Page 13 of Forbidden Game

Frank produces a tablet from God-knows-where and begins swiping across the screen, showing something to grandfather. Grandfather nods his head at the slides in front of him, rapping his knuckles on the smooth glass every minute or so, muttering words under his breath.

“All right, Parker, I’ll entertain your idea. If you win this championship, if you prove that there is worth to your career, I’ll veto the board. But if you fail, I will do nothing to help you. You will forfeit your shares and ties to the Covington conglomerate by year end.”

Nerves spin and swirl in my gut, but I nod like a damn bobblehead.

“Understood.”

“Wonderful. Frank, can you organize that and get the car from valet?”

“Yes, sir.” Frank flips the tablet case closed, gathers the documents scattered across our table, and places them all in the briefcase before swiveling on his wingtips and power walking away.

Grandfather sits up and pours us both a cup of peppermint tea. The minty liquid cools my tongue while warming the center of my chest. A sense of peaceful determination settles over me.

For the first time since I sat down, it doesn’t feel like the world is hanging by a thread.

For a second, I let the mask slip and entertain the devilish smirk that tugs at the corner of my lips.

Three months might not be enough time for the average person, but I’m not average.

I’m Parker Covington, and I don’t lose.

THREE

SYDNEY

A small scream escapes my lips.

The engine of the Porsche revs loudly, reverberating through my body, as Parker steps on the gas, narrowly avoiding the car merging into our lane. You would think we were running late with the miles he keeps racking up on the speedometer. But no. We are actually going to be early to our boxing class for once.

As much as it terrifies me, I can’t even get too mad because Parker maneuvers the car with the finesse of a seasoned Formula 1 driver. He’s probably the safest risky driver I’ve met—a complete contradiction.

The Porsche glides around a sharp corner, and I white-knuckle the bright blue seatbelt across my chest as my body sways to the right.

Just a few more minutes, I tell myself.

I stare down at my workout leggings and begin playing connect the dots with the glossy black stars printed on them to pass the time. The loud bass music playing steadily thrums against my skin, and my heart rate slows to match the beat.

Finally, the car pulls wide, and I look up to see Parker swing into a parking spot right out front of our boxing studio. I release the death grip I have on the seatbelt and flex my hand a few times to relieve the tightness.

“Ready to crush it today?” Parker gives me a lopsided grin before ducking out of the car.

I sigh before cracking the door open and getting out of the car while Parker pops the hood to grab our gloves, his grin still in place.

Maybe I can get him to channel some of this energy into a game later. He is going to have to seriously increase his hours to prepare for the championship.

I spent hours last night booking flights and accommodations for five smaller tournaments over the next twelve weeks so he can get a feel for playing on a stage while also accumulating the three speedrun wins he needs to cement his place at the championship.

As confident as Parker may be in himself, there is a large difference between completing a speedrun alone in the safety of your room versus a high profile, public competition with thousands of people watching you from the stands.

It’s like giving a work presentation virtually versus in person; there is something about the physical aspect that adds an extra layer of pressure. The last thing I want is for him to get performance anxiety.

I snort at the idea of Parker Covington ever having performance anxiety.

“Oi, you coming or not?” Parker calls from the open door to the studio.

My cheeks flush, and I shake off the thought, jogging to catch up to him. He keeps the door propped open, and I slip under his arm and into the cool confines of Jax’s Boxing House.

The smell of fresh sweat, antiseptic wipes, and worn leather envelops me.

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