by Hart, Lane
"Thank you so much, Mr. Jones. We really appreciate your team helping out again this year," I tell him graciously.
He gives me a half-smile, slipping his hands casually into the pockets of his khakis. "It's a cause that'll always be close to my heart. My mother was a breast cancer survivor. She passed away from kidney cancer seven years ago."
"I'm so sorry to hear that," I say sincerely. I try to swallow past the lump of worry in my throat after he nods and leaves the room. One of the toughest parts of my job is dealing with the constant reminder that cancer has a way of popping back up. I've been in remission for almost three years, and each and every day I worry that I'll do something to anger the cancer gods and they'll send me right back through hell.
Shaking off the concern as best I can, I begin pulling out and arranging piles of pink towels, gloves, footballs, hats and jerseys that each of the starting players will soon be in to sign. There are two of everything for each of them to autograph, except for the quarterback who is by far the favorite (especially for the female fans). This year I suggested that because of his popularity, we should ask him to sign twenty items.
Once everything is in nice, neat piles, I run my cold but sweaty hands down the front of my gray skirt suit, making sure it's still mostly wrinkle free. I can't resist pulling out the small, round compact mirror from my purse to double check my hair and makeup.
I never realized how important my hair was to me until I didn't have any. Now my thick, blonde hair is a little longer than shoulder length, and no one would guess that I'd been bald only three and a half years ago. If only my boobs could grow back the same way.
Damn it!
I'm in the middle of scolding myself for my all too familiar narcissistic thoughts when I see a large figure approaching the glass fish bowl conference room. A second later, in walks the first of fifteen big, handsome, and incredibly intimidating men I'll be meeting today.
"Hi, I'm Natalie. Thank you so much for coming," I tell the buff, smiling cowboy. He looks like he just walked in from a rodeo instead of a football field, which is really cute. "The Carolina Breast Cancer Foundation sincerely appreciates your support of our annual auction."
"Oh, darlin', the pleasure is all mine," he says with an adorable Southern drawl that matches perfectly with his hat. Jonathan Meyers, the Wildcats' tight end, is just the first of many charming men I'm looking forward to meeting over the next few hours.
…
Zack
I begrudgingly wake up after my phone rings for what has to be the hundredth time. I tried to just ignore it, but the fucking thing won't stop.
Giving up on sleep, I finally stumble my naked ass out of bed and head for the pile of clothes on the floor. Eventually I'm able to dig my phone out of the pocket of the jeans I had on last night.
I squint to glance around the dark bedroom that I soon realize is definitely not mine, but one of my many guest rooms. Last night starts coming back to me when I notice Jake sprawled out on the other side of the bed asleep. It appears that Ginormous Tits is thankfully gone.
Looking down at the screen in my palm I know nothing good will come from the call I'm about to take. It's my manager and he never calls this early. According to my phone, it's only seven-fucking-thirty in the morning.
"Why are you calling me so goddamn early?" I grumble when I finally answer. I would've had another hour of sleep before I had to get up and go meet my trainer.
"Zack, what the fuck did you do last night?" Dean exclaims.
I have to pull the phone away from my ear when he screams, which is very un-Deanish. The man loves me because I make him rich, and although I have to put up with his constant nagging about one thing or another, he's never talked to me this way before.
"I was home all night, why? What's going on?" I ask.
"What's going on is your ass and Jake's are on the line. Your contracts are on the chopping block, and if you weren't two of the best players in the league, your careers would already be over!"
"Whoa, slow down and explain," I tell him as my heart starts racing. Surly he's just overreacting.
I haven't played all that great in the last few games, but I'm still ranked as one of the best quarterbacks in the league. They wouldn't even think of dropping me because my backup, Alex Marshall, is ancient. He can't throw for shit anymore and he's got a bad knee. Instead of retiring, the Wildcats signed his old ass after he left the Dolphins the year before they picked me up. Marshall went down in the record books as having one of the worst seasons in all of quarterback history, with just three touchdowns and twelve interceptions. The Wildcats only won one single game that entire year, finishing last in the league, which is how they ended up getting me as the first round draft pick.
"Jake still there?" Dean asks, completely blindsiding me.
I look over at the still sleeping man and wonder if Dean is psychic or some shit.
"No."
"Whatever," he says, not buying my flat out lie. "You both need to get the fuck to the stadium, now. Jerry wants to see you with all of us present."
I freeze at that last sentence, and the way my stomach rolls it's possible I might actually throw up.
Jerry Tucker is the owner of the Wildcats. Whatever is going on has to be bad for him to want to meet with us. I've only seen him once in his office and that was when I was first signed by the team over a year ago. That's the only time anyone ever meets with him, when they get signed...or when they get canned.
Fuck.
"We're on our way," I say quickly before ending the call.
"Jake, get your ass up! We've got to go!" I shout while grabbing my jeans.
"Fuck you and your goddamn phone," he mutters, pulling a pillow over his head.
After I zip my pants up I turn on the overhead light and walk around to his side of the bed to yank the pillow off, throwing it against the opposite wall.
"Dude, what the fuck?" he asks, scowling and finally blinking open his dark eyes.
"Dean just called seriously pissed. He said Jerry wants to see us both. Now."
That gets him up without another word.
"Where'd Mandy go?" he asks after he starts pulling on his clothes. I'm shocked that he actually knew her damn name. "She rode over here with me last night."
"Hell if I know, not that I'm complaining."
With the light on, it's obvious that the bedroom is a fucking disaster area. There's more used condoms littering the floor than most men probably go through in a month. It's a reminder that Jake and I fucked that slut every which way possible while she kept begging for more. I'm just glad I don't have to deal with cleaning up this mess. That's what I pay my housekeepers good money for.
To save time, I put on the rest of the clothes I'd been wearing the night before, brush my teeth, and a minute later, we're both pulling out of my housing development in our own cars on the way to what sounds like is going to be a lovely meeting. I have no idea how shitty it's about to go down.
The owner's secretary avoids eye-contact with us when she ushers Jake and I into the conference room. The owner, both of our managers and agents, head coach and some man in a suit I don't recognize all look up at us like we've pissed in their cereal bowls.
"Zack, Jake, you're in deep shit!" Jerry bellows while we take a seat at the table. "Go ahead, let them hear it," he says to the man in the suit.
"Does the name Amanda Roberts ring a bell?" the stranger asks with a dark raised eyebrow and almost a smirk.
Thank God, the name is not familiar.
"Mandy?" Jake asks, making me cringe.
"Yes, she probably goes by Mandy," the suit replies and then pushes some papers down the conference table to us.
It's a copy of her CYA paperwork.
"Is it true you made her sign these documents last night?" he asks.
Jake swallows and nods. "That's what our attorneys, Mike Stevens and Darryl Adams, told us we needed to do."
"Stevens and Adams have been fired," Jerry says curtly.
>
"You fired our personal attorneys for us?" I ask.
"Yes. This is Devon James. He's your attorney now."
Oh-kay then. The lean, long-faced, greasy-haired man does look shady like a lawyer.
"What's going on?" I ask, uneasy from all the shitty looks being thrown our way.
"This morning Ms. Roberts told her civil attorney that you two got her drunk last night, made her sign some papers that she doesn't remember signing, and then you both," he clears his throat, "proceeded to have intercourse with her for hours, including simultaneously. Is that true?" our new attorney asks.
I scrub my hands over my face instead of pinching myself to try and wake my ass up. This has to be some kind of ridiculous nightmare. One where I have to talk about having a threesome with a room full of people. One where our response to a very personal question might actually affect whether we continue to play football or not. The only thing that would possibly make this worse is if my parents were sitting in the room with us.
"That wasn't a rhetorical question," Jerry snaps when we stay silent. "Answer it!"
"Yes, except for the drunk part," Jake replies.
"Did you see her drink anything?" the attorney asks.
"A beer or two, maybe a shot while we were at the bar," Jake tells him.
"She says you got her drunk, made her sign a few papers, and then basically took advantage of her while she was under the influence."
"That is bullshit!" I exclaim. "She wasn't drunk and we didn't take advantage of her. She was a very willing participant, if not the instigator."
"Right. Well, Ms. Robert's attorney says the...contracts she signed are null and void since she was mentally incapacitated when she signed them. She's going public with all this, including a picture of you two in bed...naked together unless we can reach a monetary settlement with her ASAP."
Holy. Fucking. Shit.
I feel my face catch fire in embarrassment. It's probably the first time since I was thirteen years old getting a hard-on in science class. I'm a grown ass man, I don't fucking blush. Until today.
"It's not like we touched each other. We're not gay," Jake mutters. I'm thankful he's overcome the shame to respond accordingly.
"Do you think anyone will actually believe that when they see this?" The attorney who I'm now referring to as Satan asks us before he pulls out an eight by ten photo from his briefcase. He's kind enough to slide it to us across the long wooden conference table so that everyone can get a good look at it.
It's definitely a picture of me and Jake, not touching, but in bed asleep, both naked, with a small space between us where a woman had been. Unfortunately, no one had taken the time to edit it using those nice little blurry circles to block out our cocks in all their morning wooded glory.
Goddamn gold-digging whores!
"Ah, shit," Jake grumbles before covering his face with both hands.
"She wants a million-"
"A fucking million?" I exclaim.
"A million from each of you," Satan finishes.
"Fuck," I exhale.
"The franchise is going to pay it, she's going to sign a mile high stack of non-disclosure documents while sober and in front of a room full of witnesses, but you two are at the end of the line," Jerry says. "One more even minor incident and you're gone, contracts voided under the moral turpitude clause. And you better believe I'll use this shit to blackball you with every other team in the league," he says, pointing a finger at the picture. "No one will want you!"
"Wow." There are no other words.
"You've both been warned before. Keep your dicks in your pants and out of the press and fucking civil suits. Or better yet, get a goddamn girlfriend! Not some whore, but a regular woman that lasts more than a fucking night!" Jerry yells at us, his face red in anger and a vein in his temple throbbing. Then suddenly his wrathful expression fades and he stands up.
"In fact, that's exactly what you're going to do if you're going to keep playing for this family-oriented team. You're going to find a fucking saint and take her out where the paparazzi can see you, not just once, but for weeks. Do you hear me? Weeks! This is damage control for future's sake, too. No more sluts on planes, no more young girls, no more threesomes, and no more contracts! If you think a woman is so untrustworthy that she needs to sign something in writing before she fucks you, then don't fuck her!"
After Lacy dumped me I had become more promiscuous in public than ever before, including getting caught fucking two flight attendants mid-flight in the first class bathroom. I still felt a little bad about them both getting fired, and one getting divorced.
Of course the media had noticed my mile high club exploits. I tried to do damage control at the time but Lacy adamantly refused to help me by pretending we were back together. Jake, well, he's always been an all-out man-whore. He just barely squeaked out of a statutory rape charge a few months back when he idiotically screwed a fifteen-year-old girl who lied and told him she was eighteen. Luckily for him, the shit actually went down after midnight on her sixteenth birthday. We were both fucking disgusting.
"If this gets out, how many more women are going to come forward with the same threesome story wanting a handout?" Satan asks, looking between the two of us.
I try to do the math in my head, but I'm too angry, too embarrassed, too...everything, to think or respond.
"Maybe a dozen," Jake says. "This year," he adds, and I want to sock him in the jaw after his brutal honesty.
"From now on, you two are settling down!" Jerry screams, smacking his palms on the table in front of us. "No more partying! I want you both looking so pussy whipped you can't breathe without your woman's say so. Everywhere you go, she goes. If I hear of a single slut near either of you, you're done! Maybe then you'll stop thinking with your dicks and screwing off long enough to finally win some goddamn games. That's what we're paying you a fortune to do - play football. Not to be fuck-ups by disgracing this franchise and the entire league!"
"But...Alex Marshall," I start. "If you let me go-"
"You. Are. Replaceable. Just like every other player on this team. There's hundreds of guys who’d kill for a shot at your job, and some who will probably even do it better. I'll throw you out on your ass and smear your name quicker than you can say 'blackballed.' If you think I'll keep putting up with your shit just because you've got a decent arm then you're a fucking idiot."
Damn, that's a low blow.
I've always been the best, but I haven't started the season out so great. I'd thrown at least one interception in each of the first three games, and been sacked more times than I can count. I know I'm lucky to have made it this far in the league, and I realize I need to get my shit together on and off the field.
Especially if I'm about to be someone's father.
I need to keep my contract, so I can make sure Lacy and the baby have everything they could ever want or need if it comes down to it. It's not like I have any type of backup plan in place if I can't keep playing football. And Jerry's right, there's not enough quick fucks from all the sluts in the world worth losing an eighty million dollar contract for.
"You've both got until Sunday's home game to find and serve up your goody two-shoes on a silver fucking platter for the press, or this time you're done!" Jerry barks. Then he strides out of the room, slamming the door behind him.
Fuck.
Chapter Three
Natalie
I look down at my cell phone again, knowing no more than a minute could've passed since the last time I checked the time. Zack Bradford, the "star" quarterback, is late.
An hour late.
If his items didn't bring in the most money for our fundraiser then I would've already given up. But no, I need his famous signature if I'm going to raise the ten thousand dollars I need. The money will pay for a hundred women who can't afford mammograms to receive one for free.
It seems like such a small number that we'll be able to help, and I wish we could do something to raise even more money. But
if just one of those hundred women have breast cancer, hopefully it'll be caught early enough to save her life.
I boxed up all the signed merchandise and sat down in one of the leather conference room chairs, spinning in circles while I waited. And waited. Then waited some more.
Now I'm really starting to get angry at the famous jerk. What an arrogant ass! He's standing me up when women's lives could benefit from his name scratched on a few measly items. These early screenings could save the lives of mothers, daughters, and grandmothers, but he can't take five minutes out of his freaking day to help out!
There's also another more selfish reason I'm so determined to wait Zack out.
It's been four years since the last time I've spoken to him...not that many words were exchanged on that particular day.
It's disappointing to think that the man I've had a crush on since my freshman year of college isn't as wonderful as I imagined him to be. None of the other players had been late. Most had been early, and they'd all been genuinely nice guys, even though they're famous.
I built Zack Bradford up on a pedestal in my fantasies right after I started cheering on the sidelines for him in his very first college game. Not that he ever noticed me in a school as big as ours. Well, except for that away game during our sophomore year when we played Virginia Tech.
On a read option play, Zack had held onto the football and ran it in for a touchdown, coming from behind to win the game for our team in the last few seconds. A bastard playing for Virginia Tech hit him late after he'd scored and was already out of bounds. I'd been creamed by Zack, landing flat on my back with his two hundred plus pounds of hotness lying on top of me. His warm, sincere brown eyes had looked down into mine as he asked if I was okay before helping me to my feet. Then, for whatever reason, he'd jerked his helmet off, grabbed my face with both hands and kissed me. Not just a quick peck of a kiss, but a honey-I'm-home-from-war-and-missed-you-like-crazy kiss.