Free Reckless: A Bad Boy Sport Romance by Christina Clark Page A

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