Roughing the Player (Chicago Outlaws Book 2)

by Magda Alexander

  As I get closer to my house, a bunch of people crowd the sidewalks and the road, almost like it’s a parade. Where are they going? As it turns out, the ‘parade’ ends at my house. My driveway’s so crowded with people I can’t even pull up into it, so I park on the only free spot on the street. Is Ellie having a garage sale? It is Saturday after all. Nah, she donated a lot of stuff to Goodwill before we left.

  When I step on the sidewalk in front of my house, the crowd parts. They’re all grinning ear-to-ear. What the hell’s going on?

  As I take the path to my front door, I notice a whole bunch, and I mean a whole bunch, of casserole dishes on the lawn. Empty dishes. In all shapes and sizes. And colors. Maybe she is having a garage sale. But that sure is an odd way to lay them out, scattered as they are all over the grass. That’s when I realize they’re spelling out words. Three words to be exact.

  Ellie loves Brock.

  She’s telling not only me, but all of our neighbors. Probably the entire world too. Because as sure as I’m standing here, with a goofy grin on my face, somebody’s already posted it on the internet.

  Ellie’s waiting for me at the top of the porch steps, holding a plate in her hands. I’m not close enough to smell it, but I know it’s apple pie.

  I walk up the path, struggling to remain cool. When I get there, I climb up one step so we’re eye to eye. “Apple pie?”

  “Yes.” A light glows in her eyes.

  I nod toward the lawn. “So you do love me?” Dying to kiss her, I content myself with cupping her face and brushing a thumb across her satiny cheek.

  “I’ve always loved you, Brock.” Her breathless voice is sexy as fuck.

  “Since when?”

  “Since high school. Why do you think I spent so much time at practice?”

  “And here I thought you were just interested in football.”

  “I was watching you, you idiot.” She makes ‘idiot’ sound like a caress.

  “Yeah?”

  “Uh-huh.” She bites down on her lip.

  I’m going to put that lip to good use first chance I get. But first, we have to do something else. Something I’ve been dreaming about for a long time. “How about we sit on the porch and eat our pie?”

  She gestures to the mob out front which, if anything, has grown larger. “In front of God and everyone?”

  “I don’t care about them or anything else as long as you love me, Ellie.” And that’s the God’s honest truth.

  She cups my face with her free hand. “Well then, Brock Parker, you’re bound to not care about anything for a good, long time because I will love you forever.”

  I kiss her, sweetly, deeply, because the most beautiful woman in the world loves me and always has.

  Epilogue

  Five Years Later

  Brock

  “PITCH ME THE BALL, DADDY!” My son, Brock, Jr., all of four years old. Pretty much like Kaylee, he’s all me. Unlike Kaylee, though, he inherited my athletic ability. He wants to play ball which is fine with me. It won’t be football, though. Too much punishment for your body to take. Baseball’s much safer, so I’m teaching him to catch and pitch.

  “Brock. It’s time for you to go.” Ellie yells from the porch. She’s plopped on a rocking chair, looking about ten months pregnant, although she’s only eight. With twins. Yeah. Her doctor put her on bed rest, but with Kaylee leaving for college, the best we could do was park her in a spot where she could watch the goings-on. If she so much as moves a muscle, I’ve threatened to hog tie her to that chair, though.

  I’m driving our daughter to MIT. MIT! Who knew a kid of mine would be that smart? Harvard and Yale, along with every college she applied to, accepted her. But she chose MIT to study Bioengineering. Someday she’s going to design an entire body suit that people can wear to walk, talk, and move. So, so proud of her.

  I lob the baseball one last time to Brock, Jr. He catches it in his mini-glove and beams me a smile. He might look just like me, but that grin is pure Ellie. Makes sense. He spends much more time with her than me.

  I’m on the last year of my contract with the South Carolina Wolves. Last season, I took them all the way to the Super Bowl but lost. This year, I intend to win it all. But whatever happens, at the end of the season, I’m hanging up my cleats. I want to spend the rest of my life with my family—Brock, Jr., Kaylee, the babies, and Ellie. Always Ellie. God willing we’ll grow old together rocking those chairs on the porch.

  “Gotta go, Ace.”

  Brock, Jr. runs up and slings his little dude arms around my knees. “Do you have to, Daddy?”

  I ruffle his honey blond hair. “Yeah, I do, Bud. Gotta drive Kaylee to school.”

  “When is she coming back?”

  “Thanksgiving.”

  “That’s”—he counts on his fingers—“that’s three months away.”

  “Yeah, it is.”

  Hauling a suitcase behind her, Kaylee trips down the steps. Butch, ever her shadow, hobbles along next to her. His legs healed, just not 100%. Although he doesn’t have the vibrant stride of before, he still has the heart of a champion.

  Tongue lolling out, Sundance bounds down the steps. Butch side-eyes him, seemingly saying, “How rude.”

  Shortly after the whole family moved to South Carolina, we adopted Sundance, figuring Butch needed a buddy to play with. But Butch never warmed up to him. He’d already given his whole heart to Kaylee. Out of all of us, he’s going to miss her the most.

  Ruth, a little grayer, a little older, walks onto the porch, a brown bag in her hand. “Kaylee, I made you some sandwiches for the road. Your favorite, peanut butter and jelly.”

  Having stashed her suitcase in the car, Kaylee runs back to her grandmother and embraces her. “Grandma. You’re the best.”

  And then it’s time to say goodbye to her mother. Not an easy feat. Even from where I’m standing, I can see the droop of her shoulders. Bending down, she gently hugs Ellie. “Mom.”

  “Bye, honey,” Ellie pats her daughter’s cheek. “Call me and be careful.”

  “I will. Don’t worry.”

  Easier said than done.

  Shortly after Kaylee’s 14th birthday, Ellie had ‘the talk’ with her. Something that was totally needed. Turns out Ellie had been right all along about Mitch. During his sophomore year, he’d grown six inches, replaced his coke-bottom glasses with contacts, and lost the dental hardware. And just like that, he’d turned into a stud. A nerdy stud, but a stud nonetheless.

  When his friendship with Kaylee had blossomed into something more serious, I’d pulled Mitch aside and done a little talking of my own. I’d told him if he ever hurt my little girl, he wouldn’t live to see his next birthday. He’d nodded and said he had nothing but respect for her. A year ago, he’d left for MIT. To my surprise, their friendship hadn’t wavered. They Skype at least once a week.

  Without parental supervision, these kids could get into a world of trouble. But they won’t. Because they know better. But in the end, all I can do is pray. And tuck a box of condoms into Kaylee’s suitcase.

  At first, I attribute Ellie’s facial contortions to her attempt to keep from crying, but Brock, Jr. alerts me to the true state of things.

  “Mom, you pe-peed.” He says pointing to the pool of liquid beneath Ellie’s rocking chair.

  “Honey,” Ruth says, a note of alarm in her voice.

  “Mom!” A wide-eyed Kaylee screams.

  I bound up the stairs and kneel next to the love of my life. “Ellie?”

  Ellie’s quiet demeanor belies the intensity of the moment. “I’ve been having contractions since early this morning. I guess my water broke.”

  “Right.” I could demand to know why she didn’t say anything, but that’s not important right now. Not when I have to get her to the hospital. “Kaylee, get your mother’s go-bag.”

  Taking Ellie’s hand, I help her to her feet. But when I guide her down the front porch steps, she stops. “Wait. I’m not going to the hospital like this. I
need to change.”

  Ruth, ever the voice of reason, says, “Honey, you’re just going to get another dress wet.”

  Brock, Jr. pats my leg. “Daddy.”

  I pay him no attention.

  Which doesn’t stop him from smacking me again. “Dad!”

  “Yes, son.”

  “What did mom mean her water broke,” he says, scratching his nose.

  “It means your brother and sister are coming.”

  Kaylee runs out with Ellie’s go bag and squeezes it into the back of the car. Somehow, she had the presence of mind to bring a towel as well which she lays over the SUV’s passenger seat.

  “I’m coming, too,” she says.

  “Okay.” She’ll have to drive her own car, since mine is packed to the gills with her college things.

  “I’ll stay and watch over Brock, Jr.,” Ruth hollers from the porch.

  “Thanks, Ruth,” I yell over my shoulder.

  Sundance is jumping around Ellie and me, making a nuisance of himself. Butch’s plopped his butt on the porch, next to Ruth and Brock, Jr. As if to say, you go and take care of things. I’ll watch over the kinfolk. As proof he’s on the job, he barks at Sundance who promptly makes a beeline for the porch.

  “You okay, sweetheart?” I ask, Ellie.

  “Never better.”

  I lean over to kiss her lips. “I love you. Always and forever.”

  She cups my cheek. “Me too.”

  On a normal day, the drive to the hospital lasts thirty minutes. I intend to make it in twenty. If anybody stops me, I’ve got the best excuse in the world. On the way, I call the hospital, so when we arrive, they’re at the entrance waiting for us. Once Ellie’s tucked into the ugly hospital gown, they allow me to enter the labor and delivery room. I assure them this is not my first rodeo, that I was present for the birth of my son.

  At first, everything proceeds smoothly, but two hours later, one of the babies goes into distress.

  Her obstetrician says, “We’re going to have to do a C-section.”

  My heart plummets. I can’t lose this woman I love more than life. “Do what you have to, Doc.”

  They only allow me inside the surgery suite, so Kaylee has to wait outside in the family room.

  “She’ll be okay, Dad. She’s strong.”

  “I know.” I know no such thing. Inside I’m a quivering bowl of jelly. If something were to happen to Ellie . . . I can’t finish that thought.

  As it turns out, I have nothing to worry about. The procedure goes off smoothly, and before I know it, Ellie’s putting our baby boy to her breast.

  She smooths his honey wheat hair. “He looks just like you.” She sounds wistful.

  “You’re right, he does.” Down to his, ahem, willie which appears way out of proportion to the rest of him.

  “I’m never going to have a child who resembles me.”

  “What can I say? My seed is potent.”

  She rolls her eyes. Doesn’t matter, I lean down and kiss her anyway. When I do, the peanut in my arms squirms as if she wants some attention too. “Welcome to the world, Sunshine.”

  “That’s not her name.”

  I nod toward Ellie. “She wants to call you Susan, but your real name is Sunshine.”

  “No. It won’t be.”

  “What does she know? She’s only your mother.”

  They say babies don’t smile, but Susan Sunshine does. Because she already knows how bright her future will be.

  Excerpt from Dirty Filthy Boy

  Chicago

  Early October

  Ty

  THE SECOND I STEP ON THE PRACTICE FIELD, I'm besieged by fans. Young, old, women, men.

  A gap-toothed, tow-headed boy wearing my number 10 jersey stands at the front of the line, Sharpie in hand. "Ty, sign my shirt. Pleeeease." Gotta give the kid credit, he came prepared.

  "Sure." I write Ty Mathews with my trademark flourish at the end. Even though I've signed thousands of autographs, I still get a kick out of seeing the excitement in a child's eyes. Of course, some of them aren't kids. And some of them have asked me to sign something other than shirts. Tits, asses. I draw the line at pussies. Yeah, I've been asked. After I sign a few more shirts and photos, a staff member waves off the fans, promising I'll sign more after practice.

  If my arm holds out.

  My shoulder throbs from yesterday's grueling session. I've iced it, had it massaged, but it still hurts like hell. At twenty-eight years old, I shouldn't hurt so damned much. The smart thing would be to give it a rest, but we're facing San Francisco this week, and there are some mean sons of bitches on that team who'd just as soon tear my head off. So I better be ready to get rid of the ball. Besides, I'll be damned before I ask for a light workout from Coach 'No Pain, No Gain' Gronowski who played with a broken foot at a clutch match during his NFL days. I can't fault his attitude. Last year, we went all the way to the AFC playoffs, only to lose the championship game to our conference nemesis, the Texas Roughriders. I don't intend to fail my team. This year I'm taking the Chicago Outlaws all the way to the Super Bowl.

  As I'm tying my shoulder pads, I notice three of my teammates gesturing at something, laughing hard enough to split a gut. I throw on my practice jersey, and, curious, I walk up. "What's so funny?"

  One of the linebackers points toward the sideline where a redhead with hair down to one luscious ass is interviewing our number one wideout, Ron Moss. The breath whooshes out of me. She's wearing a micro skirt, short enough for me to almost see the promised land. Her blouse, unbuttoned down to there, displays a truly impressive cleavage.

  My cock, which hasn't gotten any action for two days, swells painfully against my cup. I tug to give it room. Where has this reporter been hiding out? I haven't seen her before. And believe me, I would have noticed.

  The woman keeps touching Ron, his arm, his hand. Problem is, the more she does it, the more stone-faced he becomes. No wonder the linebackers think it's funny. Ron doesn't drink, doesn't smoke and he certainly doesn't like aggressive females which the reporter appears to be. I, on the other hand, like all kinds of women, especially those built like brick houses.

  When Ron twitches away from her, she glances toward the three amigos with a questioning look on her face. Before I have a chance to wonder what that's all about, one of the three makes a squeezing motion. Fuck. I know what she's going to do. Yep. Sure enough. One of her dainty hands slides over Ron's ass and squeezes it for all she's worth.

  Predictably, Ron says, "Excuse me," and starts to walk away.

  "Where are you going? We're not finished," Red protests.

  The wideout turns back to her. "Ma'am. I don't want to be rude, but I don't care for women who grab my buttocks." That's Ron. Polite to the end.

  "But they said . . .” She points to the three chuckleheads next to me who are laughing their heads off. But it's too late. Ron's already stalked off.

  Lips tight, cheeks flushed pink, she stomps to where we stand. "You set me up." Smoke's practically streaming from her ears.

  They're guffawing so hard they can't get a word out. But I can. "What's going on?"

  "They told me that if I wanted to get a great interview with Mr. Moss, I should 'flaunt what my Mama gave me and grab his ass.' So I freed a couple of buttons, hitched up my skirt. And I . . . touched his heinie." As she talks, she wiggles her skirt down, rebuttons her blouse, slips into the jacket she'd been holding over one arm.

  My cock doesn't know whether to toss confetti at the erotic dance or curse the covering up. I, on the other hand, know an explanation is in order. "Ron Moss's a born-again Christian. He doesn't care for, err, bold women."

  "I'm not bold!" She shoots me a scathing glance, hot enough to leave a burn.

  "Sorry. It certainly appeared that way."

  Giving her skirt one last tug, she turns to the linesmen. "You guys are big fat jerks. I needed that interview for my job. Hope you all fry in hell."

  "Sorry?" One of the three big fat jerks says w
ithout an ounce of remorse in his voice.

  "Go stuff yourself." That's the best she can come up with? In the world of curses, that's about as mild as it gets. Obviously, the hard-core ones are not in her vocabulary. She storms past Larry, Moe and Curly toward the gate that opens to the parking lot. You have to get through security to get into the Chicago Outlaws' complex, but inside, everything is pretty accessible. Only a waist-high link fence separates the field from the parking lot.

  "What did you guys do?" I ask.

  "Man, you should have seen her," the outside linebacker says. "She showed up all buttoned tight in a skirt down to her knees. You know, the schoolmarm look. We told her Ron liked his women a bit more lively." He snickers again.

  The sad thing is Ron would have gone for the schoolmarm look, but now . . . My gaze follows her as she reaches a junker. That thing's gotta be at least ten years old. She drops her notebook, wipes something off her face as she picks it up. Is she crying? I curse and go running after her. When I catch up, she's juggling her car keys, talking to herself. "Stupid, stupid, stupid." Her notebook hits the ground again.

  "Hi."

  She stabs me with a glance. No tears, though. "Don't you have some braying to do with those jackasses?"

  Her eyes are the color of crushed bluebells. I should know bluebells. They grew all around the run-down shack I lived in back in east Texas. The only spot of color in a dreary landscape. "I'm not with them."

  "Oh?" Her eyes scrunch as she gives me the once over. "You're wearing the same uniform."

  "I'm on the same team, yes, but I didn't play this prank on you."

  "Prank?" She kicks the notebook with her high heeled, open toe shoe. If she keeps that up, she's going to hurt herself. "You call that a prank? I got handed this assignment at the last minute, and this was my chance to impress my boss." Her face crumbles.

  Is she about to turn on the waterworks? "Hey, hey." I pat her shoulder. "Don't cry."