Reckless: A Bad Boy Sport Romance (15 page)

It was half past 7. The sun was shining, the birds were chirping, the grass looked greener than ever – all that jazz. And here I was, looking like I'd just broken through the dirt and crawled out of my grave.

For starters, since I woke up this morning, my body started breaking out in cold sweats, and there was this twitching in my right arm that I couldn't get rid of. My head was pounding, feeling even worse than it did when I woke up in that hospital bed. There was this weird bubble or pocket of gas floating around in my gut – I was belching and I could taste the acid climbing up my throat and back down like some kind of puke-tease. The 1 and ½ hour car ride here was exceptionally bumpy today, and it sure as hell wasn't doing my gut any favors.

I couldn't remember the last time I'd dragged my ass out of bed this early. For the last couple of months, I considered myself lucky if I made it home by 6 for some shuteye. But I had a feeling that waking up at an ungodly hour had nothing to do with it. I hadn't had a drink in 96 hours, and it was starting to take its toll.

By the time Brooklyn left me at Club Monaco, Daymond and Tabitha were long gone. So, I took it upon myself to hit the bar to entertain myself. I did a couple of rounds of body shots with some strangers until some dude eventually recognized me and took a swing at me. Luckily for me, the dude was smashed out of his mind and missed, falling over and knocking himself out instead, but I knew it was time to bail. I hailed a cab and got back to my place, but when I discovered that I was all out of booze, I caught myself trying to suck up one of the beer stains on the rug. It was right then that I realized that Brooklyn – and everyone else – might have had a point.

I stepped out of my car, wincing under the angry sunlight as I walked towards the training center. Other than mine, there were only 4 other cars in the parking lot. As usual, Coach's silver Maserati was parked in the square closest to the front doors. I could've sworn the man lived here.

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.