Reckless: A Bad Boy Sport Romance (12 page)

I ran to our car as fast as I could before any of those classmates could see me. Dad opened the door for me, but I didn't want to say hi to him. I was angry at him. I got in the car, put on my seatbelt, and closed the door.

Everyone remembered my birthday today except Dad. I think he's been really busy at work, so maybe he forgot. He always gets really tired because he has to drive so far all the time. But I was still angry. He never said “Happy Birthday” to me today, and he was mean to me this morning when I was getting ready for school. He even used his extra loud voice!

“Ace. Come back out here.”

I gave him my biggest frown and opened the door again. Dad had a cross look on his face. But I didn't care. I looked at him with an angry face, too.

“Why are you giving me an attitude, young man?”

“What attitude?” I pretended not to know what he was talking about. “I'm not giving you an attitude.”

“There it is again.” Dad shook his head, and he made his eyes smaller. “I will not tolerate this attitude –”

“I'm not giving you attitude!”

“That's it – I'm dealing with you when I get home –”

“But I didn't –”

“But first, go get my tools from the trunk of the car.” Dad pointed to the back of the car. “Now.”

I let out a big, angry sigh, but I did what Dad told me to. I walked to the back of the car with an even bigger frown on my face and thinking all kinds of bad thoughts about Dad in my head. But when I opened the trunk, I couldn't see any tools.

The only thing in the trunk was a big cardboard box with a blue bow on it. I tore the box open, jumping up and down excitedly. There was a Boomer Esiason Jets jersey, a football, and a green-and-white helmet inside the box.

“Dad! Dad! This is so awesome! Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

“Alright, alright, that's enough.” Dad wasn't angry anymore. He touched me on the shoulder. “You didn't think I'd forget, did you? Happy birthday, kiddo. Come on, get in the car.”

I ran into the car and got into my seat, swinging my legs.

“I know, it's not much,” Dad said as he closed the door. “I had to get it secondhand, but it's all I could –”

I jumped onto Dad and gave him a big hug, squeezing him as tight as I could. He didn't say anything, but I just held him tighter. He only hugged me with one arm, and his shoulders and body felt hard, but that's okay. He didn't have to say anything. I knew Dad loved me.

Chapter Six:
Brooklyn

2016

You think you know someone. Of course, we've been out of touch for more than a decade, and most people aren't the same people they were back in high school. Take Eddie Brown, for one. That guy was one of the most religious, conservative, and socially awkward kids in school. He used to pester kids at lunch time with uncomfortably invasive questions about their religious beliefs and told anyone that would listen that the Rapture was near. Fast forward to 3 years ago, the same guy was pulled over for swerving in traffic, found high beyond his wits, and busted with 20 pounds of meth.

Or Vivian Silverman, who used to pick on this one girl relentlessly in high school for being a “dyke.” Vivian, one of the girliest girly girls there is, has since then come out of the closet, chopped off her hair, had a complete change of wardrobe, and is now happily married to a woman. She is also involved in all sorts of LGBT activist groups, and as her Facebook shows, has now made up with the girl she bullied and meets up with her for drinks regularly.

But becoming a calculated, cold-blooded murderer? I just couldn't wrap my head around it. How could someone so thoughtful, so caring, so selfless ever do something like this? Then again, like I said, that was 11 years ago. I haven't heard a peep from him since then. Could he have disappeared as a twisted, but noble act to see me “succeed in life,” or was it because he was hiding something? A part of himself he never intended for me to see?

“Brooklyn? Brooklyn!”

“Hmm?”

I blinked, glancing up from my desktop screen. Su Ling had her elbow on the glass partition of my cubicle, her face resting on her fist. My static hands were still in position, one hand on my mouse and the others on 4 keys and a spacebar.

“What is up with you? I've been standing here for the last 5 minutes, just watching you stare at your screen.”

“Oh, yeah, sorry about that, I –”

“Don't care,” said Su Ling breezily, flipping her hair over shoulder as she sashayed back towards her cubicle. “Hernandez wants to see you. And I'm off to lunch. Toodles.”

I got up from my chair and headed for Hernandez's office, flattening the creases on my ruffle button-down and skirt along the way. From the other end of the door, I could hear the clanking of silverware and the indistinct voices of the commentators of a sports game. Taking a deep breath, I knocked and poked my head through the door.

“Mr. Hernandez? You wanted to –”

“Sit down,” Mr. Hernandez barked, wiping his mouth on his napkin bib.

I closed the door quietly behind me and pulled up the seat across from him.

“What's this about, Mr. Her –”

“Bosworth tells me Ms. Goldberg's mysteriously come down with a case of cold feet.” His voice was no longer raised, but the frost in his voice was all the more ominous. “Do you want to tell me why that is?”

“Huh. Not a clue.” I leaned back in my seat, poking my lip with my finger. “I'm just taking a shot in the dark here, but maybe she wised up, started doing a little more research on the companies instead of just taking Bosworth's word for it –”

“Enough.” The spot of mushroom sauce he'd missed on his twitching mustache was all I could look at. “How stupid do you think I am?”

“I never said –”

“Because I've got news for you, sweetheart.” Mr. Hernandez leaned closer towards me, panting. The whiffs of garlic was making my eyes water. “Your holier-than-thou attitude is exactly the kind of thing that's going to sink you in this business. You wanna be a hero? Fine, be my guest, but mark my words – I will not let you take this company down with you.”

“I don't know what you're talking about, sir,” I maintained my story, gazing at him innocently.

“I wouldn't be so smug if I were you. If your old man wasn't a golf buddy of mine, I'd fire your sweet little ass right on the spot. But if I hear another complaint about you again, even Daddy won't be able to help you. Now, get the hell out of my office.”

XXX

“Hi, can I get a chicken Caesar's salad to go, please?”

“Certainly. That'll be 13.99.”

I handed my card to the girl at the cash register and reached into my purse for my buzzing phone.

“Damn it.”

Xavier's name flashed on the screen. Gritting my teeth, I swiped left and rejected the call. My jaw only clenched tighter as the screen lit up once more. 5 new message notifications had come in since I'd cleared my inbox this morning.

Against my better judgment, I tapped on the first message.

“
Baby can we please just talk? We can't just end things like this. You were the one who always said there's nothing we can't work out if we just talked. You're being selfish and immature –
”

I tapped on my screen furiously, deleting all the messages. I was gripping my phone so tightly, my fingers were starting to go numb. I don't know why I even bothered. I knew Xavier would just be spewing his usual attention-seeking bait, and I let myself get reeled in, anyway.

“Brooklyn? Brooklyn Cunningham?”

I slipped my phone into my purse and turned away from the counter.

“Yes? How can I –” My pensive squint popped wide open. “Daymond?”

Daymond Armstrong leaned against the cake fridge with a wide, friendly smile. The only thing that rang any bells were those almond, cool-green eyes. Gone was his dirty rat-tail, thrift store leather vests, finger-less leather gloves, and studded jewelry. I was staring back at a full-grown, good-looking man with a clean buzz cut and well-groomed stubble, dressed in an unbuttoned Henley and dark jeans. The poorly-done skull and flames tattoos he once flaunted on his arms were now retouched with exquisite shadowing and detail.

“Wow, I haven't seen you in forever!” I gave him a quick hug. “How are you? Do you still live in New York?”

“Thanks. I am.” Daymond smiled stiffened slightly. He lifted an eyebrow. “Not much of a football fan, huh? I'm a linebacker for the Jets.”

“You're kidding. You too? And they say New York's the biggest city in America. This is so weird. I don't see anyone from high school in ages – other than Tab – and now it's like I'm running into one of you every week –”

“Tab?” Daymond interjected, shifting his arm on the fridge. “You mean Tabitha, that girl in all those plays and musicals?”

“Yup. The one and the same. She's on Broadway now.”

“Oh, cool. Good for her.” Suddenly, he straightened up, glancing around him skittishly. “So, I'm taking you heard about Warner? How you holding up?”

“Oh. That.” I looked down at my feet, tugging at my sleeves. “Yeah, but I don't –”

“I'm shocked, I mean, I work with the guy. Sure, he's a little reckless, but I could never imagine him doing something like that. Has he said anything to you?”

“No.” I leaned against the counter, scratching my nose. “I haven't seen him since prom.”

“Oh. Makes sense. That's probably why you didn't know I was playing for the Jets.”

“Yup,” I answered quickly, desperate to change the subject. “So, how's your brother doing?”

“He's fine.” Daymond inched towards me, touching my arm. “You know, if you ever need to talk about anything, maybe we could get a drink sometime.”

My skin prickling, I pulled my arm away from him.

“Yeah, I don't think –”

“Ma'am, your order's ready.”

“So? Whaddaya say?” Daymond flashed me his remodeled pearly-whites, looking at me expectantly.

I grabbed my salad, stepping around him with a polite smile.

“Sorry, I've gotta get back to work. It was nice seeing you again. I'll see you around.”

Chapter Seven:
Ace

2016
 

“This is Warner. Don't know if the cops have got my phone tapped, so call this number if you need to reach me. Get back to me with an update as soon as you can.”

I slid my phone into my back pocket and stepped into the shade of the red oak tree.

It was the cliché of a perfect day. The skies were clear and bluer than ever, the breeze crisp and refreshing as it rustled through the red and gold leaves of the trees. But as beautiful a day as it was, the heavy, somber emotion hanging thick in the air was nearly tangible.

About 50 feet away from me, dozens of people in all shades of black congregated around a glossy, rich brown casket. An old priest with tinted glasses and a purple stole draped over his black gown stood in front of the casket, reading from his open bible. Next to him, a large woman in a glitzy black dress sang, backed with a string quartet. Her hauntingly beautiful voice floated through the open space of the cemetery.

“
Like a comet, blazing 'cross the evening sky, gone too soon.

Like a rainbow, fading in the twinkling of an eye, gone too soon...
”

I took a long swig from my flask, gasping.

Genevieve's sobbing howls were so guttural. So aggravated. She could barely stand on her own 2 feet. Even from a distance, I could see her flushed cheeks and puffy eyes through the veil of her black hat. A tall, slender man with thinning white hair had his arms around her, holding her upright. Spotting the perfectly round bump protruding from her dress was another twist to the knife in my gut.

I took another drink from my flask.

Across from Genevieve and her family stood the whole team, along with Coach and both Dubois men. They stood with their hands folded in front of them in stony silence, their eyes fixed to the grass. Not one single attendant dared to look in Genevieve's direction.

I finally brought myself to look through the easels of framed pictures set up behind the priest. The first was a black-and-white picture of a blond, blue-eyed baby in a tub surrounded by toy ships and rubber ducks. The next was a picture of a grinning, shaggy-haired kid in Little League football getup with the number “87” on his uniform, holding his helmet to his waist. It went on to show a picture of him and Genevieve on their wedding day with a backdrop of a beach at sunset. There were more pictures of him with his family and some with his college buddies. The last was a shot of him on the Super Bowl turf, pumping his fists triumphantly in the air.

It was then that I felt this weird itch in my throat. Ever since Whitaker showed me up at that Browns game, I became more and more resentful each time his name came up. To the point that it may have consumed me. I never wanted to share that spotlight, and when I started getting greedy, I ended up pushing myself out of the beam completely. I think I've always known that it was never the dude's fault for doing what I could have achieved, and that's what I couldn't handle.