The Sexy Jerk World

by Kim Karr

  Cover model: Andrew Biernat

  Photographer: Wander Aguiar Photography

  Editing: Insight Editing Services

  Proof reading : iScream Proofreading Services

  Prologue

  I Am Football

  Lucas Carrington

  Each spring brought hope for National Football League teams, especially for those that had poor win-loss records in the previous season.

  The NFL draft was an opportunity for the organizations to improve their roster by adding those college players considered to be the most talented in the world.

  I was among those.

  It was crazy to think the winner of the Super Bowl in 2019, 2020 or even 2030 could very well be determined by the decisions a bunch of executives were making right now.

  This year’s draft was about to commence, and trying to accurately predict the outcome was a nearly impossible feat for anyone. The true fans, the players, and even the board had a knack for getting it wrong every time.

  Nothing was guaranteed.

  It was just before 8 p.m., and I was sitting in front of the television staring at the outdoor theater steps that led to Philadelphia’s Art Museum on the screen. Those were the very same steps from the movie Rocky, where Sylvester Stallone famously triumphed at the top.

  I knew it was my turn.

  An odd excitement flowed through my veins as soon as the sign above the stage began flashing, “THE FUTURE IS NOW.”

  With my elbows resting on my thighs, I held my breath when the football commissioner took the podium, and then, along with everyone else, I booed him.

  It was tradition.

  Once the crowd settled down, the commissioner made his annual speech, and then the draft was on. Since the order of player selection was determined by the reverse order in which the teams ranked at the end of the previous season, the suits predicted I would be the final pick.

  I was in for a long night.

  Because of the importance of the position I played, there was no doubt I would be selected as a second-string quarterback. It was cool. All the teams in the league currently had capable quarterbacks, and I knew this going in.

  If things went according to plan, and I was selected last, that would mean ending up with New England.

  Chowder and champions, baby, chowder and champions.

  Grooming under their current elite quarterback wouldn’t be a cakewalk, but I was looking forward to the challenge. Really, really, looking forward to it…that, and getting the hell out of Chicago.

  The buzzer sounded. Excitement was in the air. Every team had a table set up in the venue and the ten-minute clock had begun to tick for the 49ers.

  Time seemed to pass so slowly. Impatient. Anxious. Unable to interact with anyone in the room, I slouched back on the sofa and took a large gulp from my glass of water before setting it down on the table beside me.

  Cutting it close to the wire, the 49ers announced their pick, and the tight end selected was as predicted. This had me gripping my knees tightly with my sweaty palms in anticipation.

  Things were going according to plan.

  The clock was just about to be reset, but this didn’t stop the CNN sportscaster from interrupting with breaking news.

  “Earlier today, Quarterback Dan Bailey of the Chicago Bears was let go from his contract for misconduct. Without him, it only makes sense that Jack Whitney abandon his original pick and draft someone to take Dan’s place—”

  I thought that was both an appropriate and unlikely assumption, since the Chicago Bears were next up for their draft selection, and they had little time to work any magic.

  All of a sudden my cell phone rang. When I picked it up, the chatter in the room fell to a nervous hush. Not knowing if New England was calling me early or if it was going to be a crazy long lost friend, I answered with a simple, “Carrington here.”

  A voice came through the line loud and clear. “Lucas, this is Terrance Hines.”

  My entire body went cold.

  No!

  No!

  No!

  I wanted to hang up. Pretend I’d never answered. Change my fucking name. “Yes, sir,” I managed to say to the General Manager, but he was not the GM for New England.

  “Lucas, how would you like to play football for your hometown?” he asked.

  My world stopped spinning.

  Playing ball for a living and getting the hell out of the city I’d grown up in had not only been my dream, it had been all I’d been thinking about for years.

  Growing up below the poverty line on the south side of Chicago, I’d spent all of my time training and staying out of trouble—mostly. I knew what it took to land the position you coveted, and I undertook the challenges, not once, but over, and over, and over again.

  Yet it would seem, regardless of the amount of blood, sweat, and tears I had put into my future, luck would always be the dominating factor.

  Luck.

  One word.

  Luck.

  Four letters.

  It turned out, after everything I’d put into football, I didn’t have a fucking ounce of it. The worst part—I never saw it coming.

  In a total state of shock, I sat with my mouth open wide and tried to figure out how the hell this had happened. It made no sense—the cards had been stacked in my favor in so many ways, or so I had been told.

  Delusional as it was, I thought tonight was my time to rule the world.

  Fuck, had I been wrong.

  I ran a hand through my hair and tuned out the voice speaking to me in order to focus. Refocus. Figure things out.

  The quarterback was considered the leader of the offense, and was responsible for calling the plays in the huddle.

  It was a prime position.

  An important one.

  It was my position.

  Just not on the team I wanted to be it on. It looked like there wasn’t going to be a Boston tea party, after all.

  Fuck!

  “Lucas,” I heard, but didn’t answer.

  I stared blankly ahead.

  “Lucas, are you still on the line?”

  While I remained in a state of shock, my brother, Nick did not. He was ten years older than me and had been more like a father to me than my own. He was also close enough to hear the conversation taking place.

  When he lightly slapped me across the face to wake me up, I snarled at him. He ignored me and mouthed, “Say yes.”

  A cold sweat coated my forehead, my skin started to prickle, and my balls drew up tight when I realized that I had to give an answer.

  That was when my gaze slid over to my old man. He was sitting in a chair with a beer in his hand. I didn’t want him here, but Nick insisted on flying him up from Florida.

  The diehard Bears fan had a smile on his face, and just because of that I wanted to say no.

  Looking over at him, everything in me screamed, say no. Fuck no. I needed to get out of this town. But I knew if I said no, there was a very real possibility I would never go pro. More than likely the Bears had worked something out with the Patriots, and I was no longer the Patriots’ number one pick.

  It happened all the time.

  Nick started nodding his head, and when that didn’t work, he started nodding my head for me, and mouthing, “Yes. Yes. Yes.”

  “Son, are you there?” Mr. Hines said once again.

  I was choked up, just not for the reason he might think I was. “Yes, sir, I am.”

  Just then someone else came on the line. “Lucas, this is Jack Whitney. We’ve got a group of people here who are really excited about you, and I’m one of them.”

  The head coach.

  Fuck me.

  The applause in the background.

  Fuck me.

  With him on the line, I dropped my head and squeezed the bridge of my nose. I don’t think I was breathing, but somehow I found the breath to recite what I had rehearsed to say to the Patriots. “It would be an honor to be a member of your team. I can’t wait
for training camp. I’m going to give it all I’ve got, sir. You won’t regret this.”

  Or I said something like that.

  Honestly, it was all a blur.

  After blinking a few times, I allowed my gaze to rise. When it landed on my brother, there were tears welling in his eyes.

  Tears.

  He never fucking cried. And with the smile on his face, I knew they were tears of joy. In those tears I could see all the pride, all the joy, and I could remember all the years of him giving up everything for me so I could end up where I had right now.

  I.

  Was.

  Going.

  Pro.

  It was my dream…and I was about to start living it.

  That would be what mattered to him.

  Still, the Bears.

  The fucking Bears.

  A quick glance at the television was all I needed to prove this wasn’t a nightmare. Up on the screen were my picture and stats with the Bears name flashing under it. The announcer at the podium said, “With the second pick in this year’s NFL Draft, the Chicago Bears select quarterback, Lucas Carrington.”

  There was no going up on stage. I wasn’t there. I’d opted to stay home and be with my brother and his family.

  I glanced down on the floor where the Patriots’ jersey and hat were neatly folded. Those were going in the trash.

  In some twisted turn of fate, I was going to be a Chicago Bear. It was a team I didn’t want to be on, one I didn’t even like, and I would be living in a city I didn’t want to stay in, but I’d be playing professional football.

  Talk about bitter fucking sweet.

  1

  Mini-Camp

  Lucas Carrington

  Your locker became your little sanctuary in the NFL.

  Today though the mood in this space was somber, and the air was filled with more than sweat and heavy breathing.

  There was a strange mixture of sadness, tension, and apprehension. Guys stood in front of wooden lockers contemplating the end of this three-day excursion and what it meant.

  The truth was, we were all waiting to see who was the next to be cut, and hoping it wasn’t us.

  Mini-camp was supposed to be geared solely toward acclimating rookies to the playing schemes of the team.

  However after three days, stored on hooks and shoved in corners were more than sweaty shorts and worn helmets…there was also a piece of each of us.

  As each day passed it seemed like orientation was a well-oiled machine meant to work out the kinks. Cut the sludge. Get rid of the waste. It felt more like an initial evaluation, and for some it had become the end of the road.

  Even though I had a contract, I immediately started to feel on edge when I saw someone I knew had a contract, shoving the contents of his locker into a black trash bag. Shit, he was out before he had even begun.

  More than likely he wasn’t the first or the last.

  No mistakes, one mistake, two, three or four, it didn’t matter. You were out when Coach said you were out, and that was all there was to it.

  “I can’t fucking believe what’s going on,” I barked, to no one in particular, as I watched the black trash bag dangle over the player’s, no ex-player’s, shoulder.

  “Yeah, me either,” the guy next to me responded under his breath.

  I flung my locker open. “I am so close to packing my shit and leaving on my own.”

  “Why don’t you?” the barrel-chested giant standing across from me remarked. “It will open a spot up for someone who actually wants to be here.”

  “I want to be here,” I bit out, offended.

  Brown hair curled from beneath a gray skullcap. “Yeah, right,” he muttered, yanking his pants down.

  “You don’t know shit.” I stared at him, ready to put this argument to an end, and not with any more words.

  Showing me his bare ass, he raised both hands high in the air and gave me two middle fingers as he strode toward the shower.

  Just as I was about to jump the bench and go after him, good old Johnny Dwight, my quarterback coach, hollered into the room, “Carrington, Coach Whitney’s office, now!”

  In that one moment the earth cracked beneath my feet. Feeling like I was about to be forced to take a step on unsteady ground, the blood rushed to my head and I broke out into a cold sweat.

  Was I about to get cut?

  I couldn’t be.

  I had a contract. Then again Coach had just cut a player with a contract. What were the legalities? Was his contract different from mine? Did it even matter?

  With my mind spinning, I closed my locker and looked up to catch the dude who I was just going at it with, turn around. The smirk on his face was one I instantly wanted to punch off.

  Kotch or Catch or something that sounded a lot like crotch, crossed his huge arms over his bare chest and stared at me in disdain.

  Fearless, I stared right back. When the corner of his lip twitched up, I’d had it with that tattooed motherfucker.

  The two of us were oil and water. We hadn’t gotten along since day one. No reason really. Sometimes it happened.

  Just as I lunged for him, Thor, the guy who called himself my locker mate, pulled me back by the shirt collar. “Dude, don’t. It’s not worth it.”

  I glared at him and considered going after him instead.

  His hair hung to his chin, and through the strands I could see a genuine look of concern in his eyes. That was when my gaze softened.

  It was a look I couldn’t deny to be the truth.

  He was right of course. Getting into it right now with this prick of a tight end would only make what was going to happen that much worse.

  Being late when Coach called would only serve to irritate him, but showing up banged up would surely piss him off.

  Shaking off my ire, I spat on the ground and then turned and walked away. Stalking out of the locker room, I passed the Bears gear as I did, and for the first time I wondered if I would actually be wearing one of those jerseys in the fall. Had I screwed it up already with my I-don’t-give-a-fuck attitude?

  Fuck!

  Self-destruction had always been one of my biggest issues—you’d think I would have learned by now.

  As I pushed through a set of double doors etched with the Bears logo on it, all I could do was hope when I returned it wouldn’t be with a black trash bag in my hand.

  Sunlight poured onto my face, and in the bright glow my pupils dilated. Soldier Field was gorgeous. Not a blade out of place. The yard lines and hash marks were even whiter than Thor’s teeth. And the sideline looked like it was just waiting for champions to fill it.

  A glimmering navy blue helmet dangled from my hand as I made my way around the field to Coach’s office. I hadn’t changed yet from practice, and my cleats clacked on the tile as I entered the building.

  The place was practically empty since it was a Saturday. I walked at a slow pace, looking at the grandeur of what could be mine—could have been mine.

  Who the fuck knew anymore.

  Just outside Jack Whitney’s office stood an eight-foot photo of himself from at least twenty-five years ago. The life-sized image was taken when he was the star quarterback for the Bears.

  It was meant to remind everyone who saw it to strive for greatness, but all it did was intimidate the shit out of me.

  His door was open, and he took no time at all to beckon me in. “Come in, Lucas,” he called.

  Slowly, reluctantly, I stepped over the threshold.

  Jack Whitney was at the other end, standing near the large window looking out at Soldier Field. He wore a standard coach’s outfit: navy Bears shorts and an orange Bears t-shirt, white cross-trainers, and yet he looked lethal.

  When he whirled around, he said sternly, “Sit down.”

  I sat immediately and put my helmet on my lap. Unsure why I’d brought it with me, now I was glad. It suddenly felt like a security blanket.

  I glanced around.

  The office was plush. A large wooden
desk with tall, towering bookshelves behind it took up most of the space. There were pictures. Tons of them. But I couldn’t focus on a single one through the white haze of my vision. There was also his chair. It was huge. Then again, so was he. Chiseled and in shape, I bet even though he was more than twice my age, he could give me a run for my money.

  In his late fifties, Coach wore his blond hair short, was always cleanly shaven, and had the most chiseled jaw I’d ever seen. “Great job at practice today,” he started.

  I nodded, staying quiet. Suddenly feeling like my time here might be coming to a finish and instead of being happy about it, I felt like this could be the end of my world. Talk about a turnaround. “Thanks, sir, I appreciate that.”

  Coiled like a snake, Coach circled his desk and flopped in his chair. “I’m not a sir, don’t call me that again.”

  I nodded, swallowed, felt like I was going to vomit. “Yes, Coach.”

  His gaze drifted over me. “Better. I’m sure you won’t mind if I get right to the point.”

  “I’d appreciate that.”

  There was no hesitation when he spoke. “You have a bad attitude, Lucas, and I want it gone before you head to training camp in July.”

  Again, I nodded.

  Until very recently, I had mistakenly thought I had nothing to worry about. That my contract with a team I didn’t want to be on, in a city I had grown to despise over the years, was ironclad. So yeah, that was true, I might have had a bit of a bad attitude.

  He pushed back in his chair to steeple his hands. “You understand your contract isn’t final, right? It’s unsigned, and won’t be signed until training camp is over.”

  I’d signed.

  They hadn’t.

  A fucking incomplete contract. And no further ink would be put to that piece of paper until after training camp.

  This meant only the signing bonus was guaranteed.

  That stare of his was deadly. “This is a tough-assed game,” he told me. “Do the things that matter, and even those that don’t, the right way, and you might just make it, Lucas. Stay on the destructive path you’re on, and there’s no way you will go anywhere but out the door. Do. You. Understand. Me?”