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

by Magda Alexander

  "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.

  "I'm going to find out something, aren't I?"

  "Just promise me you'll let me read it."

  "Okay. I guess I owe you that much."

  That night, she doesn't come to my bed. Doubt she's getting much sleep. Sure as hell, I'm not.

  Chapter 20

  MacKenna

  THURSDAY MORNING, I arrive at the newspaper office eager to work on Ty's story. The day before I'd spent the entire day doing online research on the Nebraska State Student newspaper files, and I'd hit a gold mine of information. I'd started with the first year Ty had attended college. Just as I expected, it had been the standard news of a college rag—the goings on at the college, social and political issues, and, of course, sports. At first Ty's name hardly appeared on the sports pages, but as the football season progressed, he got more and more mentions.

  His name popped up again, along with Mad Dog's and Ryan Taylor's, during the fraternity rush. They'd all joined the Kappa Delta Psi fraternity. Once football season ended, he didn't get mentioned again. But his fraternity had when a girl was gang raped at one of their keggers. From that point, hardly a day passed by that the sexual assault wasn't mentioned. At first, the girl's name was unknown, but then she'd revealed her name.

  Why would she do such a thing? Maybe someone talked her into giving a face to the victim of such a horrible crime. Sure enough, she'd been hailed a hero for coming forward. But then the nastiness had begun. Her name had been dragged through the mud in the school's social pages. She was called an idiot for accepting a drink from a stranger, blamed for her rape because she'd come to the party alone. With no one to watch out for her, she'd asked for it, hadn't she?

  Sick to my stomach, I'd taken a break at that point. But in the afternoon, I forced myself to read on. Her rapists had been identified from DNA rape kits and charged with a multitude of crimes, including aggravated sexual assault. Thankfully, Ty's, Mad Dog's, and Ryan's names were not mentioned in any of the articles written about the heinous crime. None of them had been at the party that night.

  That seems odd to me.

  They would have known about the party, and since football season had been over by that time, they wouldn't be tied up with game preparations. Mad Dog might have chosen not to attend the kegger. He doesn't seem like a party animal to me. But I can't see Ty and Ryan turning down an opportunity like that.

  Wanting to get to the truth of the matter, today I decide to put in a call to the student newspaper and see if I can find someone who was part of the staff that year. A long shot, I know. Most of the college's newspaper staff is comprised of students. But maybe there's some salaried administrative sort that's assigned to the newspaper. Sure enough, I find someone. Stephanie Colton. She hasn't arrived, so when I'm patched to her line, I leave a call back number.

  A half hour later, my phone rings. It's her.

  "Thank you for calling me back, Ms. Colton. My name is MacKenna Perkins, and I'm a reporter for The Windy City Chronicle. I'm writing an article about Ty Matthews, as well as Mad Dog Buchinsky and Ryan Taylor, all players with the Chicago Outlaws. I understand they attended Nebraska State."

  "Yes, they did." She sounds hesitant, but I press on.

  "I have some questions about their time at Nebraska State. I was hoping you would shed some light on something I came across during my research."

  "I don't know much about the football side of things."

  "This doesn't have anything to do with football, but with a sexual assault that happened eight years ago."

  "Emily Suarez." Her voice's a soft whisper.

  "You remember?"

  "Of course I remember. That was awful. What happened to her."

  "Yes, it was." I clear my throat before I proceed. "They all belonged to that fraternity, but they were not present the night of the party. And, well, that struck me as odd."

  "You know, I wondered how long it would take somebody to ask that question. I didn't think it would take eight years."

  "So they were there? That night?"

  "Ty Mathews and Ryan Taylor were. Buchinsky was not. He didn't live in the fraternity house, like Ty and Ryan did. He lived off campus with his girlfriend."

  "So why the lie?"

  "Hold on a moment. Somebody just came in. Yes, Professor Dawkins." The last seems muted as if she's covering the telephone's mouthpiece. "I'll be there in a minute, sir."

  When she comes back on the line, her voice's hushed, as if she's trying not to have her words overheard. "I have to go. But I do want to talk to you. It's something that needs to be brought to light. You need to come here, though."

  "Why?"

  "There's something you need to see. It's in the archive files. I don't dare remove it. Somebody's bound to notice. But I go down to the newspaper's catacombs all the time. And I can sneak you in. Any chance you could travel here?"

  "Ms. Colton. Now." Whoever Professor Dawkins is, he's got his shorts in a twist, that's for sure.

  "I'm sorry. I have to go."

  "I'll be there." Nebraska State's only an eight hour ride from Chicago. I could travel on Sunday, talk to her Monday morning and return late that day. I wouldn't even need to take a day off from work. I could tell Mr. Bartlett I was away from the office doing research on one of the players, which would be nothing but the truth. "How about Monday of next week?"

  "Yes, that works for me."

  "I'll call you when I get there."

  "No. Text me." She rattles off her number, and I write it down.

  "Okay." I don't know why I'm hushing my voice as well. There's nobody near me. Except for the worm. And, surely he can't hear me three cubicles away.

  After hanging up, I switch gears to Mad Dog's story. After all, I'm scheduled to interview him next week. That afternoon, I visit a women's shelter for a series I'm writing. The football stories and women's issues are as different as chalk from cheese, but strangely enough, I love the variety.

  That night as I head for Ty's house, a wave of depression hits me. It's my last night with him. I know, it's something I must do. But still.

  Tonight, he cooked a big pan of lasagna. As we sit down to eat, he asks, "So, are you all set for the big move?"

  "Yeah, I only have the stuff in the closet. I'll pack tonight and put it in the car tomorrow before I head off for work. I'll leave the house key and the remote on the counter."

  "Keep them."

  "Ty. I can't."

  "Keep them. If something happens at your new place, you can always come back here. Please. I'll sleep better."

  "Okay."

  Done eating, I rinse my dish and put it in the dishwasher. "I better go pack."

  "If you need anything, anything at all."

  "I'll call you."

  Dragging my steps all the way, I head toward my bedroom where it takes me no time at all to pack my meager belongings. Restless and not really sleepy, I call Marigold to let her know what's going on. "I'm moving out of Ty's house."

  "You are? Where are you going?"

  I provide her with the details of my new place.

  "Ooh, The Wellington! You lucky dog." Her voice oozes with awe. "That's one nice building."

  "Yeah, it is." Oh, gosh. How very insensitive of me. Here I'm bragging about my new place in a luxury building in a safe neighborhood while she's stuck in a crappy apartment in one of the worst sections in town. A thought occurs to me. Maybe I can talk to Lorena about Marigold rooming with me. "It's a two-bedroom apartment. Way too big for me. Maybe I could talk to the owner about you moving in. If you're interested, that is."

  She clears her throat. "Well, actually. My situation has changed as well."

  "It has?"

  "Yes. Oliver took one look at my place and decided I couldn't live there anymore."

 
"He did?"

  "Yeah. It didn't help that somebody had set a car on fire down the street, and the street was crawling with cops."

  "Good God."

  "Yeah. He's right, of course. To tell you the truth, I've been having second thoughts about living in the area."

  I'd been worried sick about her living in that area myself. "So what are you doing to do?"

  "Well, he took me back to his place that night. We spent half the night talking about my life, my future. I faced up to the truth. Teaching at a public school is not really my thing."

  "It isn't?"

  "No. Oh, don't get me wrong. I love teaching. But I'm more of a warden than a teacher. The other day one of my kids brought a gun to school."

  "Oh, Mar. Why didn't you say something?"

  "You had enough going on, MacKenna." She heaves out a long sigh. "Oliver drew my dissatisfaction out of me. One thing led to another, and well, the upshot is he's hiring me to tutor some of the players. Apparently, some of them can barely read or write."

  "So you're going to be doing that part time?"

  "To begin with. But once my teaching contract with the city of Chicago ends in June, I'll be working for the Outlaws full time."

  "That's great, Marigold. You certainly have a lot of experience tutoring college football players."

  "Yeah, I do, don't I?" The smile in her voice tells me she's missed that part of her life. "And the tutoring will encompass more than academic subjects. He's envisioning a course on financial management, as well. Apparently, many football players end up broke once their football careers are done."

  "I didn't know that."

  "Neither did I."

  "And, get this, he also wants to offer a class on the birds and bees." She laughs.

  "You're going to be teaching sex ed to grown football players?"

  "Well, it's not only sex ed, but issues surrounding consent. Some players have trouble taking no for an answer. That's going to be the toughest class of all. Oliver's putting me in charge of the whole educational program and giving me carte blanche. Can you believe it? He told me to think outside the box. Between now and my start date, I'll have to come up with a questionnaire for the players, and a mandatory basic skills test, so I can individualize their training programs."

  "Some players will balk at this, you know that."

  "Yes, but Oliver's making it a requirement in their contracts. So either they agree to it, or they don't get signed as an Outlaw. He's been thinking about it for quite a while."

  "Wow."

  "Yeah. In the meantime, he wants me to move to an apartment building he owns close to the Outlaws' compound. That's where they house potential recruits when they come visit, as well as those Outlaws players that find themselves temporarily without a place to stay. He plans to renovate the first floor into a classroom setting with a library and everything."

  "That's amazing." I pause while I temporarily take this all in. "See, he's not so bad as you thought."

  "Well, I still have a problem with where he's putting his stadium. Not changing my mind about that."

  "But maybe you can exert your influence on him to come up with a plan that will help those inner city kids."

  "Maybe. Well, Better go. Gotta get up early." I can almost hear the yawn in her voice. "If you need help with the move, let me know."

  "I shouldn't. Not much to move. But if I do, I'll ring you. Goodnight, Marigold."

  "'Night."

  Restless after the call, I head for the bathroom, but even after a good soak in the tub, I can't sleep. And I know why. Because only a few feet away lies the man that makes every fiber in my being burn. Would it be so bad to be with him one last time? Before I can rethink the situation, I slide into my slippers and head toward his bedroom. The door's open. With the light from the hallway shining into the room, I can see him on his bed, probably naked under the sheets.

  He comes up on his elbow. "What's wrong?"

  "Can't sleep."

  "Me neither." He taps the bed. "Come here."

  Not for one second do I hesitate, but rush toward him like he's my last hope of salvation. And maybe he is.

  I kick off my slippers, shed my robe, and slide into bed with him. "This doesn't change anything. I'm still moving out tomorrow."

  "I know, sweet girl, I know." And with that he covers my body with his and proceeds to drive me to the edge of insanity.

  Chapter 21

  Ty

  TWO WEEKS HAVE GONE BY since MacKenna left. Two weeks without her in my bed. Strange how easily I fell into a routine with her, and our entire time together lasted less than a week. I miss her with every ounce of my being. Her laughter, the way she cocks her head when she disagrees with me. The way she bites down on her lip to keep from laughing at me. But mostly I miss her warmth in my bed, her body next to mine.

  I'd called her to make sure she'd settle in all right, but her answers had been short and tight. And then she'd asked me not to call her any more. The only way I'll get to talk to her is if she interviews me again. And I don't know that that's ever going to happen. Not if Coach Gronowski has anything to say about it. He'd tried to shut down MacKenna about Mad Dog's interview, but he'd been pushed back by both Trevor, the head of PR, and Oliver Lyons, both of whom loved the article she'd written on Ron.

  As it turned out, Mad Dog's article was just as great as Todd's. MacKenna piece covered not only him, but his home life, including his wife and three kids. The way he talked about his middle son's autism brought out the soft side of him. Oh, he still mows down offenses on the field, but the guys in the locker room have come to respect this other side of him. Now we understand why he rushes home every night. To be with his family. The rest of us should be so lucky.

  "Mathews?" one of the physical trainers calls out my name as soon as I step into the locker room.

  "Yeah?"

  "Doc Latimer wants to see you."

  Hopefully, it's what I think it's going to be. It's been three weeks since I was benched and I'm more than ready to get back in the game. They'd done another MRI yesterday and put me through a range of motion exercises. I'd passed them with flying colors with not even a twinge in my shoulder.

  I run all the way to Doc's office.

  "How do you feel?" he asks.

  "Great. Ready to get back in the game."

  He gives me one of those tight smiles of his. "If you felt like crap, you'd say the same thing."

  "Probably. But I'm telling the truth."

  "Well, I've reviewed your MRI and other tests, and I do believe you're right."

  My lips can't help but split into a wide grin. "Yeah?"

  He nods. "I've cleared you to return to the game."

  "Great."

  "On one condition."

  "Whatever, Doc. I'll do it. So what is it?"

  "I want you to wear a brace all the time."

  "I can't do that. That thing inhibits my mobility."

  "It's a modified version, a state-of-the art model that's never been tried before. It should help prevent another shoulder injury."

  "Do I have a choice?"

  "No. Not really."

  "Then bring on the brace." I'll just have to live with the darn thing, whatever it is.

  "Tony will fit you into it. You'll practice with it for a couple of days. The manufacturer is very eager to make sure it works with you and for you. If it doesn't, it's back to the drawing board."

  "Good to know I'm a guinea pig."

  In the physical training suite, I meet the person who designed the brace, a nerdy-looking guy with big, thick glasses. "It's been created to your specific measurements and will provide us feedback of everything your shoulder is doing."

  What? "And I'm supposed to wear this 24 hours a day?"

  "Yes. Until your team physician decides you no longer need it."

  Great. Just fucking great.

  "Now, I'll be adjusting your brace and taking measurements on a daily basis. Your shoulder will feel better than ever, Mr.
Mathews."

  "How do you know that?"

  "Well, I designed it, so I know what it will do. The brace will stimulate your shoulder when you're playing to provide warmth when your shoulder tightens up. It will continue to provide physical therapy during the game and practice, and even when you're asleep."

  "But why do I need to wear it then?"

  "Because that's when the muscle will be repairing itself and we will be obtaining feedback about specifically how it's doing that."

  "So how long do you think, I'll have to wear this?"

  "Through the end of the season, at the very least. If the Outlaws make the playoffs, we'll reassess at that time. You'll be helping us create much more effective therapy for other football players, and we're immensely grateful for your cooperation."

  Well, I guess that's that. No matter how much I hate this contraption. If I want to play, I have to make it work. If I don't. I'll be out and Pedro will be back in.

  Chapter 22

  MacKenna

  SATURDAY NIGHT, I drive Rosco to the day care that also functions as a doggy spa. During our discussion before I moved in, Lenora mentioned I could drop him there if ever I needed to travel out of town. The doggy spa is nothing like I've seen before. Each dog gets his or her own suite with a huge doggy bed and plenty of toys as well as blankets to keep him warm. During his stay, he'll enjoy play time, a swimming session, and a massage. I should be so lucky to stay in that spa.

  Thankfully, my trip to Lincoln, Nebraska on Sunday goes smoothly. No snow, only bitter cold temperatures. After my check in into a budget hotel, I text Stephanie Colton to let her know I've arrived, and we make plans to meet at the newspaper office bright and early the next day. Mondays students tend to straggle in having spent the weekend either doing too much celebrating or cramming for exams.

  Per her instructions, I dress as a college student with a backpack. In case anybody asks, I'm supposedly volunteering to help with the files, a dreaded job in any office. Since I got out of college only a few months ago, I blend right in. Our trip to the catacombs, as she calls it, takes us through a dingy, dark corridor and down a set of stairs to a room that smells of must and dust. I don't have allergies, but anybody who does wouldn't be able to work down there for long.