Page 26 of Rulebreaker
I’m scowlingas I stride into my building, a high-rise that takes up most of a city block here in SoCal.
It cost me a fortune.
Normally, I get a bolt of pride sliding through me every single time I approach the glass-covered skyscraper, every time I see my company’s name on the side of it, that I walk through the wide doors and greet my employees.
Mine.
An obvious stamp I’ve made on the world.
For a kid who was told he would never amount to anything, would never be good for anything, would never shake off the mantle of my youth, owning a big ass building in an expensive part of Los Angeles–not to mention having the ability to write a check and buy up the rest of the neighborhood, if the fancy strikes–is huge.
I did it.
I accomplished every dream I ever had.
Aside from playing in the NHL–college was as far as my skills were able to take me, and getting the scholarship was a miracle in and of itself. Plus, I’ve been able to play regularly with an NHL player—in fact, several—over the years, thanks to Banks and his penchant for ice time.
So yeah, it may not be my face plastered on a collectible card or the crowd screaming my name–but in a way, my dream has been fulfilled.
And so have the rest of them, including financial security, so that I’m never, fuckingneverin the position I was growing up–no food in the fridge, hand-me-down equipment that didn’t fit, working to pay my league fees that weren’t covered by financial aid and scholarships. Clothes that were worn until they were filled with holes, shoes that crunched my toes, taking advantage of the free toiletries from the school’s charity closet.
But I’m finding it difficult to allow all those accomplishments to bolster me.
Finding it difficult to sit in the pride of all I’ve made of myself.
Because of a troublesome woman.
Twelve dozen roses and not a fucking word–and I’ve even alerted the gossipy fucks that are my family to my obsession in order find out which were her favorites.
And haven’t received so much as a text in return.
Or a call.
Definitely no invite to fly up to watch her show…then to watch her come apart beneath me in her hotel room as I stroke into her hard and deep and fast..
Nothing but silence.
So, I’m scowling as I swipe my badge and the doorswooshesopen, as I stride across the lobby and jab at the button to call the elevator.
It dings not long afterward, but it still feels like far too longwhen the doors open and I step onto the empty car. Just as well, I’m grumpy enough to not be good company–and while I pay my employees well, I don’t pay them enough to be put up with my grouchy ass.
Or well…I payoneof them enough to put up with me.
And she’s currently standing in my office.
“Briar,” I mutter as I push inside and hang up my suit jacket on the coat rack.
Before I was really successful, I discovered that looking the part was nearly as important as actually playing it. First impressions impact deals and can even close them, and even though a bunch of those NorCal tech guys like their black turtlenecks, down in this neck of the woods a good, tailored suit can go a long way.
“Sir Grumps-a-Lot,” she replies without missing a beat. She leans back against my desk and smirks, crossing her arms. “I’m guessing that look means that the roses did the trick.”
I stalk across the room, sink down into my chair and start logging into my computer. “I’m not the one who’s earned the nicknameThorny,” I remind her, taking no little amount of brotherly pleasure whenshescowls.
Briar has become my right hand in my work, but before that she was my friend and teammate’s sister.
But when Banks and Royal, Dash and Colt and I played together, when we clicked and grew close–closer than I was ever with my biological family–Briar became one of us too.
Our surrogate sister.
