Seven Deadly Sinners

by Dark Angel

  I have my theories. But basically, I know two things. The first is that no one individual could have done this. Believe it or not, after the first two tapes, I actually thought ahead of time before I put my hands down Colt and Ethan's pants of whether anyone could record us. I know that there are no security cameras in the skybox - we have too many high rollers come through. And I knew that the windows were tinted to prevent outside folks taking pictures on the inside. So I thought we were safe.

  Turns out I was wrong.

  The video hits the internet with the power of ten thousand suns.

  One billion.

  That's how many unique views have clicked on the website. One billion people on this planet have seen my breasts and my snatch. They've seen Colt's cock penetrating me. Ethan's member in my mouth. Thank God they haven't seen me with my cum covered tits, like I was at the end. Just in the throes of fucking.

  Three.

  That’s how long it takes for the first of the press to start calling.

  Five.

  That's how many minutes I pray in relief that we have a bye week during the week after the loss to the Stepbrothers when this video comes out. At the time, I'm so happy that we'll be able to work this out and then focus on the upcoming game.

  Fourteen.

  That's how many points the Nailers lose to in the game the next week against the Detroit Dom's. They wipe the field clean. Colt gets sacked three times and each time my heart catches in my throat. Not just because I worry about him as a player, but because I'm starting to worry about him as an individual as well. Colt and Ethan, both. I shudder as Ethan gets knocked off the field and immediately the flash bulb of 90,000 cameras is trained on him as the world watches his reaction. He keeps calm, but I can tell the constant media exposure is eating away at him.

  Ten thousand and counting.

  That's how many pieces of hate mail I've received from all over the world. Mail telling me that I'm destroying the purity of the football game. That I corrupted two of the best players in the NFL. That's I'm some sort of Jezebel and wicked woman who seduced these players as a way to get back at the team that fired my dad. I've received death threats and considered hiring a bodyguard.

  But I refuse to give in and hide in fear. Someone has a problem with me? I relish the thought of meeting them face to face as they try to take me on.

  Twenty-one.

  That's how many consecutive days AJ Ledoux has written a column attacking either me, Ethan, or Colt in his sports column. He's torn into us with the voraciousness of someone who never played sports because he didn't have the talent and is now taking out his jealousy and frustrations on better men.

  He attacks me because he knows that no matter how much he may lust over me, the closest he'll ever get to touching me will be touching the screen on his mobile device as he streams the tapes of me on endless loop. How do I know this? Remember at the very beginning when I went on the field to see Ethan and Colt and get them to run scrimmages I told you about a sports columnist who hit on me when I first bought the team?

  Who do you think was the first man to come over to Nailers Stadium and congratulate me in person after I bought the team? Who do you think fawned over my every word in my office before inviting me to dinner?

  That’s right. AJ Ledoux.

  I saw right through that asshole. I let him down gently, but for a man like AJ - who thinks he has power over masses but all has is an illusion, my turning him down did a lot to pierce his bubble.

  He’s ignored me after that. He pretended I didn’t exist at the ESPY’s. And he’s tried to question me in every single column, intimating that I’m unfit. AJ is the kind of man who can only dream of fucking me - I understand that's where his frustration is coming from.

  Three.

  That's the number of weeks since the final sex tape of the three of us was released. Like I said, we had a bye, and then lost one game. We're going into a matchup with the Pittsburgh Pimps with a team that's in disarray. With the central players of our team hounded by the media day and night - there are some days that Coach Karl simply cancels practice or tells Ethan and Colt not to come. In instances like those, the team doesn't have proper cohesion and nothing gets done. The hopes for taking this once bankrupt team and winning the Super Bowl this season are pretty much in the process of becoming pipe dreams.

  Fifteen.

  This part I can't believe, but it's true. That the number of people I've been with in the past that are coming forward to say that they've slept with me. Not only that, but they're selling lurid details in to the highest bidder amongst the tabloid press. You remember, Barry, or Bill? Whoever it was that I brought home one night that I sent away from my apartment the day I met Colt and Ethan? AJ had the Times of New York just buy his story. I read the whole thing - 5,000 words- where Barry basically stated my favorite sexual positions. He told the world how I liked being on top. According to him, I “desperate shuck myself like some whore on a man until I achieve my orgasm”. And then afterwards, how much I liked it doggiestyle. And as he was about to cum, how badly I wanted him to cum on my lower back. I admit, I love it when guys cum on the small of my back. Your body is very sensitive to the feelings of warm cum right there. Try it sometime after this. Have someone shoot their cum on you right there. It's heavenly. I didn't know that always - my friend Suzy had to teach me.

  Seventeen.

  That's how many times Colt has tried to contact me. He texts me. I don't answer. He calls. I don't answer. He sends me emails and I don't answer. But the more and more I think about it, I realize that not answering is a defense mechanism. But for the first time in my life, I feel lonely without him. And incomplete without Ethan. I need them. I need them both. I resolve today that I'll do better than answer. I'll go see him.

  Five.

  That's how many minutes long the phone call with Commissioner Horton was today. He just called. For the first time, I felt fear.

  "Julianna," he said, breathing deeply. Despite everything that's happened, he's been patient. "Fix this."

  "I'm trying, Bo," I said, thinking of all the different ways I could do it.

  "Well, try better. You and those two fuck-ups are becoming all anyone talks about when they say NFL," he told me. "I'm going to put you in touch with a lawyer - J. Henry Edgar - he'll help you navigate through this."

  I'll take anything at this point, but I don't need his lawyer. I know what the lawyer will advise me to do. Throw Ethan or Colt - or both of them - under the bus, cut my losses, and preserve my own reputation. I can't do that to the two men I care about. The two men I love. I tell him that I can manage on my own.

  "I'm giving you two weeks to fix this, Julianna," Commissioner Horton tells me as he gets ready to hang up. "Before I come in with my steamroller and decide to fire everyone and start over."

  Two weeks to fix a problem that won't go away. That is staying because it's being perpetuated by a man who hates seeing powerful women succeed.

  I need to think of something. And I need to think of that something really fast.

  Julianna

  I stare at the placard on his desk. It reads "J. Henry Edgar, Attorney at Law." The man sitting behind the mahogany table top taps his pen against the wood and flips through pages of documentation. He is in his 50s and has a smoker's cough, but he still has a head full of hair. You can tell he takes great pride in it. It is peppered with grey, and he slicks it back in what appears to be one, big brushstroke. He is a round man—no, the word round doesn't even begin to describe him. His girth is so profound that he doesn't seem to have a neck, just a head sitting on top of shoulders. Supposedly, he's the best lawyer money can buy. I hope that's true because at $500 an hour, he better be the best.

  I sit in a dark brown leather chair facing Mr. Edgar's desk. The leather is stiff and shiny and my gaze rests on the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves behind him—all filled with old, leather bound tomes. Does he even use those books? I wonder. Isn't everything digital these days? I think that
maybe the books are there for decorative purposes and that he probably uses Google like the rest of us. At least I hope he does.

  "So, tell me. What would you like to see to evaluate my case?" I ask, growing impatient. I want to speed things up. With so much on my mind, I am having a hard time sitting still. I am not sure how long I am able to sit in this dark office. I want to go for a long run through the city to clear my mind.

  He doesn't bother lifting his gaze from the documents. "I think I have everything that I need to see," he says, stifling a cough. "Ms. Heaton, given your history, I'm afraid to say that this won't be easy."

  "What do you mean by that?"

  "Well, for starters, the video footage leaked to the media captures you fully engaged in sexual relations with these two men whom you have professional, working relationships with."

  "Here's what I want to know, Mr. Edgar. What percentage of your practice is in the area of expertise that I need? Because right now, you're not telling me anything that I don't already know, and I feel like I might be wasting my time."

  "I assure you—"

  "Spare me the bullshit! Actions speak louder than words. And I need results. Right now I have an NFL team in disarray and a media shit storm that is out for my blood. So cut to the chase. How long will it take to bring this matter to a favorable conclusion?"

  J. Henry Edgar brings his fist to his mouth and coughs into it. "Like I said, it won't be easy. To win a defamation of character lawsuit, we will have to prove that false statements have been used by the media with the intent of harming your reputation."

  "But isn't it obvious? Look what this media frenzy has done! There is now a petition being signed by people wanting me removed from the New York Nailers! Removed from the team that I have given my blood and sweat to! Do you think this petition is circulating because we've lost games? Hell no! It has nothing to do with that—teams lose, and that's a fact. No one likes to lose, but it's nothing new. It happens, and that's football. This all comes down to people wanting to pass judgment on my personal sex life."

  "Ms. Heaton—"

  "Let me finish. It's nothing new though, is it? Admit it—if a woman is putting herself out there and freely enjoying herself—fucking who she wants to fuck, it's the end of the world. People can't wrap their heads around it. It doesn't fit their mold. Women should always be this, or women should always be that. But I'll tell you something Mr. Edgar, at the end of the day, who I want to fuck has nothing to do with my ability to own a football franchise."

  "It's not just the recent SportsNation leaks that are adding fuel to the media fire," he continues. "These old pictures are now circulating as well."

  I watch as he pulls copies of pictures from a manila folder and hands them to me. Seeing the contents of this folder is shocking. In one photo, I am sitting naked on a lounge chair by a pool. It is an aerial shot, so I figure a drone must have taken the photo. I see that they didn't bother blurring out my nipples—every detail shows, even the crack of my pussy, and a man is rubbing what appears to be lotion all over my body. I remember this day. It was a few years ago. The man's name was Maximilian Smith. We met at a charity event. I liked his philanthropic outlook on life and his green eyes, and I decided to go back to his house when he asked me. I remember his pool. Yes, we fucked. He was a nice guy, but he was a little too granola for me. A modern day hippie. And so what if I decided that he wasn't what I wanted to wake up to every morning?

  The next photo shows me at a nightclub a few years back. I remember this night too. I was wearing a black mini dress and boots that went up to my knees. Damn, I looked good. In the picture I am holding a martini in one hand, and in the other holding the ass of a dark-haired man in his 30s with his mouth on my neck. I am smiling, and I am clearly having a good time in this picture. I'll admit that I may have had a few too many drinks that night, but I had a great time nonetheless.

  I am now looking at the third photo. This one is even more personal. It is much more granular than the first two photos, but it clearly shows me in my own bed, naked and riding another man's cock with my head thrown back and my mouth open. Suddenly, I know I do not want to see anymore. It is a disgusting invasion of privacy. I close the manila folder and push it back to my lawyer. It slides across the table.

  "If I thought about it too much, I'd be so paranoid that I'd never be able to leave my house. I would start covering the camera lenses on my phone and computers in tape. I'd never open my window curtains. I'd shut down my social media presence entirely. My paranoia could grow exponentially, and fill a whole laundry list of items." But I am not going to let these fuckers win. No fucking way.

  "Every one of these photos has been taken without my consent," I continue. "It's clear that the media has been following me for quite some time, and I intend to sue those assholes and teach them a lesson they should have learned long ago," I say.

  "The thing is, the story that all of these pictures paint of you isn't a good one."

  "Whose side are you on Henry?" I ask.

  "I'm just trying to be objective. Please hear me out. Have you considered slowing down? If you are in fact in love with these men, choose one and end the scandals. Settle down. There's nothing wrong with a stable, quiet life."

  "Slow down? Are you kidding me? I came in here for legal advice and now I'm paying you $500 an hour for you to lecture me on how to live my life? This is unbelievable. Are you going to personally handle my case, or am I going to have to pass this off to another lawyer in this firm?"

  "It was just a suggestion, Ms. Heaton. I hate to see you in this predicament."

  I roll the window down as I drive and I let the wind twist its fingers through my hair. After leaving J. Henry Edgar's office, his words keep playing through my mind like a song on repeat: have you considered slowing down? Choose one and end the scandals. Everywhere I look, I see couples walking blissfully down the sidewalk. Then I turn and notice two tall men walking hand in hand. They have short, dark hair and are dressed in tailored suits. They have broad, muscular chests and I can't stop gazing at their well-built bodies. I start undressing them with my eyes, wondering what it would be like to fuck both of them. Would it be like fucking Colt and Ethan? Shit. Why does it feel like I'm losing my mind? I've been with lots of men, so why does it feel different this time, with these two? Why can't I stop thinking about Colt Stackford and Ethan Blake? I never let myself get attached to people. Why now? I shake my head and look away from the two men walking down the street. I can't. I work hard and play hard, but at the end of the day, my career comes first.

  But just as quickly as that thought appears, another enters my mind. Maybe the lawyer is right. Maybe I should slow down. I notice I'm now speeding and I release my foot from the gas pedal so that the momentum of my car slows to the legal speed limit. I take a slow deep breath. My life feels like it's spiraling out of control. Things aren't looking good. I don't want to lose Colt and Ethan and I don't want to lose ownership of the New York Nailers. This team means everything to me, but is this what my life has really become—one scandal after another? Should I choose and settle? I realize I'm holding my breath anxiously, and I exhale. After a few tense moments I whisper to myself, I think I know what I need to do.

  * * *

  The next day, I walk onto the administrative floor of the Nailers headquarters. There are not many people around and I can hear the hum of the fluorescent lights overhead. Just as I am about to open my office door, I hear my secretary call out. She is running after me down the hallway, her heels clicking against the thin carpeting.

  "Ms. Heaton, I'm so sorry! He insisted on a meeting."

  I turn around. "Who insisted on a meeting?"

  "Coach Karl. He's here in your office. He's been waiting for you."

  Shit. The one day I'm running late and I have someone in my office waiting for me. And that someone is Coach Karl. "How long has he been waiting?"

  "About 20 minutes. I asked him if he wanted a coffee, but he said no. I'm sorry if I've done s
omething wrong by allowing him into your office."

  "No, it's fine," I assure her. She is clearly frazzled. "You've done nothing wrong. I'll go meet with him now." I wonder what he could possibly want. I take a deep breath, open the door, and step into my office. I see him leaning back into one of the leather armchairs by my desk. He is scrolling through his phone but immediately looks up at me when I enter.

  "To what do I owe this surprise today?" I ask.

  "I'm sorry to be here unannounced," he says, placing his phone into his pocket. It's just, with everything going on in the media right now, I wanted to talk to you."

  "Are you here to lecture me, Karl? Because if so, save your breath. I'm already getting it from all angles. No pun intended. Or perhaps you are here to tell me that you signed the petition too?"

  "Listen, can you just let down your guard for once? I know your father—"

  "Leave my father out of this!" I say, slamming my coffee mug down onto my desk. There is no way that I want to hear him rip open the past this morning and I am growing impatient with his presence. It is too early to rip open old wounds.

  "I know you are surrounded by a media circus right now," he says, trying to soften the situation.

  "That's putting it mildly," I scoff.

  "And I wanted to say that I know what it's like to have to make difficult decisions." He looks at me with his gentle blue eyes. It is clear he came here to my office today to make peace.

  "What do you know about making difficult choices?"

  "Many years ago, I had a choice to make. Either I keep your father on as coach, or—" he said, and I grimaced, but allowed him to continue. "Or replace him."

  "Yes, well. Shit happens I guess."

  "No, that's not what I am trying to say right now. I'm saying that I replaced your father out of ambition. I was blinded by the urge to win—the rings, the accolades, a higher salary—and I lost focus on what was important."