Reckless: A Bad Boy Sport Romance Read online

  When I changed into my gear, I walked out to the field, slugging back a bottle of water. Coach and Billy, one of the custodians, were making small talk by one of the goalposts. I strode past them, making my way towards the sidelines.

  “Morning, Coach.”

  The men's conversation came to a sudden stop. Coach lowered his foam cup of coffee, his face void of expression. He gave me a long, hard stare, his dark eyebrows leveled and his mouth a thin, straight line.

  “Morning.” He gave me a brusque half-nod and turned back to the custodian, picking up from where he'd left off.

  After a couple of stretches, I started doing some 30-yd shuttle runs. Since the case was still ongoing, I had been temporarily suspended from the team, which probably explained why Coach hadn't expected to see me here. That, or he was just as surprised as I was that I'd made it here a full half hour before practice even started.

  But I couldn't get the look of disgust and disappointment on Brooklyn's face out of my mind, and it sparked the fire under my ass. The clock was ticking, and it was starting to lag with each tick. I knew my time was running up. The least I could do was show some initiative, and try to salvage whatever I had left here. Being second-string was the least of my problems. I was lucky I was even allowed on the premises.

  As I ran back and forth, touching the white markers on the turf, some guys from the practice squads started trickling onto the field. Behind them, Baldwin, Hardwick, Armstrong, and Xavier followed, each in a pair of oversized sunglasses louder than the next. The 3 were in uniforms, but Xavier, who as always, had no business here other than to mack on the cheerleaders, was dressed in character like the tool he was. He wore a leopard-print shirt, tight red jeans, and some ugly-ass anchor-chain around his neck.

  “You've gotta be shitting me,” Xavier growled, pushing up his sunglasses over his head. “The fuck do you think you're doing here, Warner?”

  I stopped running, wiping the sweat off my forehead as I started towards them slowly.

  “Yeah,” Baldwin spoke up, breathing like a pit bull. “I thought I told you not to show your face around here –”

  “Come on, guys,” Hardwick mumbled, glancing at his feet. “Maybe we shouldn't –”

  “Hey, hey, break it up!” Coach yelled from the goalpost, jabbing a thumb behind him. “And Xavier, don't you got anything better to do than hang around here all the time? Scram!”

  “But I –” Xavier's bottom lip jutted out defiantly.

  “I said, OUT!”

  Disgruntled, Xavier pivoted on his heel and stomped off.

  “And the 4 of you – shut those traps – the only things I want to see you running are those legs – now get to it!”

  Baldwin and Hardwick sped off, but Armstrong chose to jog alongside me.

  “Sorry man, must be rough. Wanna come by my place tonight and chill for a bit?”

  “Nah, man, I think I'm –”

  “Come on, what else you got planned?”

  He had a point. As much as I didn't like the dude, he really did seem to be reaching out, for whatever reason. I agreed to go to Club Monaco with him because I knew there wouldn't be much talking involved, but how bad could this be? Beats moping around at home with my thoughts, that's for sure.

  “Yeah, alright. See you tonight.”

  Chapter Twelve: Ace

  2016

  “4 large pizzas with everything on it, 2 large sodas, and a side of buffalo wings – your total is $65.50.”

  I took the warm boxes of food and handed the middle-aged delivery woman a hundred dollar bill with my free hand.

  “Thanks. Keep the change.”

  “Oh, sweetie, bless your heart. Have a good night.”

  I closed the door and put down the food on the kitchen counter.

  “Yo, pizza's here!”

  Armstrong slid open the balcony door and slipped back into his living room. He tossed his phone onto the coffee table. I had to admit, his coffee table was pretty dope. It was a bronze sculpture of a naked woman lifting herself off the ground with her arms and legs stretched out in front of her, balancing the glass top with her titties.

  Armstrong's apartment was pretty sweet, and it was exceptionally clean for a bachelor's pad. But all that aside, it was exactly that. Things were much more colorful than I'd expected, with the walls and furniture sharing a scheme of retro patterns in bright blues, oranges, and greens. It was like he'd hired Austin Powers as his interior designer.

  The crazy color scheme extended to his bathroom, game room, and kitchen, too, but the shrine he'd erected for himself was another story. There were trophies, framed display cases, and pictures of him all over the place, some from all the way back in elementary school. Then, there was the master bedroom.

  Other than his round bed, the '70s porn animal rug, and the life-sized portrait of him flexing in a loincloth looming over the bed, there were even more trophies and a framed set of special edition Daymond Armstrong trading cards up on the walls. It was pretty bizarre – I'd never seen anything like it. I didn't know what else to do other than nod along as he proudly showed off each one of his awards, suffering through every long-winded back story.

  “How much do I owe you?”

  “It's on me. Thanks for inviting me out here tonight.”

  “My pleasure, man, my pleasure. So, what's your poison?” Armstrong poked his head into the fridge. “One of my buddies just sent me a case of this Slovakian beer –”

  I froze, my grip tightening around the edge of the counter. Son of a bitch. What I'd give for a fresh, cold one – it was some of that imported shit, too...

  “Nah, brother, I'm good.” I fixed myself a glass of Coke and grabbed a slice of pizza, heading for the couch. “You go ahead.”

  “Yeah, right,” Armstrong snorted. “Or, if you're looking for something a little harder, I think I got some Kentucky Straight you can have with that Coke –”

  “No, thanks. Really.” I switched on the TV, flipping through the channels before stopping at some Steven Seagal movie. “My ass is already suspended, and with everything going on, I just think it's wise to cut back for now.”

  “My bad, I didn't realize. But that's cool, I can respect that.” Armstrong grabbed himself a beer and joined me on the couch. “So, how you holding up?”

  “I've been better, but I'm hanging in there.” I drank from my glass, slumping back in my seat. Ironically, the lack of buzz was making my head spin.

  “You know, Baldwin – he and Whitaker were real close. I heard they asked him to be their kid's godfather, just a couple of days before...you know. The guy's just hurting. Same goes for Hardwick. And with what they're saying about you on the news, I don't think he knows how to handle any of this – I mean, none of us do –”

  “I get it,” I answered honestly. “No hard feelings.”

  “Yeah? Good.”

  A few minutes of uneasy silence went past until Armstrong reached behind him and pulled out a fat, flattened blunt from his back pocket. He smoothed the sides and plumped it, lighting up next to me. With puffs of smoke sputtering out of his mouth, he passed me the blunt.

  “H-here. If you don't want a drink, least you could do is take a few hits of that. It'd be a crime to be in your right state of mind at a time like this.”

  “Thanks.”

  I took a deep breath, sucking hard on the end of the joint. Almost immediately, I was convulsing with violent, hacking coughs. But once it tapered off, it took the pounding in my head along with it. I handed the blunt back to Armstrong.

  “Nice...”

  I smiled sleepily, laying my head against the back of the couch. My eyes landed on the framed photograph on the lamp table next to me. It showed a short man with small eyes and a flat, chubby face, his arms wrapped tightly around Armstrong in his Jets uniform.

  “Who's that?”

  “No one – just some fan,” Armstrong brushed it off, resting his elbows on his lap as he hit the blunt. “Shit, I can't believe I nearly hitched a
ride with you guys that day. What happened, man? Do you remember any –”

  “I don't wanna talk about it, sorry. I came here to get my mind off it all, if you know what I mean.”

  “Oh. Yeah, of course. Don't apologize.” Armstrong didn't push it any further, but he swallowed his lips in disappointment.

  As I grabbed myself another slice, the coffee table started shaking with Armstrong's ringing phone.

  “Sorry, I gotta get this.”

  “No worries.”

  “Here.” He pulled out a wooden box with rolling papers and about 12 grams in it from under the couch, placing it on the table. “Go nuts. I'll be right back.”

  When Armstrong slipped back out into the balcony and sealed the glass door shut, this queasy feeling started spreading through my gut. But as quick as it came, I shook it right off. Yeah, Armstrong was a conceited fuck, but he was going out of his way to kick it with me when everyone else was ghosting.

  The last thing I should do is isolate myself from one of the only people who had my back.

  Chapter Thirteen: Brooklyn

  2016

  “Come on, guys, one more shot for the birthday girl!”

  The dozen of us at the round table raised our glasses simultaneously, tipping back the small glass of clear, white liquor. When we set our drinks down, a chorus of gasps and heavy panting circled the table. I blotted the corners of my eyes with a napkin and massaged my throat, still feeling the effects of the baijiu's cold burn.

  “I want to thank God, and I want thank all of you for coming out tonight,” Fern Shaw, the HR director of Slater Oakridge, declared from across the table. She looked around at us, her misty eyes pink with emotion. “I wouldn't be where I am today without all of your support, and you have no idea how much this means to me –”

  “Alright, Fern, wrap it up – you're not accepting an Oscar,” Hassan Manav, who worked with me in Sales and Trading, interrupted, catching Fern before the floodgates opened. “We love you Fern, but the food's getting cold!”

  “Okay, okay.” Fern laughed, gesturing to the food. “Dig in!”

  As those around me tackled the lavish spread of Peking duck, Chinese barbecue pork, and exotic dim-sum dishes in bamboo steamers, I grabbed my phone and excused myself from the table. I crept out of our private dining room, roaming around for a bathroom as I checked my phone. And just as I'd checked half an hour ago, it appeared Tabitha was still refusing to call or text me back.

  Tabitha stayed true to her word. The day after our fight, I woke up and found that she had snuck out with all of her things while I was asleep. The kitchen, bathroom, and living room had been scrubbed immaculately clean. Even the sheets, covers, and the pillowcases of both the guest room and the living room had been replaced.

  Obviously, throughout our 17-year friendship, this was far from our first fight. And as once overly-emotional adolescent girls, there were even times when our fights got a little physical. But eventually, when all the harsh words and occasional hair-pull or scratches had been exchanged, we always, always talked it out. This time, not only did it feel like Tabitha was looking for a fight, I hadn't heard from her in over a week, and I was starting to get worried. I couldn't remember the last time I'd gone a day without talking to her, even if it was just a quick, nonsense text from her or a picture of what she was currently eating.

  After wandering around the opulent red-and-gold interior of the massive restaurant, I finally found the sign to the ladies' room. But before I made the turn down the narrow hallway, a lone figure in the booth behind me caught my eye. The kid wore a striped black-and-gray sweater with the hood pulled up and his headphones on, hunched over the table with an AP Calculus book in front of him.

  “Aiden?”

  Aiden pulled down his headphones, leaving them around his neck. I took a good look at him. The swelling in his eye had gone down, but it was still ringed with faint traces of brown and black. The gashes on his nose and neck had closed up, and were now crusty pink stripes.

  “Ms. C?” His eyes lit up in surprise, and his lips curved in a small smile. “What're you doing here?”

  “I'm with some colleagues from work, celebrating a birthday.” I leaned against the curved top of the antique wooden bench. “And what are you doing here?”

  Aiden straightened up in his seat, the light in his eyes dimming.

  “My parents own this place.”

  “Oh, I see. So, are you –”

  “Aiden! Aiden? Are you bothering that customer?”

  I jumped back at the snippy voice. A man who looked to be in his 50s marched towards us, the kitchen doors swinging behind him. He pushed up his gold-framed glasses on the bridge of his nose and adjusted the white frog buttons on his black tunic importantly.

  “Oh, no, he's not bothering me at all. If anything, I think I'm bothering him.” I beamed at the older man, extending a hand. “Nice to meet you – Mr. Chen, is it? You have a beautiful restaurant, and the food is absolutely amazing.”

  “Yes, yes, thank you.” Mr. Chen shook my hand firmly with his cold fingers. “So, Aiden. Who is your friend?”

  “I'm Brooklyn Cunningham. I teach a dance class at the studio down at –”

  “I know who you are,” said Mr. Chen softly, crossing his arms. He gazed at me with his callous, narrowed eyes, his forehead cluttered with wrinkles. “You're Ms. C, and you're all my son can talk about –”

  “Ba.” Aiden looked up at his father. For the first time, I could hear the crack in his normally cool voice. “Please, just leave her alone –”

  “With all due respect, Ms. Cunningham, you are wasting my son's time. I've strictly forbidden him from extracurricular activities for this very reason. Ever since he began sneaking off to your little dance club, his grades have been slipping –”

  “Ba. Back off. Your other customers are starting to stare –”

  I pushed back my soldiers, returning his steely gaze.

  “I'm truly sorry you feel that way, Mr. Chen. And with all due respect, Aiden is one of the most talented kids –”

  “Mr. Chen! Ping-an!”

  Mr. Chen whipped around, bowing and waving enthusiastically behind me.

  “Mr. Dubois! What a pleasure to see you again. You're in luck – your favorite table is available.”

  I groaned under my breath, my fingers curling to fists. This couldn't have been happening. Aiden shot me a meaningful look, signaling for me to leave with his jerking chin. I nodded and hurried towards the bathroom, but it was too late.

  “Actually, I'm here for some take-out – wait, Brooklyn? Brooklyn!”

  With my hands still balled at my sides, I heaved a breath and turned back around.

  “Brooklyn! There you are – I've missed you –”

  “Listen.” I grasped Xavier's collar, snarling into his ear. “All this shit you're pulling constitutes as stalking, and if you don't leave me alone, I'm filing a restraining order. I'm not kidding around – if you so much as poke me on Facebook, I'm calling my lawyer. Understood? Good.”

  I let go of him, patted his chest, and continued on towards the ladies' room.

  Chapter Fourteen: Ace

  2016

  “What is it?” I held my phone to my ear, leaning with my palm against the coarse wall of the fire exit. “Keep it short. I've got a meeting to get to.”

  “My team and I have been tailing a number of individuals for the last couple of weeks, and we've compiled a collection of our findings thus far.” The thick, plummy voice on the other end of the line droned in my ear. “Perhaps we can set up an appointment sometime soon to discuss this further.”

  “Good, good. Thanks. I'll take a look at my schedule and shoot you a text as soon as I get out of my meeting.”

  “Very well. We'll keep in touch.”

  I hung up and pushed the door open, slipping my second phone into my other back pocket. The hallway was empty, save for 2 janitors mopping up the dark hardwood floors. I nodded at them, apologizing as I zigzagged past
them, and made my way to Dubois' office.

  “Come in.”

  I pushed open the door, greeted by a chilly blast pumping out from the air-conditioning vents overhead.

  Dubois put his desktop to sleep, his leather chair squeaking as he leaned back in his seat. The man was everything his son wasn't. He wore a sharp, ironed suit and tie, and his gelled white hair was neatly combed. Even without saying a word, you could tell the businessman was loaded, but his dignified posture told you he was well-educated and refined.

  “You wanted to see me, Mr. Dubois?”

  “I did. Have a seat.” He picked up his phone and punched in an extension. “Yes, Coach Myers, he's here – if you'll please join us in my office.”

  He hung up his phone and began stirring his tea with a small spoon.

  “So, how have you been since our last meeting?”

  “I've been alright, I guess.” I rubbed my hands together, leaning forward in my seat. The suspense was killing me. “I've been holding my own. I've had a few nightmares here and there from the accident, but I've been getting a little more sleep lately, so there's that.”

  “Good. It shows.” Dubois lifted his cup to his lips, blowing on the steaming tea. “And have you gone to any of the facilities I suggested?”

  “No, but I haven't had a drink in a little over a week now, if that means –”

  “That's wonderful news!” Dubois set down his teacup. He grinned at me, wrinkles forming in the corners of his eyes.

  “Naw,” I sniffed, shaking my head. “I wasn't supposed to be drinking like that in the first place –”

  The door behind us opened. Coach entered the office, zipping up his windbreaker. He walked over to Dubois and stopped next to his chair. And as he stared back at me with that grim look on his face, I wiped my sweaty hands on my lap. Fuck. This was it, wasn't it?

  “We have a problem.” Dubois was the first to speak. “Donnelly sprained his ankle last minute, and we're not going to be able to find a replacement for the Steelers game next Friday.”