Page 13 of Playing Rough

Yeah, good luck with that pipe dream. The bad blood runs too deep to hope it's gonna disappear in a weekend... or ever. But I need this team too much to throw away my spot over drama.

Looks like Riot and I will have to call a very temporary, very reluctant truce this weekend, for the sake of the team.

After strategically timing my arrival last to the loading area the next morning, I find my way toward the back of the idling bus. I shove my hands into the front pocket of my hoodie. My duffel bag gets stowed in the storage compartment as I climb aboard.

Riot's rigid in his seat up front, discomfort obvious. Guess rooming with me has him on edge. Can't blame him there.

I wonder if something deeper's messing with his head. This retreat seems like it's hitting a nerve. File that away for later. Riot's weaknesses are useful intel.

I grab a seat in back by Knight.

"Make room for Lancaster," Knight says, gesturing to Luc to move over.

"Thanks, boys." I claim the vacated space, settling in for the trip. Most of the team is already curled up under blankets or scrolling phones. Up front, Tristan has his portable speaker rigged up, muffled hip hop pulsing through the enclosed space.

As the bus rumbles out, I sink into my seat, pull my hat lower, and pass out, prepping for whatever bullshit's coming.

I jerk awake when we roll to a stop. Rubbing my eyes, I stare out at the massive property looming ahead. An iron gate... winding drive... It's like a goddamn palace.

"Holy shit," Knight breathes, face plastered to the glass. "Is that...?"

"The Kensington estate," Luc whispers in awe beside us.

No way. No goddamn way.

This cannot be happening.

But the proof stands before me in all its imposing grandeur. Three looming stories of brick and bullshit, surrounded by manicured gardens and an enormous lawn. One of the biggest private properties near Hollowgate, owned by one of the wealthiest families in the state.

Riot looks pissed. He clearly wasn't given a heads up Mommy and Daddy were hijacking the team retreat.

His expression can best be described as blindsided.

Interesting power play by his parentals.

Before I can analyze that further, the bus doors fold open and we're spilling out onto the circular drive as the driver pops open the under-bus storage so we can grab our gear.

Deck leads the way up the front steps to where a man and woman wait in the open doorway, beaming their perfect smiles down at us.

Riot's parents. Here to greet the team their prodigal son plays for.

As we file up the steps, Riot's father pumps Coach's hand. "It's so good to finally meet properly. We're thrilled you accepted our invitation to host your retreat here."

Invite, huh? Judging by Riot's clenched fists and rolled eyes, he didn't get that memo.

"The pleasure is ours, Mr. Kensington," Coach says politely. "You have a beautiful home and my boys are looking forward to the weekend."

"Please, call me William." His smile doesn't reach his eyes as they flick to Riot. "Our home is always open to the team responsible for shaping my son into the star athlete he is today."

Ah, now his folks' angle clicks. Hosting earns them insider access and status through their golden son. Meanwhile, it’s clear Riot hates being put on display.

We get the VIP tour of stuffy rooms lined with oil paintings and mounted animal heads. Riot stays subtly apart from everyone while we walk through the place he grew up. It's like a museum, not a place people live, and his discomfort reeks like shitty cologne.

After a quick tour, we're shown to our assigned rooms. When Riot and I get to ours, I see it's a fancy-ass guest room with two queen beds.

I raise an eyebrow at Riot. "We're not staying in your room?"

He shoots me a withering look. "And let you inside more of my personal space? Hell no. You're not welcome in my private rooms."

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