Chapter Two Griffin #2
“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 trade?” 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 Me here before.
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.”