"So you know what they're like."
"Oh, yes."
"The condo is fully furnished, so you wouldn't need to move your things."
"That's good. My furniture was pretty much destroyed so there'd be nothing to move."
Her eyes grow soft. "I'm so sorry, dear." She pats my hand. "So, should I give Lorena a call and let her know you're interested? She's leaving Saturday, so you'll want to settle things with her as soon as you can."
I'd be living in a safe place and paying very low rent. It's an answer to my prayers. "Yes, please do." Coming to my feet, I hug her. "Thanks, Dotty. You're the best."
An hour later, she patches Lorena through to my phone. After a quick conversation, I make plans to visit her after work.
That evening, I walk into her apartment. The place is gorgeous. A two-bedroom luxury apartment, and best of all, fully furnished. Rosco, the Labrador Retriever is sweet and friendly. After Lorena shows me his bag of toys, we play a session of throw and catch. Rosco's eyes never leave mine as I toss more toys at him. He fetches and returns them, dropping the toys on my lap.
Lorena flashes a bright smile as she puts both hands over her heart. "Oh, I'm so glad you two are getting along. Oh, don't get me wrong. He's very friendly, but he really seems to like you. You must have a good soul."
"Have you always had him?"
"Since he was a puppy. I had a house then. But after my husband passed three years ago, it became too much for me. So I purchased this condo and moved in."
"How does Rosco like living in an apartment? Labs are usually pretty active dogs."
"You know your breeds." She pats Rosco's head. "He's gotten used to it. But I do have a dog walker come in twice a day to take him for a romp in the park. He just loves that. Rosco, I mean. And once a week he goes to doggy day care, so he can socialize with other dogs. You don't have to take him. They drop by on Wednesdays at eight o'clock to pick him up, and bring him back by six. That wouldn't be a problem, would it?"
"No. I'm not scheduled at work until nine, and I'll make sure I'm back by that time on Wednesdays." A small concession for getting such a great apartment.
"Perfect."
We go over Rosco's feeding and walking schedule which she has taped to her refrigerator door, along with emergency phone numbers for the vet, the dog walker, the doggy day care, and the closest animal hospital. Clearly, Rosco's a beloved pet.
"So when can you move in?" Lorena asks.
"How about Friday? I can take half a day off from work to settle in. That should give you an opportunity to fill me in on any last-minute details."
She comes to her feet. And so does Rosco, who'd spent the last fifteen minutes with his head on my lap.
"We'll see you on Friday then."
Rosco accompanies me to the door and even whines a little when I leave. Well, at least I don't have to worry about a companion. Rosco will keep me company. Now the hard part will be telling Ty.
But that night I get a reprieve. Because of the Monday night game, he doesn't get home until after one.
"No party."
"No. I wanted to come home to you."
"Oh."
"You're in my bed."
"Yeah, I couldn't sleep in mine. I feel safer in yours, even when you're not here. Silly, huh?"
"No. Not silly at all." He tosses his clothes on the floor and slips into bed, naked and hard.
Guilt rears its ugly head. I shouldn't be in his bed. I should tell him I'm moving out. But I can't help myself. I want him with every fiber of my being. I need his warmth, his passion. Whenever I'm with him, I feel safe. Tomorrow will be soon enough to tell him I'm moving out.
It doesn't take long for us to find our way to each other.
Chapter 19
Ty
TUESDAY MORNING as I head to the Outlaws' compound I'm in a great frame of mind. Last night, we'd decimated the Roughriders with a score of 42-7. I'd worked with Pedro Santiago, the rookie quarterback who'd temporarily replaced me—telling him what to watch out for, the defense players' weak tells. He'd taken every word of advice and capitalized on our nemesis's weaknesses. Even though I hadn't thrown a single pass, I felt partly responsible for the victory.
After such a resounding win, I'd normally party with the rest of the team, but last night I'd wanted nothing more than to go home to MacKenna. She'd proved true by welcoming me home in the best of ways. Except for Oliver and Marigold, nobody knows she's living with me. And I mean to keep it that way. If word got out, it might damage her career. And that's the last thing I want. But somehow, I have to make this work. I want her to live with me, in my house, where she will feel safe, and I can take care of her.
As soon as I step into the compound, Terrell, one of my offensive linebackers, stops me. "Missed you last night, man. The party was off the hook. Some of the honeys were wondering where you were."
"Glad you had a good time. But it was Pedro's night. Didn't want to steal his thunder, you know?"
"Yeah, the kid's great. But you're better. Heal fast, buddy. We'll need you for the playoffs." He pounds me on my shoulder—my good shoulder.
"Thanks." I want nothing more than to get back on the field, but Doc Latimer's not about to give me a clean bill of health for two more weeks. So, until then, I'll have to grin and bear it. And contribute as much as I can to Pedro's success. After all, we need the kid to get to the playoffs.
The morning after game day, we don't practice, but attend team meetings where the coaches review what went right and what went wrong. After that, we're usually released. Some players stay and work out; but most take off to enjoy the half day of freedom. I head toward the locker room to check out the schedule, but as soon as I walk in, one of the assistants stop me. "Mathews!"
"Yeah."
"Coach Gronowski wants to see you."
I nod. "Okay." Wondering what that's about, I steer toward the coach's office and knock on the door.
"Come in." His rough voice barks out.
"You wanted to see me?"
"Yeah, take a seat." He points to one of the truck-sized chairs in front of his desk, wide and sturdy enough to support the football players he coaches. "Got a call from Nebraska State."
The college I graduated from, the one where he was head coach before he was hired by the Chicago Outlaws to lead the team. "Oh? Who?"
"Art Johnson." Art had been his offensive line assistant coach at Nebraska State. They'd always been close. When Coach Gronowski moved to the professional league, he'd asked Johnson to come along, but he'd chosen to stay. He had a large family there he didn't want to leave.
"What did he have to say?"
"He got a phone call from MacKenna Perkins."
I gulp. "MacKenna?"
"Yes. She's been poking her nose where she shouldn't. She called the Athletic Department asking about your football college career, and they patched her to Art. Don't worry. He only gave her the basics. How long you played, your stats, that kind of thing."
"Well, that's good."
He pounds on the desk. "No. That's not good. We both know she's not going to stop there. Look at what she did with Ron. She figured out he was dyslexic and got him to open up."
"But that turned out all right. We got a lot of positive feedback from the article."
"Yeah. We came up smelling like roses on that one. Hiring a kid who can't read. Oliver Lyons is pretty pleased with the piece." His gaze zeroes in on me. "I gather he knows her as well?"
"Yeah. He met her one summer. His cousin's family had a farm next to hers in Iowa."
"Just our rotten luck." He drops his ham-sized fists on the desk and leans toward me. "We can't count on him stopping her from writing about the Outlaws. And you. She's going to keep digging. Sooner or later, she's going to come across this." He drops a Nebraska State newspaper in front of me and taps his finger on the headline. "Student sexually assaulted at campus fraternity."
I suck in a breath. No matter how far you run from your past, it always manages t
o catch up with you.
"You know I had no part in that."
"Yeah, I know. But that's not going to stop her writing about it, is it?" He spits out, baring his teeth.
That first year at Nebraska State, I'd been a wet-behind-the-ears eighteen-year old hick from the east end of Texas. Hadn't known which end was up. So when Kappa Delta Psi had asked me to join, I thought I'd finally made it, especially when some of my teammates had been inducted as well. Once football season was over, we partied every chance we got. Pussy, liquor, drugs, you name it. I'd stayed away from the drugs, but not the booze and the girls. Whatever we wanted, we got. Everything and everyone was made available to us.
One spring night, the fraternity threw a kegger. I'd taken a couple of girls and a bottle of hooch to my room in the fraternity house to enjoy a threesome. We'd all passed out on my bed. It wasn't until the following morning that I found out what had happened. A bunch of my fraternity brothers had gang raped a girl. Even though I had nothing to do with it, my name had been on the list of members present. But after the girls vouched for me, I'd been cleared of any wrongdoing. Those responsible had been hauled away by the police and charged with aggravated sexual assault. And the fraternity had been closed for good.
But that hadn't been the worst of it.
The girl who got raped had been a friend of mine, Emily Suarez, who followed me to college from back home. She'd had a crush on me since high school. Even though she would've been better off attending college in Texas where she would've gotten in-state tuition, she applied to Nebraska State. We'd remained friends that first year. I'd welcomed a friendly face in a strange college. But when my football star started to rise, I'd seen less and less of her. By the time she'd been assaulted, I hadn't talked to her for over a month. Even though I had no part in her assault, I felt the guilt. I believed she'd come to the party looking for me. She hadn't found me. I'd been too busy screwing and getting good and drunk in my room.
During the days leading up to the trial, she'd been hounded by the press. Social media had been brutal, dragging her name through the mud. I tried to talk her through it, and visited her in her dorm as often as I could, even though Coach warned me against it. Unable to deal with the slurs on her name, she'd committed suicide. The autopsy revealed she'd been pregnant. Unable to live with the shame and unwilling to tell her family, she'd chosen a solution where she could be at peace.
To this day, I blame myself for her death.
I should have done more to help her. If she'd told me she was pregnant, I would have gone with her back home, supported her while she talked to her family. But she'd never breathed a word about the baby she carried. And now the whole sordid story may come to light because Coach's right. MacKenna will never stop digging.
"—you shook it off your second year." Coach's words sink into my consciousness. Has he been talking the whole time? "If this comes out, this will ruin your future with the Outlaws."
"I did not assault Emily."
"Do you think that will matter to Oliver Lyons? If any scandal attaches to your name, he'll trade you so fast it will make your head spin."
He's right about Oliver Lyons. That's why management insists that the players stay in the hotel where any team celebrations are held and why we're constantly lectured about drugs and other risky behavior. Unlike other teams, the Outlaws have never been tarred with even a whiff of scandal, and Oliver Lyons means to keep it that way.
He'd never learned what happened at Nebraska State. Coach Gronowski made sure that my name had been expunged from any record of that night. So even though the story got national attention, my name not once appeared in any college newspaper account. If it had, I doubt Oliver Lyons would have hired me. He allows his players their fun and games as long as they don't cross the line which means no drugs and no doing anything under the influence. But were that information to surface, I'd be kicked off the team. He doesn't allow for any bad seeds.
"And you're not the only player affected by that scandal. Mad Dog and Ryan Taylor belonged to that fraternity as well. So, I'd not only lose you, but them as well. Whatever the fuck you have to do, you're going to stop MacKenna Perkins from snooping into your life. Are we clear on that?"
"Crystal." Coach Gronowski did not keep his players' names out of the college newspaper solely out of the goodness of his heart. Taylor, Mad Dog, and I were his ticket to the NFL. If we'd gotten caught in the scandal, Nebraska State would have been investigated by the NCAA. And they might have nixed our participation in any of the bowls that year. So everyone's fortune was riding on keeping that secret—Coach, Mad Dog, Ryan Taylor, and me.
The ruse had worked. By the end of that season, we'd been ranked number four in the nation and made it to the Sugar Bowl where we'd won a decisive victory. We'd ended up number two that year, right behind Alabama. My senior year, we'd won the national title out right. And afterward, Coach Gronowski made sure we all ended up with the Chicago Outlaws. The rest, as they say, is history. Last year, we'd made the playoffs, and this year, I intend to lead the team to the Super Bowl. So that college scandal can't come to life.
I arrive home before her. During the week, I usually don't bother to cook, but either eat at the Outlaws' compound or pick up something on the way home. But tonight I feel like making something with the flavor of home—chicken fajitas, tex-mex style.
Around six, she blows in through the front door, a frigid gust of wind at her back. The forecasters are calling for snow. No surprise. It's typical early November weather.
"You should have parked in the garage, rather than the driveway. I made room for you in there."
"Couldn't. The remote didn't work." She holds the unit I gave her earlier out to me.
"Probably dead batteries. Should have checked it out. Sorry." I haul open the kitchen drawer that contains fresh batteries among other things, pop out the dead ones, and insert fresh juice into it. "I'll go check it out. Give me your keys and I'll park it in the garage."
"You don't have to, Ty," she says, handing me the keys.
"Of course I do. Back in a sec." I head to the garage and push the remote button. The garage glides open. A Mercedes Benz sits in the driveway. After climbing behind the wheel, I drive it right next to my cherry SUV. It feels right to have her car sitting next to mine. It's like they belong together. I spot a piece of paper with an address on it. Curious, I fire up the car's GPS and click on its history. Sure enough, she drove the car to that address. I switch the GPS to street mode. It's a condo building in a pretty upscale part of town. Did she go there to interview someone? She is a reporter after all. Or was it something else?
With questions swirling in my hand, I turn off the ignition and head back inside.
"Did it work?"
"Yes." After I hand the car keys back to her, I slip on the silicone gloves and pull out the food I'd had warming in the oven. "Hope you like fajitas."
"I do." She seems reserved, not her usual self.
I get a sick feeling in my stomach. "Why don't you set the table while I put the finishing touches on the food?"
"Okay."
But when we settle down to eat, she picks at her food as if she's not that hungry.
I gesture with my fork. "You're not eating. Did you have a big lunch?"
"No. I had a salad."
"You should eat then. You need your strength."
She drops the napkin on her lap. "Ty?"
"Yes."
"I got an apartment."
Well, that answers the question of why she visited that building. "You did?"
"You remember Dotty? The receptionist?"
I nod.
"A friend of hers is moving to Florida for the winter. She needs somebody to watch her apartment for six months."
I jam a forkful of fajitas in my mouth. "You're not going anywhere. You're staying here."
"No, Ty. I'm not. This was never going to work."
I put down the cutlery. "Why the hell not?"
Looking down, she s
ays, "Because I'm interviewing you. That's why. I have to be objective about you, and I can't do that if I'm living in your house."
"So your career is more important than me."
Her gaze bounces up. "That's not fair. We barely know each other. I have to think about my life, my future. Yeah, it's been fun, but a month from now you'll be itching to get rid of me. So I'm moving out before that happens."
I'll never 'itch' to get rid of her, that much I know. "When are you doing this?"
"Friday. The lady who owns the unit is leaving for Florida on Saturday."
"I want to see the place to make sure it's safe."
"You don't have to do that. It is. They have a doorman and a concierge desk. Nobody gets into the building without a code. It's in a great neighborhood. I researched it. It's a great deal for me, close to my job. And, depending on our schedules, Dotty and I can ride in together."
I continue to eat in silence.
"I've dodged a bullet so far, Ty. But if Mr. Bartlett found out I'd moved in with you, he would have taken me off your story, and I don't want him to do that."
"I thought your story was done."
"Not by a long shot. There are parts of your life you're hiding from me. You never opened up about college or your home in Texas. I need to know about that."
Her statement gives me the opening into the topic I intended to discuss tonight. "What if I asked you to drop it."
"I can't do that, Ty."
"Even if I asked."
"I'm a journalist, you don't get to pick and choose what I write."
I can see she's dug in her heels. I'll have to come at her another way. Done eating, I climb off the stool, and take my plate to the sink. While I rinse the dish, I ask, "Will you at least do me a favor?"
"It depends."
"Could you let me read your article before it gets published?"
"Why?"
"I want to make sure you have your facts straight." If nothing else, at least I'll know ahead of time before the paper hits the streets.
Dirty Filthy Boy (Chicago Outlaws #1) Page 14