I work through my lunch hour and even through dinner. I only stop to eat when Dotty places a turkey sandwich and a bag of veggie chips in front of me. "Eat. Before you pass out."
After wolfing down the sandwich, I go right back to the article. But by eleven o'clock, the story's done. Hoping Mr. Bartlett will get a chance to read it tonight, I email it to him. Tired in body and sick at heart, I turn off my cubbyhole lamp, gather my things and head out. My car's the only one left in the lot. I'd been careless this morning, and had failed to park it under one of the lights. So it sits alone in the dark.
A wind gust almost knocks me down, so I flip up my coat's hoodie and hunker down into it. That's what saves me.
Just as I reach my car, a figure emerges from the shadows. An arm clamps around me, and I know exactly who it is. But, by God, I'm prepared. In a move I learned in a women's college course on self defense, I stomp his foot with my hard heeled boot, jab him in the stomach with my elbow, and twist in his grasp. Freed for the moment, I raise the baton I always have in my hand whenever I leave the office and strike his head.
But he's big and strong and doesn't give up easily. He snatches the weapon from me, and strikes my shoulder. A sharp pain, strong enough to take my breath away, shoots through me. Son of a bitch. With my arm numb, I go to my second line of defense, I let fly the pepper spray attached to my key chain. By sheer dumb luck, I'm up wind from him, so he gets the full effect.
Screaming like a banshee, he lands on his knees and drops the baton. I pick it up, and whack two hard blows on each side of his head. Blood pours from his hair, not that I give a damn. I don't stop hitting him until he keels over, unconscious. For the first time in my life, I wish someone dead.
With hands shaking, I race to my car, lock myself in, and call the police. In less than five minutes they show up along with the EMTs. Shaking, I explain what happened. I tell them Tommy's name, and what he did. They examine me and decide I need to go to the hospital. I might have a broken clavicle. Before I get whisked away, I call Marigold and Mr. Bartlett to tell them what happened. And then I'm taken away in an emergency transport vehicle with the sirens screaming all the way.
The hospital is a whirl of action as the doctors and nurses assess my situation. I'm conscious, which is probably more than can be said for Tommy Hawkins. But my shoulder throbs like a son of a bitch. An x-ray confirms a broken clavicle. But it's not severe. I'll have to wear my arm in a sling for six to eight weeks and do some physical therapy exercises. Ibuprofen should help me deal with the pain. But right now, they give me an opioid to help deal with the immediate pain.
By the time, the doctor's telling me all this not only Marigold arrives. "MacKenna? Oh, my God. What happened?"
I'd only given her the bare facts when I called her so I provide more extensive details about what went down. "I'm okay, Marigold. It's only a broken collarbone. Nothing that a sling and some pain pills can't handle."
"You're coming home with me."
"I can't. I have to go home. Rosco, remember?"
Up to now, Oliver's been silent letting Marigold handle the questions. But now he steps forward. "I'll take care of Rosco while you heal."
"No. I'll do it." Ty. Where did he come from?
My head's in a jumble from the painkiller, but even so. I know I didn't call him. "What are you doing here?"
"Oliver called me."
I glare at my former friend. "You shouldn't have."
All I get is a raised arch from him.
"MacKenna, he needed to know," Marigold says.
"Why?"
"Because I'm in love with you," Ty says, his voice a hushed whisper.
A declaration of love should come in a romantic setting, with music playing in the background. Not in a hospital ER when I look like crap from getting beat up, and I've lost half my hold with reality from some kick ass pain med.
To their credit, the doctor and nurse fitting my arm in the sling keep on doing their thing, doing their level best to ignore the starting quarterback of the Chicago Outlaws baring his heart to me.
"What did you say?" I ask, only half sure I heard him right.
"I love you, MacKenna. You don't have to say anything back. I just wanted you to know."
I blink to clear my vision. Those better not be tears in my eyes. Because I'm not crying, damn it. "Okay."
"There. You're all set." The doctor's words jar me back to the reality of the ER.
"Thank you."
"We're giving you a prescription for the pain. Only a week's worth. You'll need someone to watch over you for a a couple of days."
"She's coming home with me."
Marigold and Oliver exchange a look before she steps forward. "Ty, you have to focus on Saturday's game against the Roughriders."
"I can do that and watch over her. I'll get a nurse, whatever she needs."
"Ty, you're being unreasonable."
"She's coming home with me?"
"Don't I get any say in this?"
"No," Ty yells.
Into this insanity, Mr. Bartlett walks in. He glances back and forth between Ty and me. "What's going on?" His trademark cigar's missing, but then they don't allow smoking in hospitals. Still his mouth twitches around the non existent stogy.
"Hi, Mr. Bartlett."
He points to my sling. "So what's the verdict? A broken bone?" His gruff bark is belied by the light of concern in his eyes.
"Yeah. My collarbone."
"Guess you won't be able to type or drive for a while."
"I can Uber it to work and dictate my reports."
His mouth twists in a crooked smile. "Good girl. I knew you'd make a great reporter."
I smile. "Thanks. I emailed you the article."
"Read it. Great stuff."
"So," the nurse interrupts. "Have you decided who's taking Ms. Perkins home? I need to provide some instructions."
Marigold steps forward. "I am."
Ty maintains his silence. Probably because he knows he'll place my job in jeopardy if he objects.
"And I'll run by your apartment and pick up Rosco," Oliver says.
I hand him the keys. "It'll be best if he stays at the doggie spa while I heal. They know him there."
"Very well," Oliver says. "Where is it?"
After I provide him with the information, I'm given the discharge papers while Marigold is instructed about my care and meds. Done with all the details, we make our way out of the ER with me in a wheelchair.
Unable to say anything without revealing our relationship, Oliver goes out to fetch his car, leaving me with Mr. Bartlett and Marigold.
"Can you give us a moment, Ms. . . ."
"Thompson. I'm MacKenna's friend."
"Nice to meet you, Ms. Thompson."
Mar steps back into the ER waiting room, and the door to the waiting area vestibule closes behind her. With the clear glass doors, she can see us, but not hear our conversation.
"MacKenna?"
"Yes, Mr. Bartlett."
"I don't want to see you back in the office for a couple of days."
"Okay." Is that all he wanted to talk to me about? He could have said that in front of Marigold.
"But when you do, we need to talk. I didn't miss the connection between you and Ty Mathews. Before I print the article, I need to know exactly what that's about."
I gulp. Hard. "Yes, sir."
Mr. Bartlett does need to know about my relationship with Ty. And once he learns the truth, I'll probably be out of a job.
Chapter 29
Ty
THE PRESS CONFERENCE before the AFC Championship Game against the Texas Roughriders demands every ounce of my patience. The shit storm that erupted after the article that rag published changes the entire tone of the conference. While the real reporters keep their eye on the ball and ask questions about our readiness for the game, physical fitness and frame of mind, most of the questions addressed to me are about what happened eight years ago at Nebraska State.
"Ty, di
d you know Emily Suarez?"
"What happened that night?"
I answer the two questions with the same, "No comment."
But then a reporter asks a question that makes me see red. "Ty, did you participate in the sexual assault?"
I jump to my feet, ready to launch myself at the asshole.
But Coach Gronowski stops me before I can put a world of hurt on the jackass. "Sit down, Ty." He takes a moment to rearrange the two water bottles in front of him before glancing at the reporter who asked the question. "What's your name?"
"Peters. Sean Peters with the Dallas Herald."
"Well, Mr. Peters, I'm going to give you a pass. Seeing how you're from Dallas, you probably don't know Ty Mathews very well. On the other hand, I do. I've had the rare privilege to coach him for eight years. Four at Nebraska State and four with the Chicago Outlaws. And I can tell you, without a shadow of a doubt, that he's the finest young man it's been my privilege to coach."
"With all due respect," the reporter insists. "You would say that. According to the same article that broke the news about Ty's involvement in the fraternity sexual assault you threatened to get a Professor Dawkins fired unless he kept Ty Mathews' name out of the school newspaper."
"You got any proof of that?"
"No."
"Then it's just gossip and innuendo, isn't it? Look, the person who wrote that article was seeking to stir trouble and get himself his fifteen minutes of fame. But that article doesn't have anything to do with this game. So why don't we forget all about that trash and focus on the AFC Championship Game and the Chicago Outlaws?"
Most of the reporters are happy to move on to actual football questions. When some are directed at me, I answer them to the best of ability. And then, thank God, we're done.
This morning we put in the last practice before the game, so after the press conference, the team's released to return to where we're staying. Coach Gronowski's not taking any chances with somebody going missing. So tonight we're sleeping in a downtown hotel with a ten o'clock curfew. As soon as I make it back to my room, I call MacKenna.
"Hi.” I get hard just from the sound of her voice.
"What are you doing?"
"Mar and I are making tacos for dinner."
"You're staying at her place?"
"Yeah, she's driving us to the game tomorrow."
"I miss you."
"Me too."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
"I want to be with you.” I want to smell her, taste her, fuck her until she’s screaming my name, and then I want to cuddle her sweet body against mine until we both fall asleep.
"We can't be together until my article appears in The Windy City Chronicle. You know that. It's bad enough what you're going through. If they got wind that you and I were involved, they wouldn't believe a word I said. This way we can honestly say we're not dating."
"What about afterwards?"
"We might have to wait a bit before we go out in public."
"I fucking hate that with every ounce of my being."
"Me too."
"When will the article appear in your paper?"
"Tomorrow morning."
"Okay." Nothing I can do. Guess I'll have to be satisfied with that answer. Though she promised she'd show me her article before it appeared in the paper, her boss nixed that. So I have no clue what she wrote.
"Goodnight. I lo—"
"Don't say it."
"Okay." I hang up, sick at heart, because I have no idea if we're going to end up together.
The following day, I wake up at the ass crack of dawn and fire up her newspaper’s website. Her article's a glowing affirmation of my character and my career—from my humble roots in East Texas, to my college life and my career with the Outlaws.
To my surprise, there's a companion piece, written by her and Emily Suarez. After a short introduction by MacKenna, Emily’s story emerges in her own words. She talks about her decision to attend Nebraska State, driven by a crush on me. And then she talks about how she met a new boy, another player with the Nebraska State football team. Someone who preyed on her weaknesses and stole her innocence—Sean Taylor.
The story progresses through the events of the awful night she was assaulted. The drink she'd been given and how Sean Taylor didn't lift a finger to help her. Finally, she talks about her devastation when she discovered she was pregnant, the result of that awful night. Her story ends the night she killed herself with the final statement, "I can't go on." With Emily's words interwoven with MacKenna's, Emily's tale is one of heartbreak and betrayal.
My cell rings. It's MacKenna. "Did you read it?"
"Yes. It's—" I choke up "—you did Emily proud. Her mother will be pleased."
"I'm so glad. Sean Taylor's bound to be angry, but I don’t care.”
“Neither do I. But I better call Coach and Oliver and give them a heads up."
"Oliver already knows. Mar told him. I imagine he's called Coach Gronowski as well."
"Yeah. He probably has.“
At brunch, Sean Taylor's nowhere to be found. But the article has made the rounds of the team. It’s all they can talk about during the meal.
By the time we load on to the bus to travel to the stadium, he hasn't made an appearance. It’s only when we enter the locker room that we find out his fate. His name has been removed from his locker. He’s no longer a member of the team.
Chapter 30
MacKenna
"MACKENNA. Glad you could make it." Kissing my cheek, Oliver welcomes me to the box set aside at the Super Bowl for the owner of the Chicago Outlaws and his guests. He's seemingly cool as a cucumber, but he's got to be nervous as hell.
"Thank you for inviting me. I wouldn't miss it for the world."
"Marigold, so glad to see you." He shakes her hand, but other than that, he doesn't acknowledge her in any other way.
I'm not quite sure what they are to each other. Although they did have that hot and heavy weekend, they now act more like boss and employee than anything else. Maybe they decided they weren't right for each other. And maybe they're trying to cover up their affair.
But I can't think about that right now. Too nervous about what's about to go down on the football field. The place has been decked out with the team names at each end of the field. The players will stream unto the grass through entrances decked with the team logos. The Outlaws mascot, a western desperado on a horse, stands at one of the field while the San Francisco Pirates' mascot, depicted by a pirate aboard a ship flying the skull and crossbones, stands at the other end. The cheerleaders for both teams are lined up in front of the entrances, ready to welcome the players as they run out into the field.
"It's something else, isn't it?" Oliver asks.
"Yeah, it is."
"Did you have a hard time getting here?"
"It's insane out there. Thank you for sending a limo to pick us up. Otherwise, I don't think we would have made it before half time."
"My pleasure."
Somebody calls out his name and he excuses himself to greet the new guest.
"Something to drink?" A waiter asks me.
"I'll take a coke," I say. I've been trying to cut down on the sodas, but I don't think I can get through today without having at least one.
"A glass of filtered water for me. Thanks," Mar says before leaning toward me. "Don't want to start the alcohol consumption just yet. Might jinx the outcome."
"Got that right."
Soon the teams are announced and the players burst into the field. First the Pirates and then the Outlaws. My heart bursts with pride as I spot Ty running out. He looks up, pounds his chest over his heart and points to our box. And I melt.
"Was that for you?" Mar asks.
"Yeah. Last night, he told me he was going to do that."
"You know. I had him all wrong."
"Me too." That's all I can say because there's too big a lump in my throat.
The game is a nail biter with the lead switching
back and forth between the two teams.
"Well, at least it's not a blow out," Mar says.
My stomach's in knots. "Right now, I'd take a blow out."
"Yeah. Me too."
By the fourth quarter, Mar and I have given up all pretense to coolness. With the Pirates ahead by two points and thirty seconds to go, we're holding each other's hands as tightly as we can. But the Outlaws have possession and they're forty yards out. Ty throws to Ron, but it's just out of reach of his finger tips. The next play he gives the ball to one of the running backs who runs enough yards to get a first down. Coach Gronowski immediately calls a time out. The game clock is down to ten seconds. Does he have time for one more throw or do we chance a 47 yard field goal with a second string kicker?
When they line up for a field goal, I close my eyes. I can't watch this. Deafening noise erupts in the next second and I open my eyes to see Ty running with the ball.
"What happened?"
"They faked the punt and Ty took off with the ball."
"He can do that?"
"Yep."
Twenty-five yards, twenty. If he gets hit, that's the end of the game.
Someone's coming for Ty. A guy who looks like he weighs 400 lbs. He's going to hit him. But at the last second an Outlaws player barrels into him. The big guy goes down and Ty crosses over the goal line.
"We won! Oh, God, we won!"
Pandemonium erupts in the owner's box as everyone dances or high fives or hugs somebody. In the midst of it all, Oliver grabs Marigold and plants a kiss on her sizzling enough to burn the ends of my hair.
Everybody in the owner's box is so busy high-fiving each other and celebrating, they miss the big smooch, except for me.
"Oliver." Marigold pushes him back.
"Sorry. Forgot."
Forgot what?
Turning her back on Oliver, Marigold turns to me and hugs me. "Ty did it."
Yeah, he sure did. "Well, I'm sure the rest of the team had something to do with it."
Dirty Filthy Boy (A Bad Boy Sports Romance) (Chicago Outlaws Book 1) Page 19
