Fuck me. I can't get thrown out of the league. It's the only thing in my whole messed up life that I've ever done worth a shit. The one thing my parents were actually proud of.
"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 barks at us, his face turning so red that I'm afraid he's going to give himself a heart attack. Suddenly his expression of pure rage fades and he rises to his feet.
"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!"
God, if my parents were alive they'd be so fucking ashamed of me. Of what I've become. Just a few months ago my dumbass almost got hit with what would've been a loooong prison sentence because a girl straight up lied her way into the club downtown with a fake ID. I thought she had to be at least eighteen, or they wouldn't have let her in. She'd just turned sixteen. Lesson learned that night. Now I actually ask to see their IDs to verify their age myself before I fuck them. Not that being careful with age makes what I do any better. I'm still a disgusting manwhore. But fucking is the one thing that is guaranteed to get me out of my head for a few hours. It's the only thing that postpones the nightmares.
"If this gets out, how many more women are going to come forward with the same threesome story wanting a handout?" Sleezy McSleeze asks, looking between me and Zack.
I add up the ones I can remember just to give him a number.
"Maybe a dozen," I say, but that's not completely honest, so I add, "This year." Zack mutters a curse under his breath.
"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," Zack starts. "If you let me go-"
"You. Are. Replaceable. Just like every other player on this team," Jerry replies with a glance in my direction. "There's hundreds of guys who’d kill for a shot at your job, and some who will probably do it even 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."
Shit, he is fucking serious. He's going to kick us out on our asses.
"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 bellows before striding out of the room and slamming the door behind him.
Now where the hell am I supposed to find a goody-two-shoes?
Chapter One
Addison James
I'm catching up on paperwork in my office Saturday at lunchtime, typing a few updates in patient files when my dad calls my cell phone. Sadly I have no social life, and my weekends are usually spent at my desk since I'm terminally single while all of my friends are married, and some are already popping out babies.
"Hey, Dad," I answer right away.
"Hey, Addison. Are you busy?" he asks, then gets straight to the point before I can respond. "There's an incredible financial opportunity I want to run past you."
"Nope, not busy. What's up?" I ask curiously. My dad is a hotshot civil attorney, representing some of the state's biggest corporations and enterprises.
"How would you like to make a quick and easy hundred grand by doing practically nothing?"
I laugh into the phone. "Um, okay, Dad, are you aware that you just sounded exactly like a Nigerian email?"
"A Nigerian what?" he asks. "Never mind. Look, one of my new clients is in a...squeeze, and I think you're just the person who can help him out."
"Ah, what's going on? Is he suicidal? Depressed? Schizoid?" I ask, holding the phone with my shoulder, so I can reach and grab a yellow legal pad to jot down some notes.