Tamed (The Courtside King 1)

Which Breck had loved. It kept things wholly physical and nothing more. No soft and tender. Just hard and fast. Leaving no room whatsoever for misinterpretation. He hadn’t wanted anything with Socrates. Then again, he didn’t want anything with the ladies, either. No one held his attention that way. Or maybe he was just too busy. Too focused on his goals and aspirations.

Socrates graduated with the other seniors at the end of that school year, and Breck hadn’t been with another guy since. Didn’t have time for trying to figure out how to make it happen. Besides, he had more women lined up than he could go through now that he was the Patriot’s first-string point guard. He’d moved up to varsity at the beginning of junior year and scored the position right off the bat.

His dad had been elated. His mom had been ecstatic, too. She knew how much it’d meant to him. How hard he’d worked for it. Ultimately, he took his team, his whole school, to the playoffs, then kept on trucking to the prestigious Final Four. Which quickly earned him star status among his coaches, professors, and peers. That and an open invitation into every girl’s pants.

Hence, he really didn’t need to mess around with guys. He’d been there. He’d done that. If the opportunity arose, he might take it. But for all intents and purposes, chicks would suffice. Besides, he was in the spotlight now and the risk was higher. If word ever got out, he could lose his esteemed position, which could fuck up his chances for a career in professional basketball.

Nah. He was good with what he had. Got to pick from the cream of the crop. The sexiest, most beautiful ladies in the house.

One just so happened to be sitting next to him now.

Kenzie. She’d popped in a few hours ago and had been tending to his hungover needs ever since. Not that she was his girlfriend. Because, again, he didn’t date. He wondered if she thought she was, though. Sometimes she kind of acted like it. Times like this, when she turned all nurturing, and called him ‘baby’ and shit. A name he didn’t mind per se—but only during sex, when she screamed it.

Otherwise, too affectionate. He didn’t want to lead her on. Girls got the wrong impression way too easily.

Which was frustrating as hell. He always told them about his long-held, no-dating policy before they fucked. And while most honored his stipulations, others kept coming back, all clingy and shit. Forcing his hand to shuck them like wet clothes.

Tears. Lots of tears. Very messy.

And yeah, he knew that made him sound like a dick, but he’d told them. And they’d said okay. What more could he do?

Turning his head slowly, so as not to stir up unnecessary cranial pain, he peered down at the gorgeous brunette lounging against him.

She lifted her long lashes and smiled. “Hey, handsome. You need me to get you something? More Tylenol? A ginger ale?” Her lips curved up impishly. “How ‘bout a couple slimy, undercooked fried eggs?”

Breck’s stomach lurched. “You’re evil.”

“You know it,” she drawled. Her eyes dipped to his mouth. “Missed you last night.”

He smirked and lowered his voice. “You missed my dick.”

She didn’t deny it. Just grinned and punched his arm above the bicep.

He hissed with a grimace.

Jegs laughed. “You pussy.”

“Fuck you,” he grumbled, pulling his short-sleeve up to glare at the spot. Aka the place where he’d gotten a fresh tattoo last night. “Goddamn it. Whose bright idea was it to get these done again?”

“Dipshit’s.” Aka Charlie. Jegs’ smile faded as he inspected his own. The Patriot’s hot-shot power forward didn’t look pleased about his, either. “That we actually listened to him is a true testament to just how drunk we were.”

Breck scowled at his ink, a big, bold Greek K for Kappa. Jegs’ was the Greek letter for Theta, and Charlie’s, Sigma. “I thought tattoo parlors didn’t service drunks.”

“They don’t,” Charlie answered from his end of the couch. The team’s prized shooting guard looked like royal shit, too. Eyes all bloodshot, light brown hair in disarray. Smirking, he gazed down at his ink job as well. “Lucky for us, one of our new brothers is an aspiring artist.”

Shit. That’s right. It all came back to him now. They’d let a nineteen-year-old, a kid, permanently ink their bodies. His glower slid to the doorway, where said aspiring artist stood eavesdropping.

Breck narrowed his eyes.

The guy smiled and waved.

“Oh, come on. They’re not so bad,” Charlie argued defensively. “I think mine’s cool. A show of solidarity. Our frat letters. That’s deep.” He pressed his fist to his chest. “You, me, and Jegs. Brothers forever.”

“But it’s not our frat,” Breck grated. “Not when we each have only one letter.”

“Right!” Charlie beamed, his blue eyes glinting with delight. “We gotta stand front to back, with our shoulders together, for it to spell out K T S.”