Seven Deadly Sinners

by Dark Angel

  I settle into the dark wood and red vinyl booth and the waitress hands me a menu. I immediately look at the beer listing. I need something to mellow me out. There are ales, wheat beers, lagers, IPAs—why are IPAs so popular these days? I can't understand it. And then I see the darker beers—stouts and porters. Yes, that is what I am in the mood for, something substantial, like a meal in a pint. I am buried in the beer menu when someone approaches my table. I think it is the waitress, so I begin to order. "I think I'll have the dark—"

  "Do I look like one of the servers to you, asshole?" The question comes from a familiar voice. I look up and see him. He seems taller and stronger than usual, if that is even possible. His brown eyes hang warmly above me and he is smiling. It is like staring up at a strong oak tree.

  "Wh-wh-what are you doing here?"

  "I've been looking all over for you. You haven't been answering my recent calls or texts. Hell, you even dodge me on the field. I knew I'd have to find you."

  I watch as Colt approaches the table. I feel almost embarrassed being caught off guard like this. What's the point of him meeting me here like this?

  "Have a seat." I find myself inviting him into my booth even though I feel like being as far away as possible from him right now. I still need time to gather my thoughts. He thanks me and eagerly scoots in.

  "So you came all the way to Black and Bull to find me? How did you know I was here?"

  "Just a hunch," Colt says. Damn it. Colt has known me longer than most people. His ability to read my mind is uncanny. If anyone can find me in this city, it is definitely him. I notice that he seems more subdued. Not the gregarious loud mouth I had grown accustomed to. The way he silently looks into my eyes is making me uncomfortable, and I don't know what to say. Since it is a small booth, we are sitting in close proximity to each other. I can feel his broad, muscular shoulder brushing up against mine, and my cock twitches.

  Great, not now, I think to myself. I hear the deep, harsh words of my father repeat themselves in my mind, What are you, a faggot? I feel so confused. There is no doubt that I am attracted to Colt. All these years of intense rivalry and hatred are starting to make sense to me. The opposite of love is not hate; it's indifference. I never hated Colt. I can see now that the identity I am so scared to embrace is true. I have desired him all along. I've been attracted to him all these years and was too afraid to admit it, and he must have felt the same thing. But that's not the whole picture. The other side of this perfect equation is Julianna. I love her, but now I know that I love them both.

  "Let me guess, you were going to order the Bleu Cheese Burger," he chides.

  "Fuck off, you always think you have me pegged," I say jokingly.

  He gives me a playful punch on my arm and I laugh, brushing the hair back from my forehead. Now this is the Colt I know, which is a comforting feeling. I feel like I am treading back on familiar territory.

  "It's because I do. Just admit it. When have I ever been wrong?" He laughs, and opens the menu from the table.

  "Plenty of times! In fact, remember when you—"

  "Now fucking stop right there. I'm going to have to tell you to go fuck yourself," Colt laughs.

  Despite everything, I laugh back.

  For a moment, I forget everything and look at Colt. I’m supposed to hate this man. But that hatred seems to be a mask - hiding something greater.

  He reaches over and I take his hand. I lean over the table in the booth before I realize what I’m doing. Is his face coming closer?

  Our faces are inches apart.

  I could kiss him right now.

  I can feel his breath. I’ve wanted this for a long time. I squeeze his hand and my eyes droop, preparing to kiss him.

  Just then, the figure of a blonde woman walking across the pub catches both our attention, and our easy banter fades. We do not have to say anything because I know we are both thinking about the same woman: Julianna. The woman at the bar isn’t her, but I realize that she is the force we need in our universe. The person who creates balance to all of the opposing forces in our lives. I wonder if she feels the same way. I have to speak to her.

  But I can’t. I shouldn’t even be talking to Colt.

  I pull away from Colt’s face and lean back against the booth.

  “I…I gotta go,” I say hastily, slapping down some money on the table in case I didn’t pay for anything.

  I can see the hurt in Colt’s eyes. “You’re running away, man,” he yells at me as I keep walking. “You’re dad isn’t here anymore, Ethan. Hey, are you listening to me, fucker?”

  But I’m gone. Into the crisp New York City night. I pull out my phone and call Larry.

  “I’m in,” I say to him. “What do I need to do?”

  “I’ll be right over,” he says, not caring about the time.

  I hang up and decide to walk back to my condo.

  By myself. In the loneliest big city in the world.

  Julianna

  What time is it? I grab my phone from the nightstand and swipe it on. Shit. It's already after 7 am, and I have more email and text message alerts than I dare to count right now. What's happening to me? I've always had a morning routine that kicked ass and took names later. Now my mornings are slipping through my fingers faster than water through a colander and I have a man tangled in the sheets next to me that make my heart leap. I've grown soft.

  I try to sneak out of the bed, and just when I swing one leg off the mattress, I feel a strong hand wrap around my thigh.

  "Where do you think you're going?"

  I smile. Seeing Colt's bed hair makes me laugh and I try to smooth it down with my fingers. He runs his hands down the small of my back and grabs my ass—two firm squeezes. We do not bother wearing any clothes from the night before. I enjoy nuzzling my bare ass up next to his cock as much as possible. It is easy to make him hard. Even now, I feel his cock growing underneath me. I kiss his neck and run my tongue down his chest, and continue a path straight to his cock.

  "Oh fuck, " he moans. He knows exactly what is coming. I grab his shaft and place his cock into my mouth. Just the tip at first, tapping my tongue delicately underneath his dick, and then I take him in deeply and his moaning intensifies. I'm already wet and all I can think about is shoving him inside me, so I straddle him as he lays there, still tangled in the soft white sheets of my King-sized bed. I have him under my spell, just the way I like it. I flash him a hungry grin.

  "I want you so fucking bad," I purr.

  He pulls me into him, and sucks on my breasts. The force of his mouth around my nipples sends shivers down my body from head to toe, and I buck my hips. My entire body is electrified as I grab his cock and shove it into my pussy, grinding my hips. I rake my nails across his chest, and with the motion of my relentless gyrations I know I'm going to cum. I don't hold back and let it overtake me, my pussy throbbing with each muscle spasm. Colt senses it is his turn and he thrusts his cock into me with greater speed. I urge him on, "Fuck, cum for me," I moan. And as if on command, he dig his strong hands into my hips and I feel his dick pulse, shooting waves of cum deep inside of me. I eagerly take him in. We rest together for a moment like that, inside of each other, until the current of desire subsides, and I unhook my legs from his body. Then my mind drifts back to Ethan. I enjoyed fucking Colt. It is great, but there is something missing. An unmistakable void.

  I think back to my phone. There were a lot of missed messages, and I hadn't bothered to look to see whom they were from. I wonder if there are any from Ethan? I swipe it on again and scroll through my texts. I exhale sharply when I don't see anything from him. Why won't he answer me? What does it mean?

  Colt stands up and walks toward the shower. "You can join me if you'd like."

  "You go first. I'm going to see what SportsNation has to say this morning."

  "You're more sadistic than I thought," Colt laughs. "If there's anything that can ruin a perfectly good day, it's that fucking trash TV. Good luck with that."

  I s
hrug him off and press the power button on my 70-inch flat screen television. The screen glows to life, and I navigate to the station I am looking for. The show is already in full swing. A banner flashes across the screen that reads, "Elite football players rumored to be gay: hot athletes Ethan Blake and Colt Stackford exposed in secret same-sex love affair."

  I hear the first analyst speak. "Ethan Blake and Colt Stackford shouldn't be allowed to play in the NFL. Not only are they the kind of role models that we don't want young men and boys to emulate, but you know, another issue is that I don't think it's safe for NFL players to have to share locker rooms with gays."

  "You're absolutely right, Bob," agrees the second analyst.

  "How do we know that they aren't coping secret feels on the field? During a tackle it would be easy for them to say, oops, didn't mean to grab you there. How can they stay focused with so many men around them during the game?"

  The second analyst chimes in, "Instead of Man Crush Monday, Bob, I say we start a new trending search on social media called No Gay Thursday." Both men laugh as if it is the funniest jab they had ever heard.

  How the fuck are these men getting time on National television to talk such hateful trash? It just seems unfathomable. I can feel my blood reach the point of boiling. I have to take a few deep breaths to quell the burning rage building within me. Keep it cool, Julianna, I remind myself. I can't let the media get away with this, especially not when they are trashing the two men I love most. It is now clear to me that everything I've been told is wrong—the lawyer, the consultants—everything. How can I throw Colt and Ethan under the bus, further empowering this idiotic media? That's what they want, isn't it? They love it if I can help them spill more blood. The answer is I can't. I won't. But what I can do is bring out the gloves. If the media wants to keep dragging them through the mud, they are fucking with the wrong people.

  Julianna

  “Ladies and gentlemen, if you’ll take your seats, the press conference will get started, J. Henry Edgar states into the microphone as I stand to the side. “Once started, Ms. Heaton will deliver a prepared statement and then take your questions.”

  The press folks sit down. I’ve invited literally every major media outlet this afternoon for a major press conference to finally address these questions once and for all. By myself, I can take whatever slings and arrows that the media might throw at me. But when they go after Colt and Ethan, that’s when they cross the line and need to face my wrath. There’s no way this is just sports story anymore. I’ve invited The News of the Times, as well as all the major news sources in the country. Word got out that I was having a press conference and all of a sudden the Nailers Press Office started getting requests from even more. Now, I have journalists from at least 10 different countries sitting in the Press Room at Nailers Arena - what the media has started to call Julianna’s Sex Dungeon - looking at me as I take the mike.

  “Thank you everyone,” I say and look out and then back at my notes. “I will have a prepared statement that I’d like to read before I take your questions.”

  There’s a few flashes from cameras and it quiets down. I’ve never seen it so quiet. Everyone wants to hear what I’m going to say.

  I clear my throat and begin, “I want it to be clear, from the very beginning, that I’m not here to apologize. I don’t believe that I’ve done anything that merits me having to stand here and apologize, nor will I entertain a discussion on doing so.” There are a few uncomfortable shifts in the audience and the cameras start up again. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the Commissioner standing there. He’s come over also and he’s watching me - getting a pulse on the situation.

  There’s nowhere to go but forward, and I plunge ahead. “However, I believe that it is possible that I have not been as completely forthright with the public as I should have.” Good. That gets everyone’s attention. “And that is the following. I intend, going forward to aggressively litigate against any future breaches of my privacy or the privacy of anyone within the Nailers franchise.”

  There are camera flashes now as I continue. “And I will personally respond to any maligning of character that occurs based on these invasions of privacy as I view them as a direct assault on the New York Nailers. If you choose to ignore me, or if you choose to test me, then please be prepared for the full weight of the New York Nailers to come down upon you.”

  Again, it’s quiet as I finish my last sentence. “Thank you,” I say and the entire floor erupts.

  The reporter from the Chicago Sentinel has the loudest voice and I turn my head to his question, “Ms. Heaton, do you believe that you’re a role model for young girls across the country and that you should therefore temper your actions?”

  I look the reporter straight in the face, “I never wanted to be a role model, but I’m flattered if someone thinks of me as one. And I try to live my life every day the way my father wanted me to. And that’s to be true to what I believe in,” I say. “And I believe in myself. I’d want young women to follow those words the same way I have.”The reporter seems mollified by this answer but I know there’s more coming.

  It starts getting harder with the next question.

  “Ms. Heaton, how do you respond to claims from some people that you lack the moral fiber to be an owner in the league?” Chris Grimsby from the New Orleans Herald asks me.

  I’ve heard this question thrown around the airwaves, and I can’t say that I’m completely ready for it, despite having rehearsed the answer this morning in the shower. “I believe that I have the moral fiber to lead this team and lead this league,” I say in answer and there’s a collective gasp that goes through the crowd. “If I didn’t have the moral fiber needed, I would have never made my fortune working at an investment bank, saving and leveraging my earnings until I was able to start my own company.” The room goes quiet as I turn my entire boy to face the reporter. “I wouldn't have been able to purchase the team in the first place, let alone manage it successfully. So, to answer your question, yes, I believe I have the moral fiber to lead this team and eventually lead the league itself.”

  There’s shocked murmurs that pass through the crowd.

  “What do you say to accusations that you’re a pervert?” someone shoots out.

  “I would ask that person to stand up and accuse me to my face,” I respond without batting an eye. If I’m going to have to answer this, then I’m going to do it facing the person who is accusing me.

  There’s silence.

  “That’s what I expected,” I say into the microphone, a hard edge lacing my words. “It’s safe for people to stand and hide in a corner as they try to tear someone down, but call them out in the open, and they scurry like roaches in the sunlight.”

  “Can you tell us how many people you’ve slept with?” another voice calls out.

  I don’t know why but I start blushing involuntarily. I can’t believe they’ve gone there. But I knew this might be coming my way. “Again, I’ll repeat, I would like to know who’s asking these questions. Please stand up so the world can see you.”

  And that’s when AJ Ledoux stands up from the middle row.

  Fuck. I should have known it was going to be him. Maybe I should have fucked him. Gotten him on board. But no.

  I didn’t fuck my way to the top. And I’m proud of that. I enjoy sex, I love it - but I don’t use it as a bargaining chip. Everyone I fuck is for my own pleasure - no matter what the world does to me. But AJ - either he really can’t stand a woman running a franchise or he’s never forgotten about me rejecting him, but the man never has a nice word for me. Remember I told you earlier - even when we met at the ESPY’s last year, he just brushed by me as if I didn’t exist.

  “I asked,” he says. “I would ask how many lovers you’ve had, but I doubt ‘love’ ever enters into a brain like yours, so I want to know how many people you’ve had sex with.”

  “Can I ask what business it is that you know?” I ask him back, keeping my voice calm.

  �
��I think the people of the nation who follow football have it in their interests to know if the integrity of their game is being compromised, Ms. Heaton,” AJ says with a sick looking smile.

  “And how exactly does the integrity of the game get compromised based on the answer to my question?” I ask. I can’t help but sneer at the man. He looks and seems oily as he smiles at me.

  “Well, you were filmed having sex with multiple people on your team, and the ensuing firestorm did end up costing you several games,” he says.

  Now this, I’m ready for.

  “I’ll admit, we did have a few bumps along the road,” I say. “But I’m not going to dignify that statement by elaborating on it. I will say that it is a private affair and it should remain private. Should any of it factor into how the team plays, that’s something that I believe I’m enough of a professional to prevent.”

  “I wonder though, Ms. Heaton,” AJ continues without sitting down. “If you are aware that you may have violated the law in this regard?”

  Now that stops me short. Fuck. I had no preparation for anything like that. I stare at AJ.

  “Isn’t it true that the combined salaries of both Colt Stackford and Ethan Blake surpass the salary cap for the New York Nailers as stipulated by the NFL?” he asks.

  I nod my head. “We are planning on making an announcement on that matter at a later date,” I say. I’m not going to get caught up on a discussion about Colt and Ethan and which one of them to keep or cut. Mostly because I don’t know. And everything that I’ve seen, or that Karl has told me about would suggest he doesn't have much of an idea either. It’s like the two were meant for each other. They’re perfectly joined. They’re perfect together. But I turn back to finish of AJ’s line of questioning. “However, league rules do specify that we have till the end of the season to make a formal decision as to which direction to go with.”