Rule breakers, p.1
Rule Breakers, page 1
RULE BREAKERS
FRISKY JOCKS
BOOK 1
R. CAYDEN
Copyright © 2023 by R. Cayden
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Beta reading by: Megan Dischinger, Isabelle Felix, and Shanice Felix
Proofreading by: M.A. Hinkle
CONTENTS
Prologue
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
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
About the Author
Also by R. Cayden
SUMMARY
Troy Frisk was already a baseball legend when he was my age.
Now, he’s Philly’s toughest sports agent. A famous grump, founder of the best agency in town, and my new representation.
Oh, and he’s also the stranger I accidentally picked up the other night, turns out.
I’m a soccer star at the start of my career.
I already have a reputation for acting impulsively, and my team is not impressed by the antics.
Hooking up again with my older, famous agent is a recipe for disaster, totally forbidden.
He’s straight anyway, and I’m not out of the closet.
So I will not tempt fate while my team is on a winning streak.
No matter how many times Troy Frisk and I find ourselves alone at the office or the gym.
Even if it turns out the old jock is weirdly, totally lovable.
And kind of perfect for me.
Rule Breakers is a standalone M/M romance with an age gap, forbidden shenanigans, and two jocks who can’t help but fall for each other. It’s an easy read with lots of steam and a touch of angst. Enjoy!
PROLOGUE
TROY
Fifteen years ago…
It’s the bottom of the eighth, game four in the World Series, and I’m up to bat. The score is tied 2-2, and all eyes in the packed stadium are on me as I lumber to the plate.
I’m used to the pressure. It’s familiar, gritty, and good.
The only rookie on a team of elite players, I’ve had the most to prove this season. But I’ve proven it, game after game, crouched behind the plate as the starting catcher while the team powers through a legendary winning streak.
And now we’re here. Ready to accomplish the impossible. No team has had an undefeated season since the Cincinnati Red Stockings in 1869. If we grab this win, we’ll go down in the history books.
Steeling myself with determination, I step behind the plate. The announcer declares my name, and a roar goes through the crowd.
I block it all out and lock my eyes on the pitcher. Gripping the bat tight, I step into my stance, crowding the plate.
I’m not fast, but I’m powerful, and I know how to scare the shit out of a pitcher.
The first ball comes fast and high. It’s tempting, but I hold my swing, and the ump calls a ball.
There are two outs, and a player on third. Standing at the plate, I know that a split second decision can make the difference, and my mind becomes totally clear and focused.
I’ve trained for this my entire life. I’ve fought my way to the major leagues with every breath, all on my own, and now I’m going to show up for my team and deliver.
The second pitch comes fast with a curve, but I lean into the swing and nail it. The ball goes flying to left field, and I charge toward first base, pumping my legs. I can’t see my teammate or the ball, but I get the signal to keep going, and I plow forward, heading toward second.
The second baseman, Haber, is burly as hell. He turns, preparing to receive the ball, and I realize I might not make it. Pure adrenaline pumping through my veins, I launch my body forward, diving toward the base as he reaches for the catch.
I slam into the ground, dust everywhere. Elation surges through me as I make contact with the plate first, but a second later, Haber collapses onto me.
Our bodies tangle, and wrenching pain shoots up my leg. I let out a roar of agony as I feel my knee twist, but my hand stays planted firmly on the base.
And as our runner crosses home, putting our team one point ahead, I hear my bone break, and my baseball career comes to an excruciating, devastating end.
CHAPTER ONE
TROY
Today...
“Those pricks,” I say as I loosen my tie. “Can you believe they dragged the negotiations out? As though they have the guts to walk on us.”
My business partner Mel settles into the booth across from me. We’re at a bar downtown, just down the block from the meeting. The place is a dive, but they have the game on.
“Sure,” Mel says. “But who cares if they’re pricks? We inked the deal.” She raises her drink. “Philly’s own hockey god is going to be the face of electric trucks, just like he wanted.”
I frown and throw my whiskey back. “Our agency is a force. Greedy pipsqueaks in bad suits shouldn’t think they can outplay us.”
“We got our terms,” she points out.
“Maybe I’m getting too soft,” I grumble, mainly to myself. “Maybe I should have yelled at those truck assholes weeks ago.”
If it would have gotten the athlete better terms, I should have.
Mel laughs. “You think you’re too soft? You, my friend, are the biggest hardass in this business.”
I frown at her, although a little pride twitches through me. “Go to hell.”
This is an industry full of hardass jocks. I can’t possibly be the worst.
When an injury derailed my baseball career, I was in my mid-twenties. I found myself left like so many other athletes, flailing and with no backup. The industry, I discovered, was happy to kick me aside.
The experience ignited my interest in the business of professional sports, and so I sent myself to pain-in-the-ass law school to figure it all out. After years of hard work and loans, I earned a degree, passed the bar, and launched my career as a freelance agent, opening my humble agency with a single client. But I kept working and growing, and eventually, I met Mel, a public relations wiz with a hunger for success that matches my own. I made her the best offer I could, and she joined on as an equal partner, with me in charge of the agents and her in charge of PR. After that, the agency really took off.
She’s good at the people and all that bullshit. I’m good at sports.
And being a hardass.
“Instead of yelling more at potential business, you could consider relaxing,” Mel offers. “We’ve got one of the top sports agencies on the east coast, and you and I are barely forty.” She shrugs slightly. “You’ve been dead-focused on building the agency, but maybe now that it’s truly and fully built, you could take some time to celebrate your wins.”
Mel knows it’s not as simple as that. I’ve always supported myself, worked my ass off to stand on my own two feet. I’m secure enough now that I’ll never face the instability and struggle I did when I was young. I made damn sure of that.
But the agency is about more than providing for me. It’s about providing for athletes, giving them the security and support I never had. I’m not the most social guy in the world. I don’t keep a lot of friends. But I know the special challenges that athletes face, and taking care of them satisfies something in me, a deep urge.
That need to connect with athletes and provide is what drives me to build the agency, more than personal wealth or reputation.
Still, I take note of my friend’s advice even as I deflect.
“Celebrating is for rookies,” I tell her.
She sends a quick text as she talks. “You better not be calling me a rookie.”
“Should I take a cue from you?” I point my empty glass at her. “Buy an overpriced vacation home? Climb a mountain?” I cock up a smile, teasing my old friend. “Put on fancy suits and chase lovers who are too young for me?”
She coughs out a laugh. “Sorry. I just pictured you in a stylish suit. It was too much.” Mel keeps her smile as she stands. “You do you, Troy. But I’m going to enjoy the moment.” She smooths down the front of her teal dress. “And he is not too young,” she adds.
I snort. “Enjoy your evening, Mel.”
“See you bright and early, you miserable old grump.”
I huff into my beer, my eyes on the game.
I’m not a miserable old grump.
Am I?
My brow tightens as I argue with myself internally, glaring at the TV. I’m a grump, sure, and getting older, but I’m not miserable. And anyway, how the hell am I supposed to act? I’m a middle-aged jock.
Sports have been my life, and I’ve put my career ahead of everything else. Relationships, hobbies, every god damn thing. Hell, I haven’t even gotten laid in years. But that hasn’t made me into a miserable grump.
I’m a perfectly fine grump in my god damn prime, is what I am.
Philly’s star pitcher is on the mound. Marshall is on fire, but he gives one up, and the batter sends it deep into center field.
“Damn it!” I curse, slamming my glass down harder than I intended. “Get your shit together.”
“Whoa! Big reaction from the booth in the corner.”
I turn my head, and there’s a sporty young man standing by my booth. He’s young, maybe in his mid-twenties. There’s a peachy undertone to his olive skin, and his eyes are dark. He’s got a solid build, curly brown hair, and his brow is up in surprise.
“Oh hey,” he says. “Grinder. Bearded guy with a blue tie.”
I glance down at myself and my tie, loosened and hanging over my chest.
What the hell does grinder mean? Like I’m grinding at the office, I guess.
“Yeah, looks like it,” I grumble. He steps in my way, and I point behind him. “The game. You’re blocking it.”
He moves aside, but closer to the booth, still looking at me.
Maybe he recognizes me from my short career as a catcher, although after so many years, that rarely happens anymore.
“I’m not a baseball fan,” he says, chatting with a friendly smile, although his energy is a little jumpy. “Sports, yes. I’m totally a sports guy. Baseball is just the one sport I never got into.”
I consider telling him I was Philly’s star catcher when I was his age, but change my mind, not wanting to encourage the stranger.
“Baseball is a great game,” I say sharply, eyes on the screen.
“Home team is up, 2-1,” he says, turning toward the TV, too. It gives me a chance to glance at the annoying young man without inviting his company. He’s wearing a pair of snug jeans and a long-sleeved tee, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows. When he shoves his hands in his pockets, the jock in me notices his physique, firm and toned like an athlete’s.
Smoothly, the man turns his gaze back my way, not quick enough to catch me looking, though. “I’m sure you’re a Philly man. I’ll bet you fifty that Detroit wins.”
“No way in hell Philly loses this one,” I tell him, meeting his sight directly, respect for my old team lashing out. “Detroit is about to fall apart. They come in strong, but they falter. Philly wins easily.”
“Okay, it’s a bet,” he says and raises a funny smile. “I’ll be right back.”
He disappears. I realize my heart rate is accelerated. The way he keeps eyeing me, I’m not sure what it’s about. Does he want something from me? Before I can get my head on straight, though, he returns with two bottles of beer, slides into the booth across from me, and hands me a bottle.
“Are we doing names?” he asks. “Or not?”
I squint at him. What a weird way to ask that question.
I set the beer down without drinking from it, not trusting any of this.
“My name is Troy,” I finally say. “And I didn’t take you up on that bet.”
“Orlando,” he replies. “You don’t think Philly’s going to win? What kind of a fan are you?”
I frown. The eighth inning is already done, and the game is almost over.
What the hell. A bet is one way to take Mel’s advice and have a little fun. At least I can shove a few extra bucks in my pocket and put this young man in his place while I watch the end of the game.
“Make it a hundred.”
He smiles. “Deal.”
No sooner do we turn back to the screen than Detroit’s best batter sends one deep into left field. Orlando nearly jumps to his feet when the runner crosses home, the batter safely on second.
“Hell yeah,” he says, pumped. “That’s what I’m talking about.”
“Don’t get excited by one good hit,” I say flatly.
Orlando leans back and chuckles. “I’ve never done this before,” he says, a little hesitant. “I didn’t know I was jumping into the deep end with a hardass.”
I blink. He used the same phrase Mel used to describe me earlier.
Is this some kind of fucking prank? Did Mel pay this guy to annoy me?
I lean forward, meeting his brown eyes directly. Just because he hasn’t bet on a game before doesn’t mean I’m going easy on him. “You want to know what a hardass is?” I ask. “Keep talking shit about Philly.”
Instead of balking, he leans slightly forward and raises up a half-smile. “Don’t tempt me.”
My pulse thuds in my ears. I’m not sure what we’re talking about or why we’re even talking, but I feel defiant, and I’m not letting this little shit shake me.
He almost sounds flirtatious. But that can’t be right. I’m straight, and if a man has ever flirted with me before, I didn’t notice it. Hell, the walls I’ve got up, flirting isn’t something I do with anyone.
And why the hell would someone his age flirt with me?
I finally break eye contact. “Philly’s up to bat,” I say, turning back to the thing that matters and makes sense. Baseball.
“Last chance. You still sure they’ll score?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. Let’s make it interesting,”
“Trying to double the bet again?”
“Double the bet or get up to some trouble.”
This is exactly what Mel was talking about. I never gamble. I don’t entertain bullshit from strangers. And I definitely don’t get up to any trouble.
But there’s something about this kid and the way he keeps staring me right in the pupils, challenging me like he’s not scared of my bark.
He’s gotten under my skin. And after the conversation with Mel, I’m itching to prove something to myself, that I’m not in some deep rut, cranky and old and stuck.
I cross my arms over my chest. “Trouble,” I say simply, not shutting him down.
He pulls his top teeth across his bottom lip, just barely. “Philly wins, and I’ll suck your cock.”
I blink. Did he just say what I think he said?
Something in me prickles, defensive and uncertain. Pushing away, even though something else is pulling me back.
Orlando looks at me, trying to keep his cocky smile up, but I can feel him wavering as he waits for my answer.
When my head clears, my dick is hard in my pants.
What the fuck?
It’s some sort of biological reaction. The high stakes of the pitch meeting earlier, and now this guy testing me, it’s all got my blood surging.
“Orlando,” I say cautiously, scolding him with my eyes. I’m unwilling or unable to respond directly, acknowledge what he said and make it real.
This feels dangerous, but like a storm coming in over the ocean, I can’t look away.
He arches an eyebrow. “Stakes too high? Or you just worried because Philly is clearly about to eat shit?”
A defensive growl escapes from the back of my throat. He keeps poking fun at my team, provoking me.
He notes the reaction with an arch to his eyebrow. “That growl sounds like a yes.”
“The only way you’re getting my cock is if I shove it in your mouth to shut you up.”
The words escape before I can think better. Conflicting, confused desires crash through me. He’s trying to play with me, throw me off balance, but he’s only in his twenties. He’s some cocky young guy talking crap about my old team, and the urge to teach him a lesson rises up like a tidal wave.
