Free Tackled by the King: A Bad Boy Sports Romance by Christina Clark Page A

down the street in one hand and a bottle of red Powerade in the other.
    “Morning, sleepyhead!”
    She beamed at me, but when she spotted Carrie behind me, she stuck out her bottom lip.

    “Farrah? What the hell are you doing here?” I blurted, my ears ringing. I did not have time to deal with this bullshit right now.
    “I thought you might like a little breakfast before the big game –”
    “How'd you even know where I live – scratch that. How'd you get past security?”
    “Um,” Farrah faltered, dropping her guilty gaze to her feet. She unzipped her jacket to reveal an orange T-shirt that read, “Spick N' Span.” “I may have told the security guard I was starting out today as your new cleaning lady... What's wrong? Aren't you happy to see me?”
    “I don't even –”
    “Of course he's happy to see you.” Carrie nudged me out of the way. “Did you happen to drive here by any chance?”
    “And who are you?” Farrah asked Carrie snottily.
    “Carrie Toussaint, a journalist from The Daily Dirt. I'm working with the team.”
    “Oh. So you're just a reporter, then.” Farrah's face brightened. She paused, her eyes narrowing to slits. “You didn't spend the night here, did you?”
    “No...?” Carrie's upward inflection was telling, but it seemed to go over Farrah's head.
    “Okay.” Farrah flicked her head to the side. “Come on. My car's parked downstairs.”
    Farrah, Carrie, and I sped down all 6 flights of steps in the emergency exit. We burst through the heavy doors of the building entrance. As Carrie and I rushed past a sleek Aston Martin painted in gleaming silver, Farrah called out to us from behind.
    “Hey, guys. Where are you going?”
    Farrah pushed down on the car remote in her fist. The bad boy beeped twice, unlocking its doors. Carrie and I exchanged high-brow looks of skepticism before retreating.
    “Ride up front with me, won't you, my King?”
    I obliged, ducking into the passenger's seat. Carrie slid into the backseat, whistling as she closed the door behind her. The car was pimped out with a full wine-red interior, from the leather seats to the tinted windows. Farrah dumped the breakfast and Powerade in my lap before strapping in. She gripped the gold covers of her steering wheel, revving up the engine.
    “Sweet ride,” was all I could say. “How'd you even –”
    “Oh. I get that a lot,” said Farrah, looking behind her to pull out of her spot. “My parents are loaded.”
    “This car is amazing – or as kids these days say, goals.” Carrie's smile faded as she pointed out the clock on the dashboard. “Oh my god. It's 12:39, and the stadium's all the way across town.”
    “Thanks. And don't you worry.” Farrah reached up to adjust the rearview mirrors. “We'll be there by 12:58.”
    “Are you –”
    I was thrown back in my seat as the car jetted forward, peeling out from the parking spot.
     
    XXX
     
    “Thanks,” I leaned into the doorway of the passenger's seat. “I owe you for this, Farrah. Big time.”
    “I'd do anything for you, my King.” Farrah winked and blew a kiss at me. “Now go get 'em.”
    I was feeling like shit on a stick with my pounding hangover, coupled with the reckless way Farrah burned rubber, but none of that mattered. Farrah had kept up her end of the deal. I had 3 minutes to spare. Carrie and I went our separate ways. As she made her way to the VIP suites, I cut through the South Tower towards the locker room.
    I rammed my side into the door and stumbled into the room. The guys were in full gear, a sea of helmets only recognizable by their names and numbers on their uniforms. Coach whirled around to look at me, his teeth clenched and fury ablaze in his bulging eyes. Odell lifted the face mask of his helmet, shaking his head, but looking relieved. On the opposite end of the room, the vibes were just that. Val was visibly seething, crossing his arms over his chest as he glowered at me.
    “Coach, I know I fucked up, and I'm real sorry