Reckless: A Bad Boy Sport Romance (9 page)

2016

I tipped back my flask. The warm, oaky liquor swashed down my throat. When I lowered my flask, my ears were buzzing and the ground was swaying underneath me. I held my head upright determinedly, blinking until it stopped moving and the buzzing toned down a notch.

I ran a tongue over my lips, cherishing every drop. This was the first drink I'd had in 4 and a half days, and boy, that felt good. I screwed the cap of my flask back on and slipped it inside the coat of my black suit, saving the rest for later. God knows I'm gonna need it.

A newly-waxed Bentley Continental in white rolled up to the curb. Whitaker popped out of the passenger seat, looking like a giant fire hydrant in his red suit. Heaving a deep breath, I straightened my black tie and walked over to the car.

“Hey, Warner, you gotta thank your cousin, Vinny, for us for hooking us up with this sweet ass ride.” Whitaker grinned at me as he opened the rear door. “Why don't you text me his address – I'd love to send the man a couple of steaks.”

“Will do.”

“Yo, what's good, Warner? You ready to go?”

Hardwick and Baldwin nodded at me from the back of the car.

“Where's Armstrong?”

“He called, told us to to leave without him. He's hitching a ride with Cortez instead,” said Whitaker. “Anyway, wanna ride shotgun? Least I could do, man, if you're still hosting that after party –”

“Naw, you go ahead. I'll ride in the back with these geezers.”

I hopped into the backseat, slammed the door, and strapped myself in. As the car started moving, my head slumped back on the headrest. I leaned my head against the wall, the vibrations from the speaker bass thumping against my face.

“Alright, Mr. Wilcox, we're all set,” said Whitaker eagerly from the front seat. He rubbed his hands together. “You can go straight to Bill Graham Civic.”

“Very good, sir.”

I kept my face a blank slate, but I was seething at the peppy excitement in Whitaker's voice. Motherfucker was glowing. The Bay Area has always ranked top 5 in my favorite places to party, but for the first time, I dreaded the trip the whole flight here. We were on our way to the 5
^th
Annual NFL Honors. It was set to be hosted by Conan O'Brien, and though the dude was pretty funny, it wasn't nearly enough to offset this bitter resentment I was drowning in.

I guess the annoying spring in Whitaker's step today was understandable. Rumor has it that he's got the AP MVP award locked down this year. Did the fact that I'd been pining for the award since its inception and had come infuriatingly close in 2013 have anything to do with all this pent-up bitterness inside of me? Probably.

“Ay, yo, man, check out the racks on those 2.”

Hardwick grinned, pointing out the 2 women in bright bikinis ambling down the boardwalk. All 4 of us, sans the driver, leaned forward in our seats and stretched out our necks, squinting out the windshield. Our eyes homed in on the small triangles of fabric skimpily covering their round, perky ass cheeks. We turned down our lips and nodded appreciatively, watching as they dimpled and jiggled with every step they took.

“Man, Bay girls are some fine ass – holy shit, look out!”

The time lapse was surreal. It was like watching a slideshow unfold behind every blink of my eye. The only thing I remember seeing was a grayish-white flatbed truck getting bigger and bigger in the windshield. What came next was the deafening screech of heavy wheels against the gritty asphalt. Then, nothing.

Everything faded to black.

Part 2

Chapter One:
Ace

2016

“
And we're back. If you're just joining us now, we're live at the MetLife Stadium where the Jets are at 2 touchdowns, and 2 possessions, and the Browns at 15-play drive, touchdown-drive, and a 3-and-out. I don't know about you, Kenny, but this feels like a crucial drive, though we've got a little over 10 to go in the second quarter...
”

As I staggered over to the scrimmage line, I was starting to regret the 7 shots of vodka I downed at the BoobTube casting party last night. I dragged my cleats past the blurs of green-and-white jerseys and found the one with the bold “22” printed across his back. I posted up behind him, hunching over in position.

It must have been over 100 degrees out today. The scorching rays of the sun blazed down my back. My shoulder pads were soaked through with sweat and my mouth guard sticking to my dry teeth. Inside my helmet, my greasy hair was matted to my forehead. Any occasional breeze blowing past me only tacked on to the nausea. Man, this couldn't be good.

“J-E-T-S, Jets! Jets! Jets! J-E-T-S, Jets! Jets! Jets!”

I winced, my ear ringing from the deafening hollers to my right. From the corners of my drooping eyelids, I could see the thousands of colorful blobs on the bleachers. What I wouldn't give to just close my eyes for just one minute...

“Warner! Warner! The hell's the matter with you? Get your head in the game!”

My eyes snapped back open.

“...
the Jets have won games in a row with many crediting Warner to their success. Now, as we all know, Warner's no stranger to the media off the field, but if he gets down to brass tacks, the kid's got real talent –”

“Wait, now, hold on there. You may have spoken too soon – oh, boy, looks like Warner's gonna be sick – and thar he blows!”

I felt it coming. I threw off my helmet and spewed what felt like a liter of my entrails all over the grass. I gazed down at my vomit, fiery acid seizing my throat. Some of it got on the tips of my cleats. It looked like coffee ground sludge. The hell was that? I hadn't eaten anything in over 14 hours.

All of a sudden, whatever energy I had left started bleeding out fast. I swayed back and forth to the tune of the crowd's gasps and cries. When my knees finally gave out, I keeled over and fell face-first to the ground, jerking my body just in time to avoid the fetid pool.

I rolled across the grass, my arms and chest twitching uncontrollably. The cries of concern turned to a symphony of boos and jeers. But I was too fucked up to give a shit.

“For fuck's sake, Warner! Whitaker, get out there!”

3 medics hoisted me off the ground and onto a stretcher. 2 janitors in gray uniforms sprinted over to clean up the mess. As the medics strapped me in, my eyes struggled to stay open. Bullets of sweat coursed down my face and neck, but I was shivering, my teeth chattering so loudly it was all I could hear. I tried to sit up, but all I could do was flail a limp arm.

The medics started to wheel me off the field. They were talking, but I couldn't understand a word they were saying. There was a strange echo to their voices, almost as if I was listening to them from underwater. I tried opening my mouth to say something, but all that came out was a sad gurgle.

My vision began to haze. But before they sagged shut, I caught a glimpse of the number “87” through the gap of a medic's arm. Whitaker trotted up to the field with his right hand raised, saluting the crowd as they roared his name. The sun bounced off of him, bathing him in glorious light.

So this was what the beginning of the end feels like...

“Mr. Warner. Mr. Warner, can you hear me?”

My eyes cracked open slowly. As I blinked, adjusting to the harsh white lights, the fuzzy figure above me gradually solidified. A young woman with big green eyes and a beak-like nose stared down at me.

There were humming monitors, beeping machines, and IV stands on both sides of my bed. I looked down at the loose white gown I was wearing. Tubes were hooked up to my arms, and there was a paper tag around my wrist. My mind started whirring. It was all falling in place.

“Y-yeah. I hear you.”

I groaned, every sore muscle in my body constricting as I pushed myself up with my elbows. The woman reached over and stacked 2 pillows behind my head. I grunted at her gratefully.

“I thought I heard you stirring. My name's Audrey and I'm a medical student here,” the woman continued with a hushed, soothing voice. “You're okay – you were knocked out cold. When you were brought in here, your BAC was off the charts, which was most likely how you've managed not to break anything. You're a little scratched up, that's all. But please, try not to move too much. Do you know where you are?”

“San Francisco?”

“That's right. You're at Zuckerberg General Hospital. Do you remember what happened to you?”

“I – I think so.” I cleared my throat, flinching at the sharp jab in my neck muscles. “We were going down Fillmore, and there was this truck, came outta nowhere...Where's everyone else? Are they o –”

“Mr. Hardwick has a broken leg, and Mr. Baldwin has a herniated disc and a grade-2 concussion, but they should be fine. Mr. Wilcox, the driver, is still in surgery.”

“And what about Whitaker? Jonathan Whitaker? He was in the pass –”

“I'm sorry to have to tell you this, Mr. Warner.” Audrey touched my arm, lowering her eyes. There was a sympathetic crease between her thin, pale brows. “Mr. Whitaker was ejected from the vehicle upon the collision. He died on the scene.”

“What?” I croaked, the hairs on the back of my neck pricking as they stood. The monitors picked up the sudden spike of my heart rate. I turned away from her, shaking my head. “Naw, that's impossible. I just saw him this morning, and he was fine –”

“I'm sorry, Mr. Warner. I know it's difficult to hear, but you need to relax –”

The door to the room creaked open. A bald, doughy man in a doctor's coat strolled in to the room with 2 suited men in tow. The crotchety doctor swung around at Audrey, glowering at her.

“I thought I told you to let me know as soon as Mr. Warner wakes up –”

“That's alright, Dr. Pan.” The man with the blue and black tattoos spanning his neck gestured to the door. “We'll take it from here.”

When Audrey and the doctor left the room, the older man in the wrinkled brown suit and tattered 49ers snapback stepped forward.

“Mr. Warner? I'm Detective Bassinger and this Detective Schwartz from the SFPD. We'd like to ask you a few questions.”

Chapter Two:
Brooklyn

2016

“Come on, Brooks, you're missing the best part! Lisa just told Madeline her stretch marks make her look like an albino zebra – it is officially about to go down!”

I grabbed the bowl of popcorn from the microwave and plopped down next to Tabitha on my sofa. With her eyes still glued to the screen, she reached into the bowl next to her, squawking with laughter. She tossed a handful of popcorn into her mouth and promptly spit it back out.

“Ah, ah, crap! That's hot.” She stuck out her tongue, fanning her mouth.

“Um, doy. I just took that out of the microwave.”

I don't think Tabitha heard me. She slapped an arm over her chest, laughing uproariously and spraying projectiles of shredded popcorn everywhere. I propped my head up with my elbow on the armrest, reaching for the popcorn piece by piece. It smelled like buttery goodness but tasted like stale cardboard and lies, much like everything else I'd eaten all week.

Still, I munched on vapidly, watching as Madeline snatched off one of Lisa's hair extensions and began whipping the housewife over the head with it. When a screeching Lisa finally got away from her, Madeline chased her around the $50,000 kitchen, the extension swinging in her hand like a diseased fox tail. The only thing missing was the Benny Hill theme song.

“Okay, I swear I know Madeline's got more than a few screws loose, but I freakin' love her.” Tabitha cleared off the popcorn debris around her and took a sip of her mimosa. She turned back to me, her smile ebbing. “The housewives not doing it for you today, huh? That's okay. We can watch something else. Wanna watch some horrible singers get ridiculed on stage in front of millions of people?”

“No, that's okay. This is fine.” I sat up and plastered a grin on my face. “Sorry, I know I've been in a crappy mood –”

“Tell me about it,” said Tabitha, cocking an eyebrow. “You've been so mopey the last couple of weeks, plants wilt when you walk past them. It's time you get out of the house and get some of that fresh air in your system. Clear your head.”

“I have been getting out of the house,” I pointed out, crossing my arms stubbornly. “I've been going to work. And the studio. So, ha.”

“You know what I mean,” Tabitha snapped, switching off the TV. She turned around to face me, tucking her legs under her. “I was at Sparxx last night, and Mario said he hasn't seen you in nearly a month.”

“Yeah, well, not really in the mood to be around all those people. Don't wanna be a downer.” I shrugged, blowing away the strands of hair sticking to my cheek. “Besides, I'm being thrifty. I'm probably saving tons by drinking at home.”