With my lip pressed between my teeth, I shift ever so slightly from hip to hip. My ass brushes against him—I knew it would—and Locke holds back what I swear is a groan.
“Do you want to take over so I can start the rice?” I hold out the spoon, peering over my shoulder through my lashes.
He zeros in on my mouth. It’s then I remember that my lip is still trapped between my teeth. Sucking in a quick breath, I release it and shimmy away from the stove without letting my body come into contact with him again.
“What are you doing to me, Hot Girl?” The words are almost inaudible since he’s speaking directly into the pan.
“I’m making you dinner,” I quip, measuring out the water for the rice.
His focus is fixed on me as I return to the stove and turn on a second burner, but I busy myself with the pot, stifling a smile.
“Smells good in here.”
I glance over my shoulder and catch sight of Kendrick just as he halts when he spots me.
“We made plenty,” Locke offers, either not noticing or choosing to ignore the glare that fixed itself on Kendrick’s face the second he realized I was in the kitchen, too. “You’re welcome to join us if you’re hungry.”
Kendrick doesn’t have time to reply before Decker storms into the kitchen.
“Good. You’re all here.”
Except we’re not. Kylian is probably still in his room.
“We need to talk about travel and sleeping arrangements for the game.”
I bite down hard on the inside of my cheek.
Hunter asked me in class today if I was going to the game this weekend. It’s an away game, but a lot of students are planning to carpool and tailgate beforehand since it’s only a few hours from here.
I intended to ask Kylian about it tonight. Mainly, I wanted to figure out whether staying behind was a possibility. I’m pretty sure that’s not going to be an option based on the way both Decker and Kendrick are glowering at me.
“Obviously, Josephine will be traveling with us.”
I snort. It wasn’t obvious to me.
Decker raises one brow, his onyx eyes piercing me as he continues. “I’m not comfortable with her staying in her own hotel room, given the circumstances. She’ll be with Kylian at the game, but for the rest of the time—”
“I don’t need a babysitter,” I huff, crossing my arms over my chest as I return Decker’s hard stare.
He doesn’t reply—doesn’t even react—before clearing his throat and continuing.
“She needs to be with one of us at all times.” He looks from Locke to Kendrick, then back to me. “We leave Friday afternoon. We’ll stay at the team hotel overnight, then head home after the game on Saturday, understood?”
Understood. As if it’s a question of comprehension. This asshole.
Emboldened, I plant my hands on my hips. “I’ll room with Kylian,” I declare.
The corner of Decker’s mouth curls up.
“No, you won’t. Kyl needs to keep his head in the game. We need him focused and rested on Saturday.”
I don’t dignify that implication—that Kylian wouldn’t be “rested” if he shared a room with me—with a response. Kylian and I have already shared a room and a bed. He slept just fine that night, but Decker doesn’t get to know that.
Shrugging as if it doesn’t matter, I provide an alternative. “I’ll stay with Locke, then.”
Locke flicks a glance at me and sticks his tongue in his cheek. “Works for me.”
“No,” Decker barks.
I swear steam billows from my ears at his response.
No?
My focus shifts to Locke once more. I get that Decker is the quarterback. That this is his team. His house. His boys. His captive. But this shouldn’t be his call.
“Nicky needs rest before the game. It’s hard enough on him to be in a different bed on the road. He doesn’t need a roommate to add to his plate.”
I watch, horrified, as Decker’s words register with Locke. His face drops, first in disappointment, then with acceptance. He sighs—a long, drawn-out sound of defeat. When he finally meets my gaze, all the playfulness from earlier has been sapped. He looks a little pissed, but mostly just resigned.
“Sorry, Joey. Decker’s right.”
So much for hoping Locke would find it within himself to side with me for once. This can’t be happening. I’m not allowed to room with Kylian, and now Locke isn’t an option. That means…
“You wanna win on Saturday?” Kendrick’s words are cool and measured. His tone is surprisingly even given the way his hands are digging into the edge of the kitchen island. With his head bowed, he turns to face Decker, waiting him out.
I hold my breath as tension thrums between them. Finally, Decker takes the bait.
“What kind of question is that? You know I want to win.”
“Then keep her the fuck away from me.”
Kendrick pushes off the island and storms out of the kitchen, pounding up the stairs without a backward glance.
I close my eyes and pull in a long, shuddering breath.
Shit on a crumbly cracker.
Decker Crusade’s ability to morph a decent day into the stuff of nightmares takes true talent. If this whole quarterback thing doesn’t work out, he could very well have a future in dashing dreams and ruining lives.
“What’s going on?”
When I open my eyes, Kylian’s entered the kitchen, his focus shifting from Decker to Locke to me, then repeating, as if he’s an oscillating fan.
“Just getting things squared away for this weekend,” Decker offers coolly.
“I take it that’s the reason I passed a raging bull on the stairs just now?”
I can’t help but roll my eyes. Kendrick made his point—rudely, I might add. His feelings about me are abundantly clear. I doubt even Decker would push him on this. There’s no need for him to storm out of the room, huffing and puffing.
“Josephine will be rooming with me on Friday night. Can you make sure we’ve got enough key cards at check-in, Kyl?”
Pressure builds behind my eyes, so I focus on the gleaming quartz countertop, refusing to blink in case tears try to spill over.
I’ve always been an angry crier. People often view it as a weakness. I refuse to let Decker Crusade see me that way.
By the time I trust myself to glance up, Decker is striding out of the room. Like he didn’t just ruin my whole fucking day and set me up for what’s bound to be an exceptionally awkward weekend.
“Thanks for your help,” I bite out in Locke’s direction, then take off toward the stairs.
“Jo… wait!”
Kylian catches up to me just as my foot hits the second step. His fingers encircle my wrist and squeeze just hard enough to stop me in my tracks.
“What happened?” he implores.
“Decker happened.” I pull my arm out of his grasp.
That doesn’t deter him. He launches himself up the stairs in front of me, his long legs taking them two at a time until he’s a few steps above me, hovering.
“You can ride with me to the hotel on Friday afternoon. And we’ll be together at the game. Decker’s not completely unreasonable. Maybe if we try talking to him—”
I scoff at the very notion of Decker being anything close to reasonable where I’m concerned.
“Save your breath, Kylian. I’m on my own here. Just like I’ve been from day one.”