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All In:Paying to Play

By:Lane Hart

All In:Paying to Play
Lane Hart

       (Gambling With Love)

Prologue


Jake Young

"Zack, Jake, you're in deep shit!" Jerry Tucker, the owner of the  Wildcats exclaims with a glare in our direction before Zack and I can  even take a seat at the conference table. Our managers, agents, head  coach, and a sleazy man in a suit are all present, sharing the same  identical frown. It's the look of serious disappointment. Something is  definitely wrong. "Go ahead, let them hear it," Jerry directs the man in  the suit.

"Does the name Amanda Roberts ring a bell?" the man asks. With a raised  dark eyebrow, slicked back hair, and a smirk, I'm thinking this dude  looks like an evil villain. Or a mobster. Maybe a crooked politician.  Then the name he just uttered hits me like a sledgehammer to my nuts.

"Mandy?" I ask. Zack stiffens beside me.

"Yes, she probably goes by Mandy," the man replies while pushing some  papers down the conference table to us. I recognize them right away as  her signed CYA contracts.

"Is it true you made her sign these documents last night?" the shady man asks.

I swallow and nod, having a bad feeling that our threesome the night  before, my pathetic attempt to get Zack out of his funk so we can win  some fucking games, is about to blow up in our faces. "That's what our  attorneys, Mike Stevens and Darryl Adams, told us we needed to do." I  explain why we, as a rule, have women sign the Cover Your Ass docs  before we screw them.

"Stevens and Adams have been fired," Jerry bellows. Uh-oh.

"You fired our personal attorneys for us?" Zack asks incredulously.

"Yes. This is Devon James. He's your attorney now."

Attorney. Should've known that's why he looks so evil. I bet Zack and I  are paying him out our asses right now for his "legal services".

"What's going on?" Zack asks them point blank.

"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," the attorney clears his throat before  continuing on, "proceeded to have intercourse with her for hours,  including simultaneously. Is that true?"

Yep, I'm pretty sure my cock just shriveled up in embarrassment. Beside  me, Zack scrubs his hands over his face probably feeling the same shame  as I am at this very moment. This shit can't be happening again! I've  been warned after the last PR nightmare that my sex life better not be  brought to the team's attention again.

"That wasn't a rhetorical question," Jerry yells when Zack and I remain silent. "Answer it!"

"Yes, except for the drunk part," I reply honestly.

"Did you see her drink anything?" the attorney asks.

"A beer or two, maybe a shot while we were at the bar," I respond, after  thinking back to last night before Mandy and I ended up at Zack's  house. All of us in his guest bed.

"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!" Zack exclaims. "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."

Oh my God.

If someone could die of embarrassment I'd be pushing up daisies right  this very second. Zack, too, I'm betting. When it comes to a person's  sexual preference, to each his own has always been my philosophy. But as  athletes in an uber-masculine sport, if this rumor gets out...if the  fans hear that shit about us...

"It's not like we touched each other. We're not gay," I mutter in our defense.

"Do you think anyone will actually believe that when they see this?" The  evil motherfucker, Devon James, pulls out a large photo from his  briefcase. He slides it down the long wooden conference table to make  sure everyone gets a real good look at it.

And...it's us all right. Zack and I are asleep in bed, naked, while our cocks wave enthusiastically at the camera.

"Ah, shit," I grumble, covering my face with both hands, unable to  believe this disaster is actually happening. We're fucked. So. Goddamn.  Fucked.

"She wants a million-" the bastard attorney starts.

"A fucking million?" Zack exclaims.

"A million from each of you," Devon James finishes. A million damn  dollars! Unlike Zack, I don't have a whole lot of millions in my  contract.

"Fuck," Zack groans.

"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 points a finger  at the picture. "No one will want you!"                       
       
           



       

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?

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