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

by Magda Alexander

  He flashes me that same, bright smile, while he pours the wine. "MacKenna. May I call you MacKenna?"

  "Yes, of course."

  "You were upset about me standing you up. So the questions, while surprising, were a way for you to let off steam. How about we start fresh? You forgive me for not showing up at the diner. I won't penalize you for the questions. What do you say?" He sticks out his palm.

  My mother didn't raise a fool, so I shake his hand. "Deal."

  For the next while, we dedicate ourselves to the meal. One thing your learn at a farm is to eat when food is put in front of you. Something I forgot at the restaurant. But I'm not stupid enough to pass up on this feast a second time. I chow down until half of my share is gone. When I come up for air, his plate is empty, and he has a happy smile on his face.

  "Nice to see a woman enjoy her food." He salutes me with his wine glass.

  "Oh, I eat plenty." Can't he tell by the extra curves? "Comes from working at a farm."

  "Where are you from?"

  "Iowa. My dad's a farmer. I used to milk the cows, feed the chickens. The farm hands did the heavy work, but I handled the egg and dairy business."

  "Did you enjoy it?"

  I sip the last of my wine before I answer. "I couldn't wait to leave. Our land was miles from the nearest town. For months, the only people I'd see were the farm hands, close neighbors, and the kids at school. Winters were the worst."

  "So when it came time to go to college, you chose one in a big city."

  "Yes. I graduated in May from the University of Chicago."

  "But you didn't start working here until last week."

  He'd paid attention when I told him it was my first week on the job. "Mr. Bartlett hired me before the school year ended, but the journalist I was to replace did not retire until the end of the summer." He couldn't afford to pay us both, and I couldn't afford rent without a salary. So I'd moved in with Marigold and waited tables until two weeks ago. By working through the summer, I saved enough for a security deposit and first month's rent.

  Mr. Bartlett pokes his head out of his office and stares in our direction while chewing on his beat-up cigar.

  "My boss's getting antsy. I better start the interview. You done?" I point to his empty dish and bread basket. The man loves those French baguettes.

  "Yes, thank you."

  After I gather the dirty dishes, I walk to the lunchroom, next door, and toss them in the trash. The leftovers I stick in the fridge.

  "You're saving those for tomorrow?" Ty Mathews asks when I return.

  "Hopefully they'll still be there."

  He frowns. "What do you mean?"

  "Last week I brought an extra yogurt. It was gone the next day."

  His eyes narrow. I'm glad not to be the target of that scowl. Bound to leave a nasty burn.

  "Somebody stole it?" he asks.

  Nodding, I pull out my recorder and spiral bound notebook. The latter has seen better days, but it's still usable. "Ready?"

  "Yes."

  "You were born in Texas?" I'd performed background research on him. Not much was available, but I devoured what little there was.

  "Yes. A small town in the eastern part of the state."

  "And what's the name of this small town?"

  "Doesn't matter. It no longer exists. The factory which which served as the main business in town moved its operations south of the border. After it closed, people drifted off to bigger cities until only a few residents remained."

  Okay, so he's not going to tell me where he grew up. "What about your family?"

  "I don't have one. No siblings, and my parents have passed."

  Another brick wall. "How long have you played football?"

  He smiles. "Since I was ten. A few boys were passing the ball around during school recess. When it landed at my feet, I picked it up and tossed it farther than their quarterback, so I was drafted to play."

  I do a quick calculation. "So that was fifth grade?"

  He nods. "Something like that. In high school, I joined the junior varsity team, but after one year they moved me to the regular team. The next season, I became their quarterback. Their starting quarterback." Grinning, he leans forward to impress upon me the importance of the position, something I failed to understand the day we met.

  I grin back at him. "The starting quarterback, huh? You must have been good."

  "I was. My senior year, I took them all the way to the state championship. We won, but the press paid no attention to us." Another scowl.

  "Why?"

  "We were only a 1A high school. The press was too busy focusing on the 5A Dallas team. I HATE Dallas." When he says Dallas, he bares his teeth.

  Obviously, a touchy subject with him. I make a note to explore it further.

  "But one good thing came out of the championship. The Nebraska State coach was scouting that day. He offered me a full-ride scholarship, so I would play for his team."

  "Where, let me guess, you became the starting quarterback in no time." I curve my lips up on purpose.

  He smiles back. "You learn fast."

  "I try."

  We spend another twenty minutes in a convivial back and forth, until it's time for him to leave for his promo appearance. I grab my gear, before escorting him toward the front door. After we say goodbye, I'll drive to the Boys & Girls Club.

  But before we exit, he pauses in the center of the office. "Listen up, everybody."

  A couple of heads pop up from their cubicles. Mr. Bartlett sticks his head out of his office.

  "MacKenna Perkins stored some leftovers in the refrigerator. Chateaubriand. Beef, in case you're not familiar with the word. She's looking forward to eating it for lunch tomorrow. If for any reason they're missing"—his voice lowers, his tone grows gruff—"I will find out who stole it and that person will answer to me. Capisce?"

  Except for Dotty who pipes up with,"I'm a vegetarian," dead silence greets him.

  He walks up and nods at her. "Good to know, ma'am."

  My cheeks heat up. How dare he threaten the newspaper staff? This is not a football field where Neanderthal rules apply. This is my place of business. We're polite. We're civilized. More embarrassed than I've ever been in my life, I follow him out the door, determined to let him know he's crossed the line.

  Chapter 6

  Ty

  AS SOON AS WE REACH THE FAR SIDE OF THE PARKING LOT, MacKenna lets me have it. "That stunt you pulled in there was embarrassing.You humiliated me."

  I shrug. "Don't know why. I saved your food."

  "You actually think that macho posturing is going to prevent someone from stealing it?"

  "Yep. The men won't touch it. Too scared of what I'll do to them. And the women think my gesture is romantic. You might want to say thank you, by the way." I throw in just to get her even more riled up.

  Her jaw drops as smoke practically steams out of her ears. "Thank you? Thank you?" Her pink cheeks turn apple red, and she goes from beautiful to stunning.

  I execute a small bow. "You're welcome."

  Her eyes bulge. "You've got some nerve, you know that."

  Smiling, I cross my arms across my chest and broaden my stance. "It's all part of the Ty package."

  "The Ty package?"

  I wink at her. "I can show you the more interesting part, if you like."

  "You could show me?" Struggling not to blow a gasket, she fists her hands. Wouldn't that make a magnificent sight? To my great disappointment, after a few seconds, she relaxes and whooshes out a hard sigh. "Men."

  "Yep." I rock back on my heels. "That's what I am."

  A cold breeze slashes between us, tussling her gorgeous curls, making her shiver. It might be early September, but the weather's turned cooler, and the wind's blowing like a son of a bitch out of Lake Michigan. That sweater she's wearing can't possibly keep her warm. I could volunteer my services to heat her up in my SUV, but she's nowhere ready to go to the next level with me.

  She digs in her purse an
d retrieves her car keys. "Well, I better get going. Thank you for the interview and lunch."

  Another gust of wind turns her nipples rock hard. And suddenly reality smacks me in the face. She can't go to the Boys & Girls Club in that sweater and tight skirt. Either will have my teammates salivating. Both, and I'll have a fight on my hands. She needs to change clothes to prevent bloodshed. I point to her. "That sweater and skirt won't work. You'll need to put on something else—jeans, a sweatshirt, sneakers—to go to the rec center."

  She looks down at herself. "What's wrong with what I'm wearing?"

  "Nothing. It's a perfect outfit for work. But we're going to throw around a few footballs and you might be required for show and tell." There is no might about it. I will use her to teach the kids how to throw a perfect spiral.

  Her face scrunches. "Show and tell?"

  "When I demonstrate how to pitch the ball, you'll be my assistant." I pull out the car keys from my jacket, twirl the ring around my finger.

  "But I've never thrown a football."

  "And that's why the kids will get a kick out of it. If I can teach you how to lob one, it'll give them hope."

  "Use one of your teammates. They certainly know how to throw . . . and catch."

  "And risk being smacked by a whiff of funky BO? I don't think so. You"—I lean in and breathe in her lavender-rose scent—"smell way better than any of them."

  She peeks up at me through her lashes, a flirty move from any other woman, but doubt she realizes it as such. From everything I've seen, she doesn't seem the flirty kind. Another breeze kicks by, and she rubs her hands up and down her arms. "I'm not going to win this argument, am I?"

  Sensing a victory, I grin. "Nope."

  "Fine. I'll need to go home and change. You go ahead and I'll meet you at the Boys and Girls Club." She tosses over her shoulder as she heads toward the edge of the parking lot.

  I stop my key twirling and rush after her. The club is in a dangerous part of town. Anything could happen to her on the way over. I'll be damned before I let her risk that drive by herself. "I have a better idea. Why don't I follow you to your place. After you change, we can ride in my car."

  "I don't think that would be a good idea." By now we've reached the junker she climbed into at the Outlaws parking lot. There's a dent in the rear passenger door that wasn't there before.

  "Did somebody hit you?" I point to the car.

  "No. I dinged a column in my apartment lot. The parking there is . . . tricky." She inserts her key into the car door. "I'll just—" She struggles to get the door open, but it won't budge. "Umm, drive myself."

  Not in that piece of shit car, she won't. She probably doesn't want me to know her address, but her objection is moot. "I know where you live, MacKenna."

  She stops struggling with her car door as her head jerks up. "What? How do you know?"

  "You provided that information to our press office in the form you filled out."

  Her eyes widen. "And they gave it to you?"

  I lean against my cherry Porsche Cayenne SUV which just happens to be parked next to her junker. "You must have forgotten to check off the box that prevents them from sharing your information with the Outlaws staff."

  "Darn it. I was so worried about the Ron Moss interview I gave it back without reading the small print." She gnaws on her lip, obviously upset about her personal data being disseminated for anyone to see.

  Her discomfort tugs at me. "The Outlaws Press office sharing your details. That's a problem for you."

  Those crushed bluebell eyes of hers gaze helplessly up at me. "Yes, I'd prefer my private information kept just that, private."

  I grab my cell, dial the number of the head of PR. "Trevor? It's Ty Mathews. The information MacKenna Perkins provided to you, home address, personal stuff. Can you delete it from our system?"

  She stands in front of me, cold and obviously freezing, her tight nipples in full salute. Predictably, my cock notices. Damn it. It's going to be a long afternoon if I don't rein in my lust. Like the gentleman I'm not, I order my hard on to give it a rest and turn so my body blocks her from the wind. "They'll need to retain your business info if you want to interview any member of the team. Is that okay?"

  "Yes."

  "She's fine with that. Okay, Trevor. Thanks." I click off, bury the cell in my leather jacket. "Done."

  "Thanks." Her nose is bright pink. Her eyes are watering. My blocking the wind hasn't helped enough.

  Much as I want to pull her into me and warm her, I resist. Don't want her hightailing it again. But she needs to get away from the wind. "So, do you want me to swing over to your place and we can ride together from there?" As her eyes spark with interest, she glances from her POS to my cherry SUV.

  Good. All I have to do is reel her in.

  "If we go together to the rec center, you'll get to ride in my car." I click my key, slide the door open. The Porsche Cayenne is a thing of beauty—Carmine Red on the outside, black on the inside, the Chicago Outlaws' team colors. "It has Bose Surround sound, GPS, Sirius satellite radio." I pause for dramatic effect before going in for the kill. "And heated leather seats."

  Her eyes round with wonder and her mouth forms a perfect "O".

  My lips curve into a smile. I thought that would do the trick.

  Once she stops drooling over my ride, I pry open her door so she can climb into that sorry excuse of a car. And then I follow her to her place. Her parking garage requires a card to enter, but the inside is shit. Potholes big enough to eat a tire, crappy lighting. No wonder she ran into a garage column. Dirt and sweat stink up the elevator. The hallway leading to her unit is no better; it reeks of cabbage and onions.

  Her cheeks bloom pink as if she's embarrassed of the place. "It's not much, but it's the best I can afford. And my neighbors are nice."

  Damn, she must have caught the expression on my face. "That's good."

  "And there's a security station on the ground floor. You have to show ID to get in."

  Thank fuck for that.

  Three security locks protect her door, each of which opens with a different key. Of course, the door's so flimsily made, a good kick would tear it off its hinges. Once inside her apartment, she offers me something to drink. All she's got is water, tea and some fruity drink. While she runs into her bedroom to change, I plop down on her mud-colored couch and guzzle the H2O. But soon I'm up exploring the place.

  Her tiny apartment smells like her. But that's about the only thing it has going for it. The springs on the couch leave something to be desired. Probably got it at a garage sale or maybe it's a remnant from her college days. The TV can't be more than 26-inches wide. Didn't know they still sold them in that size. Her kitchen contains the usual appliances—a stove, refrigerator. But they both look like they've seen better days. No dishwasher and there's a rack by the sink, so she must wash her dishes by hand.

  She deserves better than to live in this crappy dump. Aside from the small size and the smells outside her unit, I'm not totally convinced about the security of the building. I've got connections in real estate—people who owe me favors, acquaintances, friends. Surely, I could hook her up with a better place to live. The problem will be talking her into it.

  Ten minutes later, she emerges from her bedroom, changed into jeans, a sweatshirt and sneakers. Although the outfit is supposed to make her shapeless, nothing can hide her amazing breasts. They're large, perky and the reason God invented boobs. Their bounce all the way back to the elevator has me gnashing my teeth. As if my suffering's not bad enough, she has trouble with her seatbelt, so I get an up close and personal of her world-class tits when I help her snap it on.

  Pandemonium reigns at the Boys & Girls Club. A few hundred kids, their parents, the media. It's a fucking three-ring circus. But our head of PR has been there, done that, and, with a few choice words, he manages to control the insanity. Everyone's corralled inside the rec center while the Outlaws take the stage. The head of the club introduces us one by one to loud che
ers. I give the usual "Stay in School, Don't Do Drugs" speech I've given hundreds of times before.

  The real fun begins when we go outside. The kids line up in front of their favorite player. As usual, mine is the longest of all. After I hurl a few balls, I use MacKenna to demonstrate. Predictably, she can't throw for shit. When I mention she throws like a girl, the kids crack up, just like I knew they would. But soon I have even the littlest ones lobbing the ball with confidence, if not very far.

  When she wanders off to write something into her note book, a fresh one, I keep my eye on her. She walks toward the opposite end of the field where Ron Moss is catching balls from a bunch of kids. When another receiver takes his place, she exchanges a few words with him. I talked to him yesterday before the game to clue him into what really happened with their interview. He's a great guy who doesn't hold a grudge. Soon his head's bobbing and he's smiling at her. She says something and gets a thumbs up before he goes back to working with the kids.

  She jots something in her notebook before she stops to observe our left tackle, Maddox 'Mad Dog' Buchinski, who's teaching a huge kid how to block. He has nowhere as many kids as I do, so the few he has are getting quite a bit of instruction from him.

  When next I look up she's talking to our kicker, Ryan Jackson. My hackles rise. Unlike the other players, who're giving 100%, Ryan's barely participating. When she asks him a few questions, he totally ignores the kids to put the moves on her—flashing that smarmy smile of his, laughing at something she says. Ryan's scum of the earth. A world-class athlete who's allowed his fame to go to his head. He's caused nothing but trouble with the other Outlaws—picking fights, insulting players. Most of them hate him. If it weren't for his practically flawless, field-goal kicking leg, he'd be off the team.

  Worse than that, he chases anything in a skirt, especially younger women. Oh, he's careful to card them. Last thing he wants is to be caught with jail bait. Still, there's something offputting about a twenty-seven year old man screwing an eighteen-year old girl.

  Before I go over there and put a world on hurt on the bastard, the head of PR blows the whistle, signaling the end of scrimmage. I patiently sign a few shirts and balls while keeping an eye on MacKenna and Ryan. But when he touches her, I can't control myself. I pound toward MacKenna, grab her arm and haul her away.