Dirty Filthy Boy (A Bad Boy Sports Romance) (Chicago Outlaws Book 1)

by Magda Alexander

  I stare at the phone like it's grown legs. Is this the same sex kitten who scratched my back? Who begged, "Harder, Ty. Deeper." How could I have been so wrong about her? I thought her sweet, a little naive. But she's a tramp. Like every other woman I've fucked since I joined the league, she was interested in only one thing—fucking the Chicago Outlaws' quarterback. Fine. Two can play at this game. "Yeah, I understand. Hope you had a good time."

  "It was nice."

  Nice? Fuck nice! I rocked her world, and she knows it. "Well, see you around."

  "Yeah." Her voice quivers before she hangs up.

  Did that sound like a sob? Not likely. She's probably thinking about her next score. She won't have to try too hard. My teammates will line up around the block to talk to her. Yeah, talk and a whole lot more. I toss my cell to the couch, stomp toward the shower. Gotta get her rose-lavender scent off me. Throw the sheets in the washer too. Fuck. I'll need my maid service to sanitize the whole house because I fucking don't want to smell her perfume again.

  Chapter 9

  MacKenna

  "PERKINS, GET IN HERE."

  One of these days I'm going to walk in the door without my boss bellowing at me.

  Pasting a smile on my face, I walk into his office, with the cup of coffee I'd picked up from the shop next door. "Yes, sir?"

  "The Ty Mathews interview? How did that go?"

  "I'm going to need more time."

  "Why?"

  "There's something there I want to explore." A secret in Ty's past he doesn't want to discuss. He's not going to volunteer that information, not after I walked out on him. So I'm going to have to unearth it some other way.

  His brows hunch up as he stares at me. "Does exploring mean getting chummy with him?"

  He can't possibly know I spent the night at Ty's. Can he? "What do you mean?"

  "This." He pounds a finger on something on his desk.

  I approach to see what he's talking about. It's a photo from yesterday. The Chronicle staff photographer must have snapped it as Ty and I headed for his car.

  "Why is he holding your hand?"

  Oh, sheesh. "There were a lot of people there. He didn't want to lose me in the crowd."

  "What about this one?" He jabs another photo.

  Ty and me again, my back to his front. One hand holds my arm while he instructs me on the technique of throwing a football, his other arm is wrapped around my middle.

  "You two look mighty cozy."

  "A little boy was having a hard time throwing the ball, so Ty demonstrated using my arm." He wanted the kid to see the technique before working with the boy himself.

  "Ty, huh? What happened to Ty Mathews or Mr. Mathews. I warned you yesterday about getting too close to your assignment. And yet here you are plastered to the quarterback of the Chicago Outlaws with not much daylight between you."

  "We weren't that close. It's just the angle."

  His mouth curls in disapproval.

  Darn. He's not buying my story. Let's face it. I did get close to Ty. Much, much too close. And if Mr. Bartlett finds out, my heiney might be tossed to the street.

  He scrubs his face. "Maybe it would be best to let Joe interview Mr. Mathews."

  Joe Johnson, the sports reporter for the paper. He'd come down with the flu which was the reason the Ron Moss interview had been assigned to me. It may have been originally Joe's but it's changed to something else, and I'll be darned if I allow the interview to be taken from me.

  Mr. Bartlett's bushy brows hike up when I close the door to ensure our privacy. I don't want Randy the worm to hear what I'm about to say. "I think I can get a series of interviews with other Chicago Outlaws players."

  "Besides Ty Mathews?"

  "Yes. At the rec center, I talked to a couple of them—Ron Moss, Maddox Buchinsky. Ron agreed to do another interview and Maddox seemed amenable as well." Although Ron had indeed agreed, I hadn't broached the subject with Mad Dog. But I don't think he'd say no.

  "You'll need to get approval from the Outlaws' press office."

  "I met the head of their public relations. He seemed to like me. He's all for women covering sports." Actually, I did no such thing. And I have no idea how Trevor Howard feels about women reporters. But I'll be damned if I let that little detail stand in my way.

  Mr. Bartlett's expression doesn't change. "Joe might will go ballistic if you move in on his turf."

  "But I wouldn't be. He can still report stats and such while I get the human interest stories. What makes them tick? What makes them something more than a football player? They'll share things with me they wouldn't share with Joe." Of this much, I'm sure. Otherwise, I wouldn't be pushing so hard.

  "Like what?"

  "I got Ty to open up about his childhood. As far as I know, no one has gotten him to talk about that. And I know I can do the same with the other players. Just give me a chance. That's all I ask."

  "Look. Ty Mathews is interested in you. Something I don't approve of, in case you haven't noticed. But the others? Maddox has a wife, a family, kids. Ron's a loner, and from what I've heard, he doesn't cotton to women much."

  "It's his religious background. He's a born again Christian, Mr. Bartlett. I have my ways to make them talk. And no, they don't include sex." That much I can promise him since I'm done with Ty.

  He scratches the back of his neck. "I don't know, Perkins. Joe out there—" He nods toward the clear glass window. Joe's head's poking out of his cubicle, brazenly glaring at us. "He's complaining you lost him the Ron Moss interview."

  "Joe would have done a run of the mill story. You know that, Mr. Bartlett. It would have included football stats and maybe a paragraph or two about Ron Moss's background. I can get more than that out of him."

  "How do you know?"

  "Call it woman's intuition." And the fact Marigold knows something about him, something I'm going to drag out of her if it's the last thing I do. "I deserve this chance. What do you have to lose? Let me interview Ron Moss. I'll turn in the article. If you don't like it, Joe can finish the Ty Mathews interview." Over my dead body.

  "And Ty Mathews will allow a one-on-one interview with Joe just on your say so?"

  "I can talk him into it. Yes, sir." Actually, I'm pretty sure after my blow off this morning he'll hang up on me. But Mr. Bartlett does not need to know that.

  He plops on his office chair, fiddles with the pencil, the one he's practically chewed through. His mouth jerks right, left, right again. He jams the pencil into the cup and stares at me. "Fine. You have until Friday to write Ron's piece. If I like it, and that's a big if, I'll put it in Sunday's edition."

  "Yes, Sir. Thank you, Mr. Bartlett."

  I head to the kitchen to dump the now cold coffee in the sink before heading out for a fresh cup. The newspaper's generic coffee will do in a pinch. But today I need a premium brew. And the shop next door serves the best. I won't be breaking the bank, either since I'll be paying for it with a gift card I won. Once I'm caffeinated, I call the Outlaws' Press office and ask to talk to Trevor Howard. By some miracle, I'm put right through.

  "Ms. Perkins, if you're calling about your information, I can guarantee you, no one but the employees inside this office have access to it."

  "Thank you, Mr. Howard. I appreciate you letting me know. But I'm calling about something else."

  "I have a meeting in five minutes. So give me the short version." He snaps out.

  I rush to make my case. "I'd like another chance to interview Ron Moss. I talked to him yesterday at the Boys & Girls Club and he's fine with it."

  "He's willing to give you a second chance?"

  "Yes."

  I can practically hear the wheels turning in his head. "I'll have to talk to Ron, but if he agrees, I don't see any problem with it."

  "Great. I'd like to interview another player, as well." I hurry to say before he hangs up on me. "I talked to Maddox Buchinsky as well. He's such a great example of a professional football player who's also a family man. Our readers
would eat up that story. A large percentage of The Windy City Chronicle's subscriber base consists of middle-class families. They'd love to read about him."

  For a moment, he doesn't say anything. A bad sign. "I don't know." He finally pipes up. "Ron may have agreed to another interview, but your first attempt did not go all that well. And Mad Dog is another kettle of fish entirely."

  "I understand your hesitation, but give me another chance to prove myself. My article on Ron Moss will be in Sunday's paper." I hope. "If after you read it, you're not convinced I'm a good reporter, you can turn down my request."

  "Okay. Fine. I'll approve it on that condition. But if your article does not pass muster, I won't hesitate to deny you access to Mad Dog." Something beeps on his end. "Damn. Now I'm late. I have to go, Ms. Perkins."

  "Wait. There's one more player."

  He huffs. "Who?"

  I don't know what makes me say it other that I want to prove to myself I can do it. "I'd like to interview Ryan Taylor as well."

  "You sure about that?"

  "I can handle him." I bite my lip. Handle is so not the right word.

  He laughs. "Can you?"

  Great. Now he thinks I'm a joke.

  But he surprises me. "I'll approve it conditioned on my liking your other two interviews. Just do it in public. The interview, that is." He laughs again.

  This guy's a regular comedian.

  "Yes, Mr. Howard, and thank you. I really appreciate it."

  "Just don't make me regret it." And he slams down the phone.

  Randy, the worm, sticks his head into my cubicle. His face is beet red and he's practically foaming at the mouth.

  "What do you want Randy?"

  "You think you're hot shit, don't you?" He hisses out. I'm probably the only one who can hear him, his voice is so low. "You got all these men wrapped around your finger. All you have to do is wiggle your ass and flash your tits and just like that you get an interview that should go to Joe Johnson."

  That language would get anybody else fired. But since he's the newspaper owner's nephew, he'll probably get away with it. "I'm not taking anything away from Joe. He can continue to write about the game. I'm doing human interest stories, not sports."

  "Yeah, right."

  Somebody clears a throat somewhere, and he crawls away like the worm he is.

  My stomach growls, reminding me it hasn't been fed. With no dinner last night and only a cup of coffee this morning, I'm ready to gnaw off my arm.

  In the kitchen, I run into our receptionist, Dotty, who likes to eat an early lunch.

  "Hi." The newspaper provides snacks for its employees, so I toss open the cupboard in search of something to eat.

  "Hungry?"

  "Yeah, didn't get breakfast."

  "Remember you have leftovers." She points to the refrigerator. "Did you forget?"

  I smile sheepishly. "Yeah, I guess I did."

  It's only eleven thirty, but I'm starving. The container from yesterday's lunch, the very one Ty threatened to dismember someone if it disappeared, lies untouched just where I left it. My eyes grow watery as I open the container, pour the leftovers into a paper plate.

  "He's something else, isn't he?" Dotty says. A fifty something veteran of the Navy on a pension, she returned to the workforce because sitting at home bored her silly.

  I don't pretend not to know who she's talking about. "Yeah, he is."

  "My husband was a lot like him. Overprotective, big. Drove me crazy at times, but I had no complaints in bed."

  Yeah, I don't have any either. Too bad it will never happen again.

  Chapter 10

  Ty

  AFTER A GRUELING WORKOUT ON TUESDAY, I can barely lift my arm. I want nothing more than a long soak in the whirlpool, followed by a hot shower and a cool drink. But before I can head to the recuperation room, the coach calls me into his office.

  "Yeah, Coach."

  "Shut the door, son." He's called me son since he drafted me into the Nebraska State University football team. The moniker rankles, but I don't bother to correct him. If it weren't for him, I wouldn't be playing professional football.

  The look on his face tells me it's not the usual run of the mill discussion he has in mind. "You were looking a little tentative out there. Something wrong with your shoulder?"

  I shrug like it's not a big deal. "Nothing that an ice pack and a massage won't cure."

  "You sure? We need you in top shape for the game."

  Monday night, we're playing against the Texas Roughriders. Needless to say, nothing short of death will keep me from playing that game. "I'm good."

  For a couple of seconds, he doesn't say anything else.

  "Is that it?" I ask.

  "No. There's something else." He rubs a thumb across his lip. Something's worrying him. "That redhead reporter that was here the other day?"

  God, this is all I need. A reminder about the woman who made a fool out of me. "MacKenna Perkins."

  "Yes. I heard you got cozy with her at the Boys and Girls Club."

  I keep my trap shut since I have nothing to say.

  "She called the Press Office this morning. Wants to interview some players."

  "Who?"

  "Ron Moss for one, Buchinsky for another."

  I don't get it. If she wants to bag another Outlaw player, why choose him? He's a straight arrow who doesn't screw around, unlike other married players I could name. But maybe she doesn't know that. Or maybe she thinks he's more of a challenge than I was.

  "I'm not worried about Ron. He's practically a choir boy and Mad Dog's a family man. But it's her third interview request that worries me."

  "Who's the third?" Don't know why I bother to ask. I know what's coming.

  "Ryan Taylor."

  I curse under my breath. What is wrong with her?

  "Exactly. A young, attractive woman interviewing a player who can't keep his dick in his pants. This has sexual harassment written all over it. I don't have to tell you what a scandal would do to the team. "

  "So deny her the interview."

  "You think I didn't argue just that. That idiot head of PR thinks she's aces. 'Woman's point of view. Fresh light will be shed on our team. Yadda, yadda, yadda. Bullcrap. Whoever approved women reporters ought to be strung up by his testicles." I don't contradict him. I've heard this tirade a million times before.

  "Yeah, Coach. I better go." I thumb toward the door. "Get in some whirlpool time."

  "Yeah, fine. While you're in PT, have Doc Latimer take a look at that shoulder."

  Damn. If our team physician examines it, he might decide it needs a rest, which would take me out of the game. And that's not happening. For weeks, I've looked forward to giving the Texas Roughriders the whipping they deserve—all within the rules, of course. The cocky sons of bitches defeated us last year on the way to the Super Bowl. This season, I mean to show them up for the pussies they are. But in order to do that, I have to be on the field, and not warming the bench. No sense arguing with Coach about me submitting to an exam, though. Better agree with his plan now, and wiggle out of it later. "Yes, sir."

  As soon as I step into the recuperation room, I'm stopped by one of the athletic trainers. "Coach called. He wants us to take a look at your shoulder."

  "It's fine. Nothing that a massage and some whirlpool time won't cure."

  "Just the same, let's have a look." He stands like the semi he is blocking my way. Fuck! I'm not wiggling out of this.

  I follow him to the medical space where they prep me for an MRI. While the machine takes a look, I pray like I haven't prayed in a long time that they don't find anything. But when the technician picks up the phone, I know my goose is cooked. Fifteen minutes later, I'm seated across from Doc Latimer's desk while he examines the results of the test. "Looks like you have a small tear in your rotator cuff, Ty."

  "Okay. Nothing than some aspirin or ibuprofen can't handle, right?"

  "That and rest. I'm benching you for tomorrow' game."

&nb
sp; I come to my feet, knocking over the chair. "The fuck you will."

  "Sit down. Now." He doesn't bother to yell. Every football player knows his word is law when it comes to our ability to play. Whatever he says, goes.

  I park my butt back on the chair.

  He takes off his glasses, polishes them before plopping them back on his nose and giving me a hard stare. "It's small enough it can heal on its own, but only if you put it in a sling, and rest it. We'll reassess in three weeks."

  "I have a game to play on Monday." I try to keep my voice in control. Pissing him off is not going to do me any good.

  "Not anymore you don't." He takes a deep breath, let's it out. His eyes takes on a softer tone. "Look. I know how much playing means to you, but if you don't rest your shoulder, it will become a bigger tear, and then you will need surgery and be out for nine months. You'll miss the rest of the season. Is that what you want?"

  Damn it. I hang my hands between my open legs. "No."

  "Coach will have to know so he can prepare Pedro Santiago for the game."

  The rookie quarterback with the golden arm. Damn it.

  He offers me a commiserating smile. How many veteran quarterbacks have been replaced "temporarily" by the second-string quarterback and never return to play. Too many to count, that's how many.

  "The three weeks will fly by, you'll see."

  "Sure it will." I stand up. "Is that it?"

  "Yes. Go have a shower, get in whirlpool time, a massage. Don't have them touch the shoulder. Once you're dressed, come back so we can put your arm in a sling."

  "Fine."

  In the recuperation room, I act like nothing's wrong and give a couple of players a 'Hi, how you doing?' before heading for the whirlpool. Once I've sunk into hot water nirvana, one of my linesmen strolls over and asks if I'm going to Platinum tonight. I shake my head. Not exactly in the mood to get pawed by another groupie. Not after getting gamed by MacKenna.

  After a hot shower, I drive home, fix dinner, turn on the tube. Nothing on TV holds my interest. So I pop in Texas Roughriders game tapes and examine their defense, something I do before every game. I usually make notes of their tells, but with my arm in a sling and strict instructions not to use my right arm unless I absolutely have to, I resort to something else—my smartphone which has a recording app. I make notes of their tells—the weak side linebacker looks to the right before every blitz, the cornerback's right hip is bothering him. Even if I can't use it, Pedro sure can. I may resent like hell the fact that the kid is going in for me, but I'll be damned if I don't do everything in my power to beat the Roughriders.