Ryan pounds him on the back. "If you ever do anything anybody wanted to read about, she will."
The back who outweighs Ryan by at least a hundred pounds shoves him. "Buzz off."
"Ah, the price of glory. Jealous, are you?"
"Jealous? Of you?" He snorts. "I crap bigger than you."
Ignoring the insult, Ryan continues passing out the newspapers, whether the players want them or not. The article must have been positive if he's crowing about it.
"So who's the next player to be interviewed?" a player asks.
"Ty, isn't it?" someone else says.
"Listen to this." One of the special teams players, holds up the newspaper and reads. 'Ryan Taylor has the best record of any kicker in the league this season. With thirty six goals to his credit, this future Hall of Famer is an outstanding asset to the Chicago Outlaws and one of the reasons for the team's winning games.'
Can't fault MacKenna for that statement. As far as Ryan's professional career is concerned, he almost never misses. He definitely has the knack for kicking field goals.
"That's right. That's right." Ryan struts up to me. "Of course, I'm sure my magic tongue had something to do with it. That rookie reporter's hot for me."
"You son of a bitch." I swing at him, clipping him on the jaw. I fall on him and we roll on the floor trading punches. The locker room erupts with players trying to pry me off him. I get one more last punch to his gut, before I'm stopped cold.
"Mathews," Coach Gronowski yells. "My office."
"Man, you're in trouble now," one of the second string safeties says.
"Shut it." I bark at him.
I follow Coach to his office. As soon as I walk in, he slams shut the door. "Park your butt in that chair."
He takes his time circling the desk, picking up a paper. Signatures moves that tell me he's trying to calm down. I expect more yelling, but he surprises me. "How's the shoulder?"
I roll it and bite back a wince. "Fine."
"You sure about that?" Eagle-eye Gronowski hasn't missed a thing in fifteen years of coaching. He's not about to start now.
Still, I lie. "Yeah, I'm sure."
"Sure you are. If you got hurt, you'd be out just as we're about to make the playoffs. So why did you take a swing at him?"
I jam my arms across my chest. "He said something I didn't like."
"It's that rookie reporter, isn't it?"
I nod.
He takes off his cap and slams it on the desk. "Damn it. I knew she was going to cause problems. I thought you had more sense, though."
I shrug.
"You do realize the penalty for starting a fight in the locker room, don't you?"
I should. It gets drilled into each player every year. "Yes."
"You don't think I'm going to give you any special treatment, do you? Just because you're the top ranked league quarterback doesn't mean shit. Not to me. That locker room is sacred. You play as a team with the entire team or you don't play at all. You got me?"
"Yes, sir."
"You think this will be kept in-house, think again. There were newspaper reporters in the locker room. I'm sure the story has already made the news."
"He shouldn't have said what he said about MacKenna."
"What the fuck did he say?"
"That she was begging for it. From him."
"And what if she were? What's that to you? She's just a reporter, for heaven's sakes."
I rush to my feet. "She's more than that to me."
"Like what? A girlfriend?"
"No. She's just a . . . Friend. And even if she weren't, he shouldn't be talking about a woman that way."
"He's always had a problem with women. The way he treats them, talks about them. We've tried to rein him in as best we could. But he's a grown man."
"You can fine him."
"That's up to Oliver Lyons. He's the only one who can invoke the morals clause in his contract. Or any other player's. Taylor may step right up to the line, but he's never crossed it. And I wouldn't insist he do something about Taylor, if I were you. I know what goes in that Platinum club. And, you better believe it, so do the owner of the club."
"I'm not doing that any more."
"Well, good for you. Glad you got religion." He points to the chair. "Now sit, and I'll tell you what's going to happen."
I drop into the chair. Knowing what's coming doesn't make it sound any better.
"I'm going to fine you $10,000 for starting the fight."
"Right."
"And then I'm going to bench you for this week's game."
I jump to my feet. "What the fuck?"
"Sit. Down." Once I do, he continues. "I'd been thinking about doing just that. This little to do just helped me reach the decision."
"Why are you doing this? A fine would be more than enough."
"Who's the coach here, Mathews? You or me?"
"You, sir."
"You got that right. Now listen to me. Seeing how we've got the Division sewn up, I don't want to take chances with you. We can afford the loss. If it happens. Which it won't. The Los Angeles Firecrackers has a hard time finding the end zone. This way Pedro will get more play time, and you get to give that arm of yours a rest. We're going to need it during the playoffs."
"That's good to know." I spit out.
"Plus, it will look like I punished you for starting a fight in the locker room. Not that that son of a bitch didn't deserve it. He's too cocky for his own good." He jams on his hat. "Now, go back to the locker room and tell Pedro I want to see him."
"Yes, sir. What do you want me to do the rest of the week?"
"Study the Los Angeles defenses. And then sit down with Pedro and share everything you've learned."
"Yes. Sir." I bite out. Nobody to blame but myself for being sent to warm the bench.
"You may not think so, but I'm doing this for your own good. And the team's. Now go get that shoulder checked."
"Why?"
"Because a few minutes ago, you winced. I want to make sure you're 100% for the playoffs. Don't let me down, Mathews."
"I haven't failed you yet, Coach."
"That's right, son. And you never will. I know true blue when I see it. Now, go and that have that shoulder checked out by Doc Latimer."
Chapter 25
MacKenna
HOME FOR CHRISTMAS. I am happy to see my folks. But the saying is true. You can't go home again. I've grown too used to the hustle and bustle of Chicago, to the constant noise of the streets. The deafening quiet of my parents' farm unsettles me.
They're the same as I left them. A little grayer, a little more worn. Farming takes a lot out of people, and, as hard as they work, it shows.
After we open the presents and eating a farm breakfast, we settle down to the "How are you doing portion of the visit?"
"So, you must be doing well, MacKenna. That car out there doesn't come cheap." With my car had been junked, I was still driving the Mercedes Oliver Lyons had offered me. I kept telling myself I needed to return it, but with no other viable alternative, I didn't see a way to do so. And he had said I could keep it for as long as I wanted to.
"We were thinking, MacKenna, about selling the farm. We're not as young as we used to be, and well, Ellie here—" he taps my mother's hand "—wants to soak up some sun."
"That sounds great, Dad. You've both worked hard. So who'd you sell the farm to."
"A conglomerate's buying a lot the land in this area. Paying top dollar too. They've got these newfangled ways to till the land. Probably add a whole bunch of chemicals to it." My dad had farmed organically his whole life, minimizing the chemical spraying as long as he could. "Hate to think of how much damage they'll do. But, it's time to move on. Hey, Ellie." He pats my mother's hand. One thing about them, they'd always treasured each other, to the point that Jeanie and I sometimes felt left out. But you couldn't fault their marriage. They held true to each other their entire lives.
"So where you thinking of moving? Florida?" I ask.<
br />
"No," dad says. "Ellie has a hankering for Arizona. Her old bones —"
"George, I'm not that old. And yours are older than mine anyhow."
"Now, Ellie, don't get your shorts in a twist." He leans over and kisses her cheek before turning his attention back to me. "The dry heat of Arizona will be better for her arthritis."
About five years back, my mom had been diagnosed with rheumatoid arthritis. She'd suffered through the cold winters of Iowa for all that time. Although she takes medication for it, there is no way to stop the disease. The warm, dry climate of Arizona will help her deal with the disease.
"So, when do you think you'll sell."
Soon. They want to complete the deal before summer. So, April, May." So if there's anything you'd like to take with you now would probably be a good time to do that."
I taken all my stretcher processions with me when I first moved to Chicago,, including my Paddington Bear. But since my things had been torn or destroyed when Tommie Hawkins had broken into my apartment, I had a hankering for something familiar. "Do you still have Jeanie's things?"
"Jeanie's?" my dad asks. "Why would you want those?"
"Now, George," my mom says. "They're upstairs, dear. In the attic."
"I'd like to go through them. Take some things with me." They'd be a reminder of the sister I dearly loved. "How is she?"
"Fine. Fine," dad says, looking down. After her assault, he's never been comfortable talking about Jeanie.
"Have you seen her?"
"Not since summer."
"You haven't spoken to her for six months?"
"Lower your voice, dear. It upsets your father when you yell at him."
He should be upset. The way he's treated Jeanie is a disgrace. It's like he wrote her off. After she'd been kidnapped, he could barely look at her. But then I know what he does with animals that aren't right. He shoots them.
"The truth of the matter is she doesn't recognize us. She has no idea who we are."
"But you know who she is. She's your daughter."
My father flinches.
But I don't care. "What are you doing about her? When you move?"
"Why, she's staying right where she's at. Where else would she go?"
"You can take her with you."
"Oh, we can't do that, dear. The doctor says it would upset her if we were to do that. She might regress even more than she already has."
I jump to my feet to pace up and down the dining room, flailing my arms, tears running down my face. "How could you do that? How could you move away and leave her behind?" They look so normal on the outside. But inside they're monsters.
"Now, MacKenna. We're doing what's best for her. What her doctor advised. And, even if we, you'll be near her. Chicago is four hours away. You can visit her anytime."
"Four hours is too far away. I want her near me in Chicago."
"You're being selfish. The place she's at is the best for her. But go see her by all means. Talk to the doctors there. If they approve it, we'll move her closer to you."
The day after Christmas I do just that. I'm shown to the visitor's room, a small, white walled room, sterile. Other than a table and two chairs, there's nothing else in the room.
My sister arrives with an attendant by her side, dressed in a sweater and a pair of dark slacks. Her hair's a darker shade of red than mine, and her eyes are brown. She's thirty now, eight years older than me, but still as beautiful as ever. That beauty had been her curse. It'd gotten the attention of many a teenage boy, and Tommy Hawkins, a grown man.
As soon as she steps into the room, I near her so I can kiss her cheek, but she cowers away from me, and closer to the attendant.
"She doesn't like to be touched. I'm sorry." The attendant's eyes smile kindly on me, offering me what little comfort they can.
"Jeanie, how are you?"
My sister's eyes turn wary, so unlike the warm, shiny look that gazed out of her eyes so long ago. "Fine."
"That's great."
"Better sit. Across the table. She likes the protection of the table."
I want to scream that there's no need for protection, not against me. But, of course, I wouldn't get anywhere. If anything, I would probably cause Jeanie more upset.
Once I take my seat across the table from her, Jeanie relaxes her shoulders, and she takes to staring out the window. There's nothing to see out there, except for some bare trees.
"She looks well." I address this statement to the attendant.
"She is. We're very fond of your sister. She never causes any problems for the staff, except when she meets a new member of the staff. We have to be very careful to introduce her to any new members of the staff. She gets upset then."
"What does she do?" The old Jeanie loved to dance and sing around the room we shared as girls.
"Well, she likes to play with her dolls."
"She has dolls?"
"Yes. Your parents brought them to her."
Good to know they've done something positive for Jeanie.
"And she loves to listen to music."
"Yes, she liked that growing up. Does she dance?"
"No. That's hard to do with her leg."
The leg Tommy Hawkins had broken. The bastard had not only taken her body and her mind, but robbed her of the ability to dance. "Yes, of course." I swallow back the bile that rises in my stomach. "Is there anything she needs?"
"No. She's warm and happy in her own world."
"MacKenna."
Just that one word gets my attention. "Jeanie."
"You remember Flopsie?"
"Our Collie. Yes."
"He killed her, you know. So she wouldn't bark. He told me."
This time I can't stop the tears from flowing. The tears I've held back for so many years. "I'm so sorry, sweetheart."
"Me too." And then she turns her head and returns to staring at the window. And I know she's gone back into that world she inhabits, where there's no pain, where no one can hurt her.
After my visit with Jeanie, I talk to her doctor. He pretty much confirms what my parents told me. What I saw for myself in the sterile, white room. I can't move my sister closer to me. If I did, she might lose whatever hold in this world she has left.
Chapter 26
Ty
WITH THE FIRST GAME OF THE PLAYOFFS WON, we turn our sights to the next team—the Texas Roughriders. They're mean sons of bitches who'd just as soon tear my head off. But I have a first rate offensive line who'll do whatever they have to do to protect me. Still, my legs have to do more of the work. I'll have to move around in the pocket, in order to find an open receiver, maybe do a dash myself to get the first down. We ended up winning the game 24 to 16. A little too close for comfort. But then we gave our fans a thrill.
After the pep talk in the locker room, we're released. Although a few players decide to attend the party at a nearby hotel, most opt to go home to nurse their aching bodies. I haven't felt much like celebrating lately. Mainly, because all I want to do is go home. Not to the house I own, but MacKenna. But I still have to get through the post-game interviews.
So, after I shower and dress in my street clothes, I do what's required of me.
"Ty, how does your shoulder feel?" Some one asks.
"Fine. Better than fine."
"No problems with the rotator cuff, then."
"None whatsoever." I give the shoulder a roll just to show that it's working quite fine.
"So you'll be ready for San Francisco. They have the most quarterback sacks this season."
I spit out the line that's expected of me. "San Francisco is a great team and they have a great defense. But I have all the confidence in the world in my offensive line."
With the press conference over, I drag my sorry ass to my car. I may be all confidence in front of those reporters, but here, in the privacy of my Cherokee, I face up to the truth. I ache all over, and my shoulder throbs like a son of a bitch. Thank God tomorrow is rest day, and I can keep the shoulder immob
ilized all day.
My phone rings. Fuck? Who could it be? When caller ID reveals it's the woman who's haunted my dreams every night for the last two months, I can’t hit the connect button fast enough. "MacKenna."
"Ty. I saw the game. Congratulations."
"Thanks." Fuck if my voice doesn't emerge rough and needy, but then I've never had much control around her.
"I was thinking—"
"Yes."
She lets out one of those tinkly laughs of hers, the ones that sound like sunshine and rainbows. "You don't even know what I'm going to say."
"I'm so glad you called."
"Me too. It's been too long." A couple of beats of silence occur. "So, I made a pot of beef stew. Too much for me to eat, really. There's just no way I can eat all the leftovers. So, I was thinking—"
"Yes." This time the single word makes sense. "Yes, I can come over for dinner."
"Great. It'll be ready in an hour."
"I'll bring some wine."
"See you then."
"See you."
I don't think I can wait an hour to see her, but rather than rush right over to her place, I stop at mine to pick up a couple of bottles of wine. A bordeaux and a cabernet sauvignon. I manage to make it to her place only fifteen minutes early. In other words, right on time. Even though I've cased the place several times from the outside, I've never seen the inside of the building. Except on the internet that is. And I'm happy to see it's quite an improvement over the POS place she lived in. Little does she know it, but I paid off the last nine months of her rent to that bastard of her landlord so he wouldn't bug her again.
She's left my name with the concierge, so I have no problems getting in. I'm buzzed up the elevator to her floor. She waits for me at her door, holding the leash to that Golden Lab she's dogsitting.
The Lab's pretty laid back when I approach, not barking or anything. She introduces us, I let him smell my hand. Satisfied, he gives my hand a nudge.
"He's pretty friendly."
"I can see that. How are you?" I haven't been this close to her in two months, but it seems like forever.
"Fine." Except that I can see she's not fine. There are dark shadows under her eyes. And her face's pale. She has this luminescent white skin, but even so, she looks pale to me.
Dirty Filthy Boy (Chicago Outlaws #1) Page 17