She swats off my hand and hiccups. "I don't"—hiccup—"cry. I never cry." She takes a breath, holds it in. "Idiot." She mumbles out.
Smiling, I cross my arms against my chest. "Been called worse."
Her eyes flash blue fire. "What are you talking about?"
"You just called me an idiot."
"I wasn't talking about you."
I jerk a thumb backward. "Them, then. You're absolutely right. They are low-class worms."
"I was talking about me. Idiot."
Is it me or her she's talking about now? Her expression hasn't changed. Gotta be her. "Why would you call yourself that?"
"I knew it was wrong. Knew it. But I did it anyway. First week on the job, and I wanted to impress my boss, so when they suggested I lose a few buttons, show some leg, I did it. Stupid, stupid, stupid." With each 'stupid', she nails the notebook. With its spine loose, guts spilling out, the damn thing's on life support.
Better change the subject. "Where do you work?"
"The Windy City Chronicle."
Never heard of the rag. Poor kid. Probably her first job too. I scratch the back of my head. Maybe I had nothing to do with the nasty trick the three stooges back there played, but I feel bad for her. "Does it have to be him?"
"What do you mean?"
"Does it have to be Ron Moss or can you interview somebody else on the team?"
She shrugs. "Guess it could be anyone." She looks back toward the practice field. "What does it matter? No one else will give me an interview. Not after I allowed those jerks to make a fool out of me in front of everyone."
Don't have to turn around to know we're probably drawing attention from the players. You think women gossip? Got nothing on professional football players. Busybodies, every last one of them. "Well, there's one person who'd be glad to talk to you."
"Who?"
"Me. Ty Mathews." I stick out my hand.
"MacKenna Perkins." Her dainty hand disappears in my oversized one. What can I say? I'm big all over. And I mean all over. "Would our readers be interested in reading about you?" She gazes hopefully up at me.
"You might say so. I'm the quarterback." I lean forward, hoping to impress upon her the importance of my position. "The starting quarterback."
"The starting one, huh? That sounds important. Is it? Important?"
I fight back the urge to laugh. Given her recent experience, I don't think she would take it well. "You really don't know much about football, do you?"
"No. Sorry. I'm interested in social issues. Poverty, women's topics, politics. The important matters of the day. Sports do not seem that . . . important."
Did she just insult me and my profession? Man, she's got a lot to learn about kissing up. Given that she's new at this, though, I decide to cut her some slack. "Sports were all that mattered where I came from."
"Where are you from?"
"Texas." Before I can explain further, someone bellows my name.
"Hey, Mathews, you planning on joining us sometime today?"
"Umm, gotta go. Practice for that non-important job." I grin and add a wink for good measure.
She gives me a sheepish smile. "Okay."
"I can meet you another day, and we can talk."
"Tomorrow?"
This time I can't hold back the laugh. "No, tomorrow is Sunday. Game day? How about Monday?"
She pauses a second and then narrows her gaze. "You're not being nice to me just to get in my pants are you?"
Good to see she has some protective instincts. "Would you believe me if I said no?"
"Not really. You look like the type."
She's got a point. I do want to get in her pants. But then, what red-blooded American male wouldn't? She has masses of auburn hair, world-class tits, and legs that go all the way up. A man's dick would rise from the grave to ride that rodeo. But the truth is she got the shaft from the three amigos, and that doesn't sit right by me. "We can meet in a public place if you like." Why am I almost begging here? I never have to work this hard to get a woman.
"Not here?"
"No." For personal reasons, I never give out private interviews. So I don't want our press office to find out about this before the article appears in her paper. If somebody asks afterward, I'll say I did it to avert a public relations disaster. Not that any one's going to question my motives after I explain what those three did to her. "There's a diner down the street from where I live. We could meet there." I run into that place at least once a week and am pretty sure she can conduct her interview without us being interrupted.
"Okay." When she bends down to pick up the hapless notebook, I almost swallow my tongue. My cock twitches at the thought of clutching those hips, sinking into her hot pussy and pounding her all the way to—
"Where is it?"
Where is what? Oh, the diner. "The Honey Bee's on Beach Drive. Let's say ten Monday morning?" I fight the need to tug my damn cup which seems to have shrunk two sizes. Last thing I want is to make her uncomfortable.
"See you then." All smiles now, she gives me a little wave before she slides into her piece-of-shit car. She turns on the ignition, and the damn thing knocks for awhile before something grinds and the car lurches forward.
Like a prize idiot, I stand there and watch her drive off before giving my dick some breathing room. It's only when she's out of sight that I jog back to the practice field where the quarterback coach waits for me.
"Five more minutes and you would have been late for practice. An automatic $10,000 fine."
"Sorry coach. Won't happen again." $10,000 is a lot of money, but honestly, if I had to pay? MacKenna Perkins would be worth it.
Available from Amazon Roughing the Player
Roughing the Player (Chicago Outlaws Book 2) Page 24
