Chapter Two Griffin
Chapter Two
Griffin
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.”