Page 9 of Rulebreaker (Gamebreakers #4)

NINE

Atlas

I’m scowling as 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, fucking never in 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 door swooshes open, 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 long when 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 pay one of 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 nickname Thorny ,” I remind her, taking no little amount of brotherly pleasure when she scowls.

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.

A job I take very seriously–mostly because she works too hard, sleeps too little, and spends far too much time alone.

Single parenting Frankie is included in that too.

She’s a great mom, and yeah the guys and I take turns spelling her for a break–and not because Frankie is a burden. Not at fucking all. Frankie is the smartest four-year-old I’ve ever met.

Well, the only four-year-old I’ve had the pleasure of knowing as an adult–but I know she’s special.

Because Briar is her mom.

And because Frankie is the spitting image of her in personality and tenaciousness and pure, unadulterated talent.

Something special.

Also…something annoying–or at least my surrogate sister is because Briar doesn’t rise to the bait of the nickname that annoys her and instead turns and drops into the chair on the opposite side of my desk and smirks.

“Thorny or not,” she says, “at least I’m not starting the week frustrated by a pesky woman.

” She pauses, tilts her head from side to side, as though considering her words.

“Okay, so that’s not entirely true considering the nonsense Frankie gave me this morning about which outfit she wanted to wear to preschool. ”

I click into my inbox then pause, waiting for the punchline. “Is that a serious statement?”

Briar’s nose wrinkles. “Well, she changed three times, which required me to redo her hair into three completely different styles, and that was after we spent an hour picking out her clothes last night…then yes, it’s a completely serious statement.

” A beat. “Unfortunately for me and my subpar braiding skills.”

“I thought you refused to do braids anymore.”

“I did.” A sigh. “Until Frankie saw a picture of Lily from her last concert–now I’m trying to recreate styles created by Hollywood hairstylists.” She flops back. “Kill me now.”

“I can’t do that,” I say, pulling up my schedule for the day. “I’m double booked and need you to handle the liaison from Monroe. ”

“That blowhard?” She’s scowling again. “You really must be in a bad mood to torture me with Tom.”

I am.

Or I was until I realized I pay Briar enough to deal with the pain in the ass.

“I’m not in a bad mood,” I say. “Just have a busy day and I took Tom last time.”

A sigh.

But Briar doesn’t complain further.

Because she knows I’m right.

“Well, if I’m going to deal with Blowhard McGee, then I guess I’d better fortify myself with more coffee.” She pushes up out of her chair and turns for the door.

I relax, relieved that she’s tabled the shit-giving about the roses.

Of course, that relief comes too soon.

Because she pauses at the door and looks back, mouth curved into a smirk.

Christ , I think before I even hear her next words.

“What’s next?” she asks lightly, eyes sparkling with humor. “Considering all those roses didn’t work? Her namesake, lilies? Jewelry? Vintage records and guitars?” She taps her chin, as though considering. “Or maybe you should fill her hotel room with those gourmet chocolates she loves so much?”

I pause–actually pause and consider that.

All of that.

Because it’s not a bad idea.

Women love chocolate. And jewelry. And flowers. And…vintage records and guitars.

Or at least sexy, cock-teasing pop stars who drive me insane do.

And of course, Briar sees me pausing, me considering, because she bursts out laughing, long and loud and …

Yeah, I’m back to grumpy.

“Oh, Atlas,” she says when she regains control of herself, ponytail swinging behind her as she shakes her head and studies me. “You’re in deep aren’t you?”

The words are softer.

More serious.

Seeing too fucking much.

“I’m fine,” I mutter.

“You know,” she begins. “You could just be yourself. That’s pretty great.”

If only myself was enough to tempt the pesky pop star.

“Unfortunately, she’s a trickier puzzle than that,” I say, still muttering.

“Does that mean you’re going to let her go?”

Every muscle in my body revolts at the question, something that Briar sees because her mouth kicks up and she turns the handle, starts to pull open the door, answering for me before she disappears.

“Of course not. Atlas Delarosa never gives up.”