Tapping The Billionaire (Bad Boy Billionaires #1)(47)

“It sure f*cks in bulk,” John threw in, eager to even the score because of some running feud between the two of them. We were all well-off, grown-as-f*ck men, but you’d be surprised by how similar we were to a group of teenage girls sometimes.

“And how would you know, Johnny? Got a camera in my bedroom?” Thatch snapped back.

“All right,” I called, babysitting like usual. “Drama club is over, *s. Let’s go play rugby. Focus all of that energy into your attack, for f*ck’s sake.”

“You’re the one who can’t manage to make it past halfway without getting tackled and steamrolled into the ground,” Wes pointed out. He laughed as he said it, though, continuing the teasing vibe by wrapping his arm around my shoulders and walking out onto the field with me.

“At least I manage to touch the ball every once in a while,” I jabbed back, shoving him away and jogging to the other side of the pitch.

At this point in the season, practice consisted mostly of scrimmages, dividing into two teams and trying to outplay each other. I was just glad that when we split up, Thatch was usually on my side. He might have acted like a clown from time to time, but the dude was one big motherf*cker and had been known to do some permanent damage when he tackled you. I liked to walk without a limp, and if I was going to be told I couldn’t have kids one day, I sure as f*ck didn’t want testicle mutilation to be the reason.

I shook out of my daydream when the ball slammed into my chest, a smirk ghosting Wes’s lips from the success of his unexpected pass.

I took off at a run, dodging a defender and reaching the halfway line. Pain shot through my waist as another defender made hard contact. I tossed the ball underhanded and toward my back, the only direction allowed for a legal pass in rugby, and tucked my arms to my chest to take the impact of the fall without breaking a wrist.

“Jesus,” I groaned, shoving Tommy off of me as quickly as I could in order to rejoin play.

“Lay off the cookies, Tom,” I shouted as I ran toward the ruck my teammates had going.

“Weights!” he yelled back. “I think when you said cookies, you meant weights!”

And f*ck, by the way my spleen throbbed, Tommy just might have been right.

I slammed my body into the linked shoulders of Thatch and Wes, pushing them forward over the loose ball and helping the group gain momentum in the fight upstream against the defenders. Thatch fought for control in front of me, and I nearly took an elbow to the face in the process.

Rugby was a rough game, and when my organs felt like they might fall out or a limb ached like it might fall off, I wondered why I did it.

But then the ball was in my arms again, tossed underhand and over his shoulder by Thatch, and I remembered without question—the adrenaline, the thrill, the all-out expulsion of a week’s worth of tension, stress, and aggression.

I was convinced a little extracurricular rugby not only kept me in prime physical shape, but it also kept my mind at peace and on an even keel. I could only hope that as my physical health started to subside with age, my need to vent would dwindle along with it.

The weight of three bodies hit me at once as I was crossing the try line, but Thatch had them off in no time to celebrate the score. I was barely on my feet before the choreography started, Thatch firing off shots from his crotch like a semi-automatic weapon, the men of our team playing into his antics by hitting the ground one by one as he fired off “rounds.” As the scorer of the try, I was the only one who’d earned the privilege to stay on my feet.

I laughed and high-fived my teammates before jogging back across the pitch to do it all over again. Practice had just started, and now that I’d scored, my body was ready for more abuse.




I ran for the train just before it was set to depart, sliding through the doors in just the nick of time. Starving and ready to be home, all I could think about was getting there, showering, and ordering a pizza.

As my tired ass met the surface of the seat, I took a moment to be thankful for the lack of pregnant women and elderly. I was worn the hell out, but I wasn’t a prick. The rest of these f*ckers could fend for themselves.

I wiped some of the lingering sweat and mud from my face with my towel and pulled my phone from my bag.

A message sat waiting from earlier.



TAPRoseNEXT (6:18PM): Gah. The date. The date was amazing. And then it was pretty f*cking traumatic.



BAD_Ruck (7:52PM): Traumatic??? Am I going to need to hunt this guy down?



TAPRoseNEXT (7:54PM): No, he’s great, I promise. It wasn’t traumatic because of him. He’s…I don’t know, Ruck. I’ve got this gut feeling that he’s some kind of wonderful.



The corners of my lips started to curve, some weird, unconventional but meaningful relationship between us forming and instilling genuine happiness in me. But before the smile cycle could complete, utter disbelief washed over me in a wave of tsunami-like proportions—the conversations we’d had, the things she’d said. Work relationships and awkward yet somehow easy conversation. The way Rose, despite my more than infatuation with Georgie, managed to make me feel.

None of it made sense, not one single piece of it, until all at once, it did.

No f*cking way.

The doors of the subway opened, and I didn’t even hesitate, shoving my way through the throng of people without apology or remorse. I didn’t even know what f*cking stop we were on, but I ran for the stairs with single-minded abandon, taking them two at a time and reaching the top on a leap.