Free Reckless: A Bad Boy Sport Romance by Christina Clark

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