King of the Court Read online

  King of the Court

  Copyright © 2021 R.S. Grey

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  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, including electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

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  This book is a piece of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

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  Published: R.S. Grey 2021

  [email protected]

  Editing: Editing by C. Marie

  Proofreading: Red Leaf Proofing, Julia Griffis

  Cover Design: R.S. Grey

  Contents

  Copyright

  Author’s Note

  King of the Court

  Part One

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Part Two

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Epilogue

  Excerpt

  Scoring Wilder

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Stay connected with R.S. Grey

  Thank you!

  Author’s Note:

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  King of the Court is a full-length standalone novel. At the end, I’ve included an excerpt from my #1 bestselling sports romantic comedy Scoring Wilder.

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  King of the Court concludes at around 90% on your device.

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  Happy Reading!

  XO, RS Grey

  Part One

  Chapter One

  Ben

  The persistent buzz from my phone is starting to grate on my nerves. It’s been going off all morning, and though I’m tempted to go right on ignoring it, I force myself to roll away from the window and grab it. I rub sleep from my eyes, sit up, and unlock the screen. It’s worse than I was expecting. I have 58 missed calls and 237 unread text messages. Another one rolls in; this one from my agent.

  You’re a legend. Find a newspaper. Turn on the TV. You’re everywhere.

  I don’t heed his advice. It’s early and I’m still exhausted from last night. Before I face the world, I could use some coffee and breakfast. A lot of breakfast. I’m starving. I set my phone back down on the nightstand, face down so it’s easier to ignore the barrage of people trying to get in contact with me, and then shift up and off the bed. My body screams at me to lie back down. Sore muscles, achy joints—a long playoff run will do that to you. I look down at the substantial purple and black bruise on my ribs. Carmelo Taylor elbowed me pretty damn good last night when he was trying to block my game-winning shot. Ref didn’t call the foul. Not that it matters. Nothing says Fuck you like crossing a dude over and hitting a step-back three in front of his own bench. I smile thinking about it. Without a doubt, that’s the moment everyone will be talking about this morning. The row of press positioned underneath the hoop likely captured it from every angle. Hopefully Carmelo gets a copy.

  A feminine curse rings out from the living room, and I roll my eyes. I told Anthony I didn’t want him bringing any girls back to our suite. The idiot didn’t listen, which means before I head out of my room, I grab some sweats and tug them on, ignoring the protests from my ribs when I bend over.

  I’d stay holed up in my room until she’s gone, but I’m hungry and thirsty.

  I step out into the living room, and confetti crunches underneath my bare feet.

  Clearly, Anthony had himself a little celebration after I fell asleep last night. His door’s flung open wide and there’s a girl sleeping beside him on his bed. Another one walks out of the bathroom; fortunately, this one is fully dressed.

  “Where’s my shoe?!” a third girl groans.

  She pops up from the other side of the living room couch and shrieks when she sees me standing there. She presses her hand to her chest as a long string of profanities escape her lips.

  I actually smile, which makes it twice in one morning. A record as of late.

  Her shock gives way to surprise. I scared her at first, but now that she’s registered who I am, her face goes beet red.

  “Ben Castillo…” Her mouth drops open, and she looks around as if she wants to share this news with someone. “You—you were in this suite last night?” she asks, pointing to the door behind me.

  I nod.

  “No way.” She laughs and shakes her head. “Had I known…”

  What? She would have kicked my door in? Mauled me?

  From the way she brazenly scans down my bare chest, I don’t think I’m that far off the mark.

  I wait for something to stir inside me. Want. Need. Desire. A fucking blip of life. She’s not bad-looking. Anthony’s as shallow as they come. He likes women with curves and sex appeal, so on paper, this woman ticks every box of what should turn me on…but she just doesn’t. I’m broken. Bored. Put off by every woman I’ve encountered in the last five months.

  “Do you need help getting home?” I ask, trying to move this awkward situation along. Just in case she has the wrong idea, I clarify. “I can get you an Uber or a cab, whatever’s easier.”

  Her face changes then. Her smile reaches her eyes and she looks relieved, maybe even grateful for my kindness.

  I rub the front of my neck, up along the stubble beneath my chin I haven’t shaved in a few days. I’m about to tack on Forget I asked when she finally speaks up.

  “That would be great, actually. Thanks. I just need to find—”

  I point up. “Your shoe?”

  Her strappy sandal is hanging from a limb of the suite’s chandelier.

  She laughs. “Right. Of course. Why wouldn’t my shoe be dangling from the ceiling?”

  She moves around the couch to try to get it, but seeing as I’m the professional basketball player here with the height to prove it, I take it upon myself to reach up and grab it before handing it down to her. Her cheeks heat with new color and she tucks her dark hair behind one of her ears.

  “Thank you.”

  I nod and walk away, giving her space to finish collecting her things.

  “Anthony!” I shout, waking him up like I’m his crotchety parent. “Your friend is ready to leave!”

  He groans and picks up a pen off his nightstand so he can throw it in my direction. It clatters against his doorframe before falling limply to the floor. “It’s the middle of the night!”

  “Nice, yeah. Good manners, bud. It’s ten AM. Get up and help me clean this place.”

  He refuses to comply, so I walk into his room and find his wallet on the TV console. I rip a couple hundred dollars out of it and head back out to the woman in the living room who’s now been joined by her friend who was in the bathroom.

  “That’s for getting home,” I tell them. “Do yo
u know the woman in the bed?” I ask, nodding back toward Anthony’s bedroom.

  Before they can answer, the woman in question scurries past me, clutching her purse and shoes to her chest. At least they don’t seem like they’re going to linger. They’re already starting to head for the door.

  “Hey! Come on, ladies,” Anthony protests. “We have all morning!”

  “Don’t listen to him,” I argue. “He’s about to get up and help me clean this suite. You don’t want to stay for that.”

  “Like hell I am! That’s why hotels have housekeepers!” Anthony protests, burying his head under his pillow.

  He knows full well we aren’t leaving it looking like this. The housekeepers—who get paid shit all—shouldn’t be subjected to this. My mom used to clean houses, and she’d slap me on the back of the head if she saw the state of this place.

  I shepherd the trio to the door, ensuring none of them get distracted on their way out of the palatial suite. We’re walking through the foyer where a five-foot flower arrangement sits in the center of a gaudy table when chandelier shoe girl turns back to me.

  “Congratulations by the way. National champs.”

  I nod. “Oh, yeah, thanks.”

  The right side of her mouth lifts in a tentative smile. “Could we get a quick picture with you before we leave?”

  What was left of my good mood vanishes.

  “No.”

  She shrugs, unfazed by my curt tone. “Right. Can’t blame me for trying.”

  I’ve been in the game long enough to know not to take a picture with them. These women seem nice, but the last thing I need is one of them running their mouth on social media, spreading rumors about me and what activities I get up to off the court. I don’t invite jersey chasers into my life for a reason. Even without a picture, nothing’s stopping them from going to the press and talking about this encounter right now. Anthony’s going to get an earful as soon as I finish escorting them out. He’s five years younger than me and still green in so many ways. Maybe I’ll take after my mom and smack him upside the head.

  Outside the suite, the women head toward the bank of private elevators, waving to me over their shoulders. Once those metal doors slide closed, I sigh in relief and I look down to the pile of newspapers waiting on top of the room’s welcome mat.

  The Chicago Tribune sits on top.

  CHAMPIONS AGAIN!

  LA SWEEPS CHICAGO FOR FOURTH CONSECUTIVE TITLE

  Underneath the headline, there’s a picture of me holding up the gold NBA Championship trophy with my teammates crowded around me, smiling big. Beside that photo is another image of me just as my three-point shot swooped through the net in the last second of the fourth quarter, clinching the game for Los Angeles.

  “I’m up now,” Anthony says with a groan behind me. “You happy?”

  I pick up the newspapers and carry them inside. He’ll want to take a look at them. This was his first title, hence why he went all out last night.

  I slap them against his chest as I pass by, and he hurries to catch them before they slide to the floor.

  “Now that’s what I like to see,” he quips, glancing down at the Tribune. “My face right on the front page. I mean, sure, from this angle you can only see half of me, but at least I’m smiling.” He crinkles the paper as he holds it up for me to see.

  I heave a sigh as I throw myself down on the living room couch and drop my head back to look up at the ceiling. I’m more than exhausted; I’m bone-weary. I need a month off, but I’m not going to get it. I won’t even get a week. We’re due to start training for the Games in two days.

  “Would it have killed you to look happy for the photos?” he prods.

  “That is my happy face.”

  He barks out a laugh as if that’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard.

  The shrill sound of the hotel’s phone ringing startles us both. I knew it would happen eventually; I can only stay off the grid for so long. I can silence my phone and turn it upside down, but my agent, my manager, my coach, my publicist, my good-for-nothing father—they’ll always find a way to reach me.

  “I’ll get it,” Anthony says, dropping the newspapers on the coffee table on his way to the phone.

  I listen to him talk, placing bets in my head for who could be on the other end of the line. He’s not flirting, so it can’t be my publicist. She’s three times his age, but he doesn’t let that stop him.

  “Hold on, give me that address again,” Anthony says, snapping his finger at me before he mimes writing something down.

  I don’t move a muscle as I arch an eyebrow as if to say, Snap that finger at me again and I’ll break it off.

  He rolls his eyes and puts the person on hold so he can grab the pen he tried to throw at me earlier. Once he finishes with the phone call, he picks up the piece of paper and waves it in the air.

  “Who was that?” I ask, curiosity winning out.

  “A rep from the Olympic committee.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Turns out they finally found somewhere for us to train. Pack your cowboy boots, buddy boy. We’re heading to Texas.”

  Chapter Two

  Raelynn

  Dale’s Diner is filled with gossipmongers. Every spot at the counter is accounted for, and all morning I’ve been running around like my feet are on fire trying to refill coffees and run meals and clear dirty dishes.

  “I heard they’ve had big city contractors out there for months, redoing that old ranch,” Jeananne declares with a smug smile like she’s dropping some real titillating bit of information.

  “I saw the moving trucks myself,” Doyle swears, leaning forward and raising his voice so the whole diner can hear his confident claims. “A whole line of them drove into town last month. Must have been a dozen carrying in lord knows what.”

  “You done, Mable?” I ask, reaching out for her plate.

  “Not yet, honey,” she says, shooing me away as she listens to Doyle.

  Not one of these people care that my shift is going to end soon. I’ve been breaking my back all morning waiting on them, and if I leave before they do, I can kiss my meager tips goodbye. There isn’t a system in place at Dale’s for sharing tips. In the wise words of my grandmother, You get what you get and you don’t throw a fit.

  I leave Mable’s plate where it is and move on down the line, trying to clear what I can. No one wants to vacate their spot and miss out on the conversation taking place.

  With a roll of my eyes—hidden, of course (this is the South after all)—I tug the dish towel out of the back of my apron and get back to wiping the counter.

  This gossip is nothing new. It’s all anyone in Pine Hill has been talking about for the last few weeks. Our small town, population: too few to count, is hosting the U.S. men’s Olympic basketball team for the next month while they prepare for the Summer Games. No one really knows for sure why they picked Pine Hill, but word is, the team’s head coach bought a piece of land not too far out of town last year and has been building a huge training facility there. A few of the local guys have even been commissioned to work out there, though apparently, they signed some kind of contract promising they wouldn’t blab their mouths about it because it’s all been pretty hush-hush.

  “I saw a red Lamborghini speeding down Main yesterday,” Mable tells the group with an admonishing tone. I smile at the way she pronounces the fancy car’s name, stretching it out real good so it takes twice as long for her to say.

  Doyle tsks. “There’s no telling what kind of riffraff they’ll attract to town.”

  I bite my tongue for the hundredth time this morning. If you ask me, this town could use some “riffraff”. Maybe all that “riffraff” would shut their traps, eat their meals, and leave promptly after giving me big fat tips.

  Two plates of food slide through the gap between the counter and the kitchen.

  “Order up!”

  I drop my towel and take the hot plates quickly, deftly delivering them to a couple by the wi
ndow. I didn’t recognize them when they first arrived and normally their presence would be the talk of the morning, but with the diner filled to capacity, the old-timers sitting at the counter haven’t even noticed them. The couple is definitely from out of town. Journalists or reporters from the looks of it. They’ve got their laptops out alongside notebooks. They’ve kept their heads bent together, and they only separate when they have to make room on their table for food.

  I head back to the counter for a fresh pot of coffee and carry it back to top off their mugs. “Y’all need anything else? Syrup? Ketchup?”

  The woman—a skinny brunette wearing a monotone cream outfit—wrinkles her nose at the suggestion of condiments. “This is fine. Thank you.”

  I watch her lift a portion of her scrambled egg whites with her fork, clearly distraught about the fact that they’ve been cooked in bacon grease.

  “Sorry ’bout that,” I say, leaning in and dropping my voice. “I did try to tell Cook you wanted your eggs cooked ‘healthy’, but between you and me, I’m not sure he’s ever heard that word before.”

  I tack on a teasing smile that she doesn’t return, and then I glance at her companion.