Trouble at Brayshaw High (Brayshaw, #2)(23)

Collins is well aware our dad asked us to play fucking nice.

The real fucking question is how and what else does this dick know that we don’t?

I chuck the ball into his stomach, and he jerks, catching it like I knew he would.

“Go on, Graven.” I tilt my head back lazily, walking backward to my position. “Start us off.”

The corner of his eyes tightens as he starts dribbling, and drops back to his place.

The rest of his temporary team still waits at the side, so I nod my chin, giving my team the go-ahead to play with him here.

“Let’s go, assholes,” Cap smacks our boy Mac on the shoulder, who was placed on the opposite side of us.

We talked to Coach last night and told him not to use our playbook or talk any sort of strategizing with him here. We’ll run basic ass shit and nothing more.

So that’s exactly what we do, run basic.

An hour and a half in, and he’s only touched the ball twice, and one of those was for a free throw after he was fouled.

His glare flies to Coach. “You’re willing to chance a loss just to appease these assholes by not exercising the entire team? I need practice before next game—”

Royce cuts him off with an obnoxious, nasty ass laugh and everyone stands to attention.

He grips the front of his basketball shorts and stalks toward Collins.

Collins’ eyes tighten at the edges as he tracks Royce’s every step.

“Next game?” Royce laughs again, but there’s no sign of humor on his face. “Bitch, you really think you or your thousand dollar fucking Fendis will ever touch down on our court alongside us?”

Collins’ head draws back the slightest bit.

“You’ll never play as a Wolf,” Royce tells him. “I don’t give a shit what anyone says. Not Coach, not my dear old dad, not my brothers. Not when it comes to this. You, you punk ass bitch, played your last game of ball the second you decided to come into our house.” Royce takes a step backward. “You’re fucking lucky we have to play nice, Graven, or we’d have snipped you at the ankles the second your feet hit Brayshaw steps.”

Collins stares at Royce, the muscle in his jaw ticking, but then his shoulders square and his eyes slide to meet mine.

My brows drop low as I gauge him.

I know where this fucker’s about to go.

Push me, bitch. I fucking dare you...

“Work me out, Brayshaw.” The corner of his lip lifts and I take a half a step forward. “Work me out today, and I’ll give her the night off.”

I’m in his face, nose to fucking nose, forehead to forehead in the next second.

“Boys—” Coach yells, but when nothing else comes from him, I know Cap or Royce cut him off with a single look.

“Don’t be a cagey motherfucker, Graven. You wanna stand here, brave enough to run your mouth when you know I could lay you out in a solid fucking second, then be brave, bitch.” I drop my voice to a whisper so only he can hear, driving him backward with my forehead on his. “You and I both know I have to leave you standing, for now.”

He glares, but the sweat forming at his hairline tells me he’s ready to piss his Moncler cotton fucking track pants. “Dunk on me, Brayshaw...” He licks his lips and edges back the smallest bit, but I lean with him, not allowing him the space he’s searching for.

My hand starts twitching at my sides. I know he’s about to throw what’s mine in my face like she belongs to him.

“Dunk on me, and I’ll let her sleep in a separate bed tonight, instead of mine—”

My fist flies, connecting with his jaw and he drops to the gravel.

I go to drop down on top of him, but Captain and Royce pull me back, shoving me toward the opposite side of the court.

“Fuck,” Coach spits, tossing his clipboard. “All right, this half, stay on this side.” He looks to me with a glare. “You boys stay on that fucking side. Fifty suicides. Go!”

I jerk from Captain’s hold and he and Royce throw their arms over my shoulders laughing quietly to themselves.

I can’t help it and a small grin takes over.

Fuck that fool.

“Yo, Maddoc!” I turn back, tipping my chin at Mac. “Car’s confirmed. Party’s at the Tower at eight, yeah?” he shouts.

Collins’ eyes hit Mac in my peripheral and I fight a smirk.

“Yup, invite anyone you want, doors are open tonight.” I turn back around, and Royce elbows me.

All fucking set.



I shuffle through paper after paper, coming up with nothing. For a library full of files, the Gravens seem to keep nothing but worthless shit here. Pool boy and gardening receipts galore – useless.

With a sigh, I close the door back and head down the gaudy ass spiral staircase. The second I hit the marble landing, there’s a knock at the door.

I stand there a moment, just staring at it, and then they knock again.

Fucking Collins, who is at practice causing problems, I’m sure, won’t allow me and his maid to be here alone, so he sends her on her way every time he leaves. Probably texts her on his way home every time, heaven fucking forbid he has to hang his own coat.

The doorbell rings next.

Fuck.

A low growl leaves me, and I yank the door open with a frown, prepared to tell his buddies to kick rocks, but my brows meet my hairline when none other than Maria Vega, my so-called social worker, is at the door.