Tackled by the King: A Bad Boy Sports Romance Read online

  “That sounds great.” I stared at Kingsley pointedly before turning back to Val with a wide smile. “Nice to see how courteous some of the other players are around here.”

  “Excuse us. Ladies.” Val smiled at the swooning girls. “Ms. Toussaint, shall we?”

  “Let's.” I slipped my tablet back into my purse, looking back at Kingsley sternly before following Val out the door. “Don't be late.”

  “Not making any promises!”

  Chapter Five: Kingsley

  I pulled up to the curb across the street from Alfredo's, the wheels of my Lamborghini rolling to a smooth stop.

  “Your father's come down with the flu, so he's been holed up in the lodge for 3 days now, the poor thing. Anyway, don't forget to call your Aunt Whitney. Her birthday's coming up this weekend.”

  “I won't, Mom.” I clamped my phone between my ear and shoulder, glimpsing at the flashing clock on the center console. “Text me her address and I'll be sure to send her some flowers.”

  “Good. Now, your father and I are coming back home in 3 months, so you must make room for...”

  Mom was still talking – I was hearing her, but I'd stopped listening. My roving eyes fixed on a sickening pair of lovebirds standing by the open door of a cab. The lady's fur-collar leather coat and white fur hat in the middle of August was all too familiar.

  They tilted their heads and leaned in for a quick kiss. When they pulled away from each other and I got a better look at the lady, I was livid. It was a starry-eyed Ivanka with a lazy, satisfied smile on her face.

  I gripped my steering wheel harder, my knuckles turning white. I leaned in closer to the windshield to check out the dude she was with. He wore a thick gold chain and red Yeezys. It was only when he flipped his shades over his do-rag that I recognized the dipshit. It was one of the fuckers that never failed to drop a dick pic or 10 on Ivanka's phone whenever I was with her.

  “Kingsley, are you ignoring your mother?”

  “What?” I pushed my phone to my ear. “Sorry, Mom, I gotta run. I've got a lunch meeting with this journalist. She's a real tight-ass, and I'm late.”

  “Oh, well, alright, you better hurry along then. You really need to work on your punctuality, young man, I did not raise you that way.”

  “Yeah, sweet.” I wrenched my key out of the ignition and stepped out of the car. “Say hi to Dad for me. Love you.”

  “Love you too, Kingsley. Be good.”

  I hung up and pocketed my phone. My hands sprung into fists at my sides, and my shoulders squared in combat mode. I watched from afar as the cab drove off. The dude slipped his shades back on started walking off in the opposite direction. I swung one foot forward, ready to jump the bastard, when I got a hold of myself.

  My shoulders slacked. I was about to fuck up some sap for messing around with some other man's wife. Frankly, we were in the same goddamned boat. The dude didn't deserve to get his day fucked up just because he was trying to get himself some strange. Hell, I had to kick out 3 Scandinavian hotties out of my apartment just an hour ago, so I wasn't sure what the hell I was getting so worked up about.

  Muttering under my breath, I clicked my car remote to lock the Lamborghini. Odell was right. I needed to get a grip. None of this was worth getting benched.

  I rolled up the sleeves of my button up and glanced in both directions for passing cars.

  “King? King! There you are!”

  I flinched, the hair on my arms and the back of my neck as startled as I was. Farrah rushed me from the side with both arms, appearing from what seemed like thin air. The weird-as-shit cowbell around her neck jangled noisily, and the thorns from her crown of actual flowers bore into my arm. She mashed her titties up against me, batting her lashes expectantly.

  “Whoa, Farrah. What are you doing here?” I wriggled out of her arms as gently as I could, fully aware of the passersby who were starting to stop and stare. A few whipped out their phones.

  “I've missed you so, so much. You never called me back!” Farrah declared, unfurling her bottom lip. “I've been waiting and waiting –”

  “I, uh, never said I would.” We'd been fucking around casually for a couple of months now, and I never knew what to say to this chick. “I don't even have your num –”

  “I thought you'd never ask!” Farrah squealed. She reached into her purse, pulled out a fountain pen, and started unscrewing the lid. “Gimme your arm.”

  I didn't even need Farrah's number; this chick just always had a knack for showing up at random.

  “Maybe la – oh, Jesus.” I jolted back as a live bee flew out from one of the flowers on her crown and buzzed past my ear. “Listen, I'm late for a meeting, so I'll catch you later.”

  “Oh, okay.” Farrah's face fell. “I'll see you later.”

  I ignored the eerie whisper of “I love you” and booked it, ducking into Angelo's.

  “King! Great to see you again.” Sylvie, the friendly hostess, greeted me at the door. “Should I get you your usual table?”

  “No thank you, Sylvie, I'm actually here to meet – ah, there she is.”

  Carrie was sitting in the last booth by the window. While she scrolled away at her tablet, she was trucking her way through 4 different plates of food. She looked surlier than a cat forced to play dress up for its master.

  “Bring me a Bloody Mary and some spaghetti and meatballs.”

  “Right away, King.”

  “Thanks, Sylvie. You're a doll.”

  I walked towards Carrie's booth jauntily and settled into the bench across from her.

  “Man, I'm starving. What're we having?”

  “Well, I'm having baked ziti, shrimp scampi, a chickpea bruschetta, and a roasted fig salad with goat cheese,” said Carrie coolly. She swabbed at the corners of her mouth with her napkin. “I don't know what you're having.”

  “Oh, I get it. You're the type that doesn't share food, huh?” I grinned, thanking the waitress who'd brought me my Bloody Mary. “Nice to see a woman with an appetite.”

  “It's nice to see anyone with an appetite.”

  “True, true...” I didn't think it was possible, but this woman was even more annoying than I thought. “Alright, Carrie, I'm sensing a little animosity here. I'm gonna go ahead and take a wild guess and say it's because I'm slightly late to our meeting.”

  “Bravo. Beauty and brains too,” said Carrie snidely. She shoveled another forkful of ziti in her mouth. “And slightly? You're 50 minutes late.”

  “Beauty?” I arched an eyebrow, grinning. “So you're saying I'm hot stuff, huh?”

  “No, don't you put words in my mouth. I said no such thing.” It was actually pretty hilarious to see how testy she was. But when she swooped for her glass of white wine, the corners of her mouth twitched. “If the food here wasn't so darn good, I would have left half an hour ago. But good to see you've finally learned my name. Don't wear it out though.”

  The same waitress returned with my plate of spaghetti.

  “Anyway, I'm here now. And as much as I'm enjoying all this banter and the intense sexual chemistry between us, I can't stay long. So, let's get this over with so we can be done for the day.”

  “Believe me, I'm not enjoying this any more than you are. But you do have a point, so let's get this thing rolling. Let me just open up my notes here...”

  Carrie got busy with her tablet, fidgeting with the ends of her straight black hair absentmindedly. The more I looked at her, the more infuriatingly stunning she was. She had the classic case of the ugly duckling syndrome. If I had to keep it 100, I rarely looked twice at a woman who wasn't showing skin, but I seriously couldn't take my eyes off this chick. Her sultry green eyes and full, luscious lips were enough to keep me hooked. But what really baffled me was how she managed to sit so still with that stick up her ass.

  “Do I have a booger, or something?” Carrie looked up from her tablet. She untangled her fingers from her hair. “What are you staring at?”
>
  “Not that I'm aware of.” I rested my elbow on the table and stroked my chin thoughtfully. “You don't look anything like your picture on the The Daily Dirt staff profiles.”

  “You saw that?” Carrie sunk down in her seat. “That would be the work of Wattana, our editor-in-chief. I was sick on picture day, so Wattana jumped on the chance to unearth the most unflattering picture she could find of me. She's not my biggest fan, if you haven't figured that out yet.”

  “I never said it was unflattering. You just look different, is all.”

  “Oh. I guess.”

  “Yup. So, I see you and Val are getting pretty close, huh?”

  “What?” Carrie's forehead puckered. “Yeah, we're getting along just fine. You see, I tend to do that with helpful, respectful individuals –”

  “Just a little friendly advice – you oughta be wary around the dude. He –”

  “Excuse you. Not that it concerns you, but I don't need advice on how to handle myself, especially from you. Besides, I'm the one conducting this interview, thank you very much.”

  “Okay, easy,” I surrendered with both hands, sighing. “Alright, I'm just gonna make this easy for you. You don't wanna be here, I don't wanna be here. I've got your story.”

  “I'm listening.”

  “Why don't you write about The AloAlo Hope Foundation? It's the charity Odell and I started in Lake County for kids with muscular dystrophy.”

  “The AloAlo Hope Foundation?” Carrie repeated, looking unconvinced.

  “It's legit. Look it up. I'm sure there are enough pictures and info floating around out there if you do a little homework. We're only 2 years in, so we're fairly new to the game, but we're doing some good work there. I know what the management wants. You get a sappy story, Abigail and them ease off a little – it's a win-win for both of us.”

  “I don't know, I –”

  “Aunt Carrie!”

  The cutest goddamned kid I'd ever seen sprinted up to our table. The little chubster wore red glasses with thick lenses that magnified his bright hazel eyes. He slapped both hands onto the edges of Carrie's bench and hefted himself off the ground, squeezing himself into the booth.

  “Jackson!” Carrie's eyes bulged, darting around the restaurant. “What are you doing here?”

  “I don't know.” Jackson shrugged, reaching over to sneak a piece of penne off her plate. When my eyes zoned in on the needle marks on his little arm and the old surgery scars under his throat, my gut wrenched.

  “Hey, buddy, how you doing?” I smiled at him. “My name's Kingsley.”

  “Nice to meet you, Kingsley.” I couldn't help but smile when the kid stuck out his hand. I obliged, noting the firm grip from his tiny hand. This kid was definitely going places. “My name's Jackson.”

  “Kingsley's a cool name.”

  “Not as cool as Jackson.”

  “Sorry, this is my nephew,” said Carrie anxiously. She sat on the edge of her seat, scouring the restaurant. “Not sure what's going on here or where my sister is –”

  “Don't even worry about it.” I popped a meatball into my mouth and glanced at Jackson's shirt. “You like dinosaurs, huh?”

  “You bet I do. What's not to like about them?” Jackson's squeaky voice had more depth and sense than most grown men I knew. He tugged at the end of his shirt and pointed at his chest. “This is an Amargasaurus – it's one of my favorite dinosaurs. It's got really cool spikes on its back to keep him safe.”

  I rolled up the right leg of my pants, showing him the intricate portrait of a T-Rex inked down my calf.

  “Wow! A Tyrannosaurus Rex? Cool! He's the king of the dinosaurs.”

  “Exactly.” I withdrew my leg and rolled my pants back down. I raised my eyebrows at Carrie. “See? He gets it.”

  “Finding common ground with a 5-year-old. Impressive –”

  “Oh my goodness, what a surprise!”

  A young girl who I assumed was Carrie's sister came up to our table. I could definitely see the resemblance. Apart from the the bright makeup and blonde streaks in the girl's hair, she and Carrie shared an almost identical jawline, nose, and lips. The girl held out her phone, aiming at the booth like she was filming us. I looked back at Carrie, her face going pale.

  “Jackson's meeting his first celebrity!”

  “Jamie!” Carrie hissed, her eyes flashing. “You can't just barge in here when I'm working. You need to leave right now–”

  “This was a total coincidence,” Jamie insisted, tapping on her screen and sliding her phone back into her pocket. She beamed at me, shaking my hand. “Hi, I'm Jamie, Carrie's sister. I see you've met my son, Jackson, too. I'm one of your biggest fans –”

  “Please. You've never watched a sports game in your life –”

  “Oh, I know you.” Jackson spoke up, looking real pleased with himself. “You're the man on that cereal box!”

  “Yup, that's me.”

  “I tried it one time, but it was really bad. You should go tell your cereal bosses that there's way too many sugars in there, and it's bad for you. Maybe you can tell them to fix it, and maybe I'll give it another chance.”

  “Jackson!” Jamie wrapped her arms around her son and lifted him off the table. “Don't –”

  “That's okay,” I laughed. “Duly noted, buddy. That's some good advice. I'll be sure to let my cereal bosses know when I can.”

  “Okay, maybe we better go,” said Jamie, gulping. She took Jackson's hand, leading him away. “We'll see you guys later. So nice meeting you!”

  “Bye, Kingsley!”

  “Likewise. Catch ya later, Jackson.”

  The door jingled as Jamie and Jackson left Angelo's. Carrie clapped her hands over her mouth. She shook her head, exhaling loudly.

  “I'm so, so sorry about that. That was highly unprofessional, and I swear to you that wasn't planned. Don't worry, I'll make sure Jamie deletes the video –”

  “It's fine. I don't mind. People are pretty crazy when it comes to social media these days. I've seen worse.” I folded my fingers, drawing circles on my palm with my thumb. “What does Jackson have?”

  “To tell you the truth, we don't know. Jackson's always had an awfully weak immune system, and it's only gotten worse. 2 years ago, he started getting random seizures and these horrible vomiting episodes. It got so bad that once, Jamie walked into Jackson rolling around in his crib, nearly choking to death on his own vomit. We've been to several hospitals, and Jackson's got all the doctors stumped.”

  “I'm sorry to hear that.”

  “On the bright side, he's always been a fighter, and he seems to be getting better lately. But we still take him to Bellevue every Tuesday for a checkup, just in case.”

  “That can't be cheap,” I mused. “What about your folks? Are they helping out?”

  “They've never met Jackson. Our parents died in a car crash when I was 21, 4 months after I graduated. I've been looking after all 3 of us ever since.”

  “I see.”

  I caught Carrie's lip trembling and her eyes glazing over for a moment, but she quickly snapped out of it.

  “Enough about that. Like I said, I'm conducting the interview.”

  “Right.” I pulled out my vibrating phone and unlocked the screen. As soon as I saw Ivanka's name on the new message, I rose to my feet. “Yeah, listen, I gotta run.”

  “What? Right now?” Carrie's nostrils rounded. “But we haven't –”

  “AloAlo!” I called over my shoulder as I headed for the door. “Later, nark!”

  Chapter Six: Carrie

  As I was hustling up the walkway to the entrance of Bellevue, my phone started going off in my purse. I hunted inside the tote bag for my phone while balancing 3 mango smoothies on a cardboard drink tray. All the while, the inappropriate tunes of House of Pain's “Jump Around” was getting steadily louder. So when I finally spotted my phone, I dove for it and quickly answered. I didn't even give myself time to roll my eyes
at Wattana's name flashing on the screen.

  “Toussaint. What's taking you so long to pick up?”

  “Sorry. What's up, Mrs. Wattana?”

  “Have you checked the front page of The Daily Dirt yet?”

  “No. Sorry, I'm supposed to meet my nephew for his –”

  “A simple no would have sufficed. I don't care what you do with your day.” Wattana forced a soft cough on the other end of the line. “I don't know how you did it, but your article on The AloAlo Hope Foundation was a hit.”

  “You're kidding me.” I slowed my pace as I crossed the lobby towards the elevators. I was genuinely stupefied. “It was?”

  “Trust me, I'm just as shocked as you are. Your story's as boring as a box, but it's trending on the front page, and it's been shared over 18,000 times on Facebook alone. I've clearly underestimated Kingsley Kelly's fan base. Looks to me like his followers would eat the grass off his cleats if he asked them to.”

  I chewed on my tongue. Sighing, I punched the “Up” arrow on the elevator buttons. I knew where this was going.

  “You know, it could be my top notch journalism –”

  “Don't make me laugh, Toussaint. My botox is still setting in. If your substandard, touchy-feely story on Kingsley generates this much traffic, imagine the pandemonium if you ventured into the dark side. After all, no one can resist a scandal – especially one juicy enough to ruin his career...”

  As much as I detested the guy, Wattana's nonchalance was unnerving.

  “Aren't the stories about Kingsley's sexual debauchery getting just a tad bit old?” The elevator had arrived, but I stood in place, shackled by the call. “Plus, I've got other players to focus on –”

  “You're right. This article needs to be more than just 800 words – save it for last. And we need a new angle. Drugs, gambling addiction, unpaid debts – something criminal will do just fine. I'm sure you'll find something.”

  “But –”

  “No buts, I've made up my mind. Don't let me down.”