Reckless: A Bad Boy Sport Romance

by Christina Clark

  And just like that, he decided he'd had enough. He unplugged his phone and swung his blazer his shoulder. His face was as stoic as ever.

  “I'll see you on Monday.”

  “Great! We start at 7:30 – be sure to have a snack before you get here, but we usually get dinner together after.”

  Aiden walked right past us, raising a thumbs up in acknowledgment, before disappearing back out the door.

  “Whoa,” Thumper breathed. He was still goggling at the swinging door.

  “Dios mio, that was unbelievable. That dude is so hot,” Elina swooned behind me.

  “Tell me about it,” Maria agreed, biting her lip. “And that butt, too. Mm-mm-mm.”

  “Okay, girls, settle down,” I snorted, shaking my head. “Let's start packing up.”

  The kids and I gathered our things and filed out of the studio, saying our goodbyes by the door.

  “So, you still up for sushi?” I asked Tabitha, jiggling the door handle to make sure it was locked properly. “There's this new place by Columbus Circle. It's around a 35-minute drive, but I hear it's worth it.”

  “I'd say 'hell yeah,' but I think your ride is here.”

  “My ride?”

  I dropped the keys into my purse and turned to the street. My crumpled forehead slowly smoothed. A distinctive yellow Lamborghini was parked right by the curb.

  “Sorry, I didn't know he was coming to pick me up today.”

  “No worries. Rain check,” said Tabitha lightly, swinging her empty suitcase as she started down the stairs. “I'll be in town for a while, anyway.”

  “Okay. I'll call you later.”

  I hurried up to the Lambo and slid into the passenger seat.

  “Hey, honey. This is a nice surp –”

  “Where is he?” he demanded. The cold, accusatory tone in his voice wiped the smile right off my face. “Did he slip out the back door, or something?”

  “What? Who –”

  Xavier's intense, blue-gray eyes bored into mine. The L-shaped vein right above his left collarbone was protruding. I could almost feel the disdain oozing out of his pores.

  “That thug with the tatted up arms, always wearing that white tank – you know, that creep that's always hanging around here –”

  “What, you mean Julio?” I scrunched up my face and smacked the back of my head against the headrest. “The plumbing guy? You know that pipe in the back burst last week – you know what, I don't even want to get into this with you –”

  “I'm just saying, I don't like the look of him –”

  “You don't like anyone with a dick between their legs.” I stowed my duffel bag in front of my seat and strapped on my seatbelt. “Oh, and we had a great time at the studio today, thanks for asking.”

  He sighed, his face softening.

  “Alright, babe, I'm sorry –”

  “Please, Xavier. Just drive.”

  Xavier twisted the key in the ignition huffily. He gripped the steering wheel and turned back to the rear deck, grumbling under his breath. As the car backed out of the parking spot, I peered out my side of the window, stroking my bare neck.

  Chapter Six: Ace

  2016

  “Pack it up boys – that's a wrap!”

  All movement on the field decelerated at once. While some started to fold up and put away the training equipment, others took off their helmets and cooled off by squirting water bottles over their heads. I took off my own helmet, tucking it under one arm as I started stacking up the orange sideline markers.

  “Yo Hardwick, you ever get with that stripper bridesmaid – what's her name – Fantasia?” Baldwin kicked off the shit-talking as he loaded up a wagon.

  “Hell yeah. She came over last night.” Hardwick's chest swelled as he looked around at the guys. “She's a little bigger than I'm used to, so the positions are sorta limited, but dang, that mouth – she really knows how to get Hardwick a hard-dick if you know what I mean.”

  “How long have you been sitting on that gem?” Whitaker joined in to the conversation, snickering as he coiled up the leash of the power sled.

  “Couple of days, but you gotta admit, that was pretty good,” said Hardwick, grinning. “Warner sure knows how to throw a party – that was the most fun I've had since my college days.”

  “Looks like Warner had more fun than you did – the party was so good he went AWOL,” Whitaker quipped.

  “Last I saw him, he was going up to the Red Room on the second floor with that stripper bride and that bridesmaid – the one that looks like she could be Amber Rose's long lost sister.” Hardwick whistled, nodding emphatically. “Those were 2 dimes right there, you lucky bastard.”

  “Damn, son. Both of them? Didn't I see you coming out of the bathroom with one of the cocktail waitresses when I got there?” Whitaker peered at me over his shoulder, his eyes twinkling. “I gotta say, that brings up some good memories – haven't messed around like that in years.”

  “Are you telling me you ain't never stepped out on Genevieve?” Armstrong walked over to us, lugging a full wagon behind him. “Never had one of your fans suck a little chrome off your tailpipe?”

  “Nah. Officially retired from all of that. I got all I need at home.”

  Whitaker's statement earned a wave of good-natured jeers and “Get-outta-heres” from those around him.

  “Yeah, but if you guys wanna hear a story about a wild night,” Armstrong spoke up once the jeers died down. “More like a wild weekend – when I was in Tampa last summer, I raged so hard I woke up with 4 naked bitches around me, on a boat to Cancun.”

  I resisted the urge to cough “Bullshit” as I tossed the markers into Hardwick's wagon. I've had the displeasure of knowing the dude for over a decade. Armstrong was a prick then, and he was a prick now.

  Though he was on the junior varsity team with me, he never got along with the rest of the team. It was hard to find common ground with a dude who spent his free time picking on nerdy freshmen kids and one-upped you like his life depended on it. Granted, this was 12 years ago, and he'd done a little growing up since then. We've never given each other any trouble – in fact, we hit up the same parties and events together, but have never hung out one-on-one. I don't think the guys even knew that Armstrong and I went to the same high school.

  “You all need church,” said Whitaker. He hung a towel around his neck. “When was the last time any of you went to a party without any strippers? I don't know, with some balloons, cake.”

  “Cake?” Baldwin screwed up his nose. “Ah, you mean like one of those giant cakes with a naked lady hiding inside them.”

  “No, no naked ladies, just – yeah, forget it.”

  “Real talk, though,” said Hardwick. “I can't believe Warner's still around after that stunt he pulled. I thought for sure that was it for you. What are you, jerkin' Dubois' gherkin?”

  Frankly, I agreed with Hardwick. I had no idea what I was still doing here, but I still had that meeting with Dubois coming up on Friday. Maybe he wanted to do it personally – shit, I don't know. But I wasn't taking any chances, and by some miracle, I got to practice on time for the last 2 days. It felt like I was trying to hold up a bowling ball on my neck all day, but I sucked it up and just rolled with it.

  “You and me both. Sorry, I didn't mean to ghost you guys like that –”

  “Doesn't matter,” Baldwin cut me off, slapping Whitaker on the shoulder. “My man here handled that shit on his own. Dodged those fuckers like they was the Po-Po –”

  “It wasn't all that,” Whitaker held up his hands with a toothy shit-eating grin on his face. “I just got lucky –”

  “Humble motherfucker, too. But on the real, we wouldn't have won that game without you. It's been on the news all week.”

  I tried to ignore the hardcore brown-nosing around me, but my shoulders went stiff. Screw Whitaker and screw these assholes. These fools were always real quick to jump on bandwagons, but Baldwin loved being the stagecoach.

  We started hauling
the gear back to the equipment room. I lagged behind, grabbing a bottle of water from one of the towel boys. All the gear I was wearing seemed to weigh double from being drenched in sweat. Standing right under the sweltering glare of the sun wasn't helping my pounding head none, either.

  “Oh, shit, before I forget, you'll never guess who I saw at the Devereux Plaza last week!” said Baldwin, his bushy brows shooting upwards as he looked back at us. “I got out of my car, and Leibowitz comes walking up to me, asking me for my keys! Would you believe that? He's a goddamned valet!”

  Leibowitz was a real loss. Not only was I real tight with him, he was one of the finest linemen this team had ever seen. That was, until he was outed by TMZ as a cross-dresser. I always suspected Armstrong, who was laughing the loudest out of the bunch, had something to do with it.

  “Come on, dude,” I kept my voice leveled, but my face was heating up, and it wasn't from sun. “Let him be. The guy's already lost his job and his family. Who gives a shit what he does behind closed doors –”

  “That explains why Leibowitz was on that diet,” said Whitaker loudly. “Dude was probably trying to drop a few sizes so he could fit into his wife's clothes –”

  I wasn't sure how it happened – one minute, I heard Whitaker's voice, and by the next, my vision turned red.

  I'd already walked in front of him, but I whirled around on my heel and lunged at him. We wrestled to the ground, rolling around on the grass. For a second, the rush of adrenaline muted my headache and took control of my limbs. I finally pinned him down underneath me, holding his arms still with my leaded legs. But as I raised my fist over my head, 2 arms swooped under my shoulders and dragged me off of him.

  “The fuck is wrong with you?” Whitaker growled. He shoved off the guys trying to help him up and pushed himself off the ground. “It was a fucking joke –”

  “Warner! Whitaker! What's going on over there?”

  Our heads simultaneously turned at Coach's gravelly voice. No one breathed a word. I cracked my neck from side to side and dusted myself off.

  “Just goofing around, Coach.”

  “Well, you better get your goofy ass over here, then, 'cause Marvin wants to see you.”

  I exhaled jaggedly, my shoulders slumping. It was only Tuesday. This couldn't have been a good sign. I could see Hardwick flashing me a worried look from the corner of my eye, but I looked straight ahead and marched right on to the clubhouse.

  Chapter Seven: Brooklyn

  2016

  “So, I said to Miller, 'What do you mean, you think you saw a goose? We're 40,000 feet in the air! You better lay off the mini-liquors if you want a ride back home on my jet, because if you keep this up, you can fly commercial and join the other schmucks in Economy!'”

  Mom and Dad doubled over, their exaggerated peals of laughter ringing across our private section of the restaurant. Xavier leaned back in his chair next to me with a pleased smile on his face, brushing a hand through his wavy almond-brown hair. I reached for my glass of burgundy with a tight-lipped smile.

  “What a delightful story, Xavier,” Mom trilled. She dabbed at the nonexistent tears in the corners of her eyes and fluffed her bleached beehive. “I'm sure your friend behaved himself after that. I can't imagine having to squeeze in with so many people – it's like sardines in a can! Not to mention eating that garbage they serve them.”

  “Up until I was 12, and my sister, 14 – we didn't know Economy class actually existed.” Dad added, bragging about his ignorance proudly as he swirled the wine in his glass. His terrible ramen-noodle toupee slid around on his head as he spoke as if it was trying to escape from its master. All that money and he still couldn't get himself a decent hairpiece. “We thought it was something that only existed in the movies. My sister even shed a few tears when she found out – Winona is such a sensitive soul.”

  I sputtered, nearly choking on my wine. Sensitive soul, my ass. Aunt Winona was a pill-popping, judgmental witch most relatives avoided at family gatherings, but hey, she was family.

  “She sounds like a treat,” said Xavier as he cut into his rib eye. “I would love to meet her. Perhaps we can all set up a date for a little getaway – I have a splendid summer home in the Hamptons that's been dying for some company.”

  “What a fabulous idea!” Mom simpered, fingering her triple-strand pearl necklace. “Let's do it sometime soon – I've been stuck here for almost a month!”

  I knew Xavier was hamming it up for my parents, but I couldn't help but feel like he seemed just a tad too comfortable with all this bravado. I was just grateful we were all seated in our own room – I might probably die from mortification if others were listening in to the mind-blowingly shallow conversation transpiring at our table.

  My parents have never seemed to master the concept of “inside voices.” It never occurred to me what a problem this was until 3 years ago, when a journalist at a neighboring table recorded one of my parents' Sundates in a live-tweeting session that went viral. I've been gingerly suggesting that they request for the most private of tables ever since.

  “What do you say, honey?” Mom reached across the table and patted my hand with a cold, rigid hand, almost as if she was afraid I could be hosting some kind of contagious disease. “I don't think we've had a family vacation in years – not since you started at Slater Oakridge.”

  “I'll try, Mom, but I've told you this – it's not just Slater Oakridge, I can't just leave when I want to –”

  “She's right, Barbara – leave the poor girl alone,” said Dad, grinning at me knowingly across the table. “Would you believe that? My little girl playing with the big boys on Wall Street. Just be thankful she's not wasting her life with something absurd – imagine if she chose to became a teacher or took up some public service job –”

  “No, Dad, that's not it either, but thanks.” I pinched my lips and laced my fingers together. “What I was about to say was that I can't just leave when I want to – who's going to run the studio while I'm gone, make sure all the kids are there –”

  “Oh, honey.” Mom touched her chest. Her pointy nose and lips twisted like she'd just swallowed a sour grape. “You're not still doing that silly project, are you? Shouldn't you be putting this money away instead of you wasting your time with those hoodrats –”

  Xavier must have noticed my tensed shoulders and the color rapidly draining from my face.

  “With all do respect, Barbara, though I don't understand it myself – if this is what my Brooky-bear wants to do, I say let her do it.”

  My heart swelled for a brief moment, but promptly deflated when Xavier continued.

  “Let her work it out of her system – she's bound to get tired of it, someday. You know how women –”

  “Anyway.” I cleared my throat and straightened up in my seat. “How's Grandpa Lou doing? Is his body still weak from the chemo?”

  “It's unbearable to watch.” Mom lowered her eyes, her orange-red lips quivering. I softened at the wobble in her voice. “My father was a hunter, a man's man – now he's this tiny, shrunken little thing. Those machines are the only thing keeping him here today.”

  “I'm sorry, Mom, I –”

  “You know, honey –” Mom talked over me, fluttering her spider-leg lashes. “Your Grandpa Lou has always wanted to see you walk down the aisle –”

  “Please, Mom, not right now –”

  “I have a feeling Grandpa Lou may just get his wish much sooner than he thinks,” said Xavier airily. He leaned back, draping an arm over my chair.

  “What's that now?” I blurted, gripping the edge of the table.

  “Oh, my!” Mom gushed, clutching onto Dad's arm. “Isn't that exciting?”

  “Brooky-bear, you've hardly touched your food.” Xavier rubbed the back of my rigid neck. “Is something wrong?”

  “I – sorry – excuse me. Nature calls.”

  I rose from my chair, tucking my clutch under my arm.

  “Now, Brooklyn, that's not very ladylike –”


  Mom's disapproval fell on deaf ears as I picked up the pace and headed straight for the bathroom. I opened my clutch and dug around for my pack of slim menthols. I picked up the dirty habit in college and kicked it when Xavier and I got together, but I still kept a spare pack laying around as an occasional stress-reliever. I'm pretty sure it's safe to say that this was one of was one of those moments.

  “Holy shit. Brooklyn, is that you?”

  That voice. I was frozen to the spot, my hand glued to the door handle. My mind went blank, as if it wasn't sure how to process what it had just heard. At the same time, a flurry of warmth and resentment battled inside of me.

  “Brooklyn?”

  “Yeah?” I tore my hand off the door handle and spun around as nonchalantly as my body allowed me to.

  I had taken the time to brace myself, but my knees still knocked together at the sight of him.

  “Ace?”

  I licked my dry lips, touching the warm sides of my face with the back of my hand. 11 years later, and he was still as handsome as ever. Ace had gone from a cute, lovable high school jock to a strong, sexy beast of a man. He'd grown his dark hair out, which was pulled back in a loose man-bun, and he now sported a full, viking-like beard. My eyes darted to the silhouette of his bulky, toned arms bulging through the sleeves of his tight-fitting black shirt.

  “You cut your hair,” said Ace softly.

  His slightly crooked smile prompted some serious tongue-biting on my end.

  “Oh, yeah. Yeah, I did,” I mumbled, raking a hand through my straight, shoulder-skimming hair. “Got it cut before I started at Slater Oakridge. Thought it might make me look a little more professional – anyway, not important.”