Dirty Filthy Boy (A Bad Boy Sports Romance #1) - Magda Alexander

DIRTY FILTHY BOY CHICAGO OUTLAWS BOOK ONE

MAGDA ALEXANDER

HEARTS AFIRE PUBLISHING

Contents Other Books by Magda Alexander Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 About the Author

This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author's imagination, or have been used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental. Copyright © 2017 by Magda Alexander. Cover Design: Kim Killion/The Killion Group All rights reserved. The uploading, scanning, and distribution of this book in any form or by any means—including but not limited to electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the permission of the copyright holder is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized editions of this work, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author's rights is appreciated. Hearts Afire Publishing First Edition: January 2017

OTHER BOOKS BY MAGDA ALEXANDER THE SHATTERED SERIES Shattered Virtue Shattered Trust THE STORM DAMAGES SERIES Storm Damages Storm Ravaged Storm Redemption Storm Conquered ITALIAN STALLIONS SERIES A Christmas Kiss to Remember My Smokin’ Hot Valentine

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CHAPTER 1

Chicago Early October Ty HE SECOND I STEP ON THE PRACTICE FIELD, I'm besieged by fans. Young, T old, women, men.

A gap-toothed, tow-headed boy wearing my number 10 jersey stands at the front of the line, Sharpie in hand. "Ty, sign my shirt. Pleeeease." Gotta give the kid credit, he came prepared. "Sure." I write Ty Mathews with my trademark flourish at the end. Even though I've signed thousands of autographs, I still get a kick out of seeing the excitement in a child's eyes. Of course, some of them aren't kids. And some of them have asked me to sign something other than shirts. Tits, asses. I draw the line at pussies. Yeah, I've been asked. After I sign a few more shirts and photos, a staff member waves off the fans, promising I'll sign more after practice. If my arm holds out. My shoulder throbs from yesterday's grueling session. I've iced it, had it massaged, but it still hurts like hell. At twenty eight years old, I shouldn't hurt so damned much. The smart thing would be to give it a rest, but we're facing San Francisco this week, and there are some mean sons of bitches on that team who'd just as soon tear my head off. So I better be ready to get rid of the ball. Besides, I'll be damned before I ask for a light workout from Coach 'No Pain, No Gain' Gronowski who played with a broken foot at a clutch match during his NFL days. I can't fault his attitude. Last year, we went all the way to the AFC playoffs, only to lose the championship game to our conference nemesis, the Texas Roughriders. I don't intend to fail my team. This year I'm taking the Chicago Outlaws all the way to the Super Bowl. As I'm tying my shoulder pads, I notice three of my teammates gesturing at something, laughing hard enough to split a gut. I throw on my practice jersey, and, curious, I walk up. "What's so funny?"

One of the linebackers points toward the sideline where a redhead with hair down to one luscious ass is interviewing our number one wideout, Ron Moss. The breath whooshes out of me. She's wearing a micro skirt, short enough for me to almost see the promised land. Her blouse, unbuttoned down to there, displays a truly impressive cleavage. My cock, which hasn't gotten any action for two days, swells painfully against my cup. I tug to give it room. Where has this reporter been hiding out? I haven't seen her before. And believe me, I would have noticed. The woman keeps touching Ron, his arm, his hand. Problem is the more she does it, the more stone-faced he becomes. No wonder the linebackers think it's funny. Ron doesn't drink, doesn't smoke and he certainly doesn't like aggressive females which the reporter appears to be. I, on the other hand, like all kinds of women, especially those built like brickhouses. When Ron twitches away from her, she glances toward the three amigos with a questioning look on her face. Before I have a chance to wonder what that's all about, one of the three makes a squeezing motion. Fuck. I know what she's going to do. Yep. Sure enough. One of her dainty hands slides over Ron's ass and squeezes it for all she's worth. Predictably, Ron says, "Excuse me," and starts to walk away. "Where are you going? We're not finished," Red protests. The wideout turns back to her. "Ma'am. I don't want to be rude, but I don't care for women who grab my buttocks." That's Ron. Polite to the end. "But they said." She points to the three chuckleheads next to me who are laughing their heads off. But it's too late. Ron's already stalked off. Lips tight, cheeks flushed pink, she stomps to where we stand. "You set me up." Smoke's practically streaming from her ears. They're guffawing so hard they can't get a word out. But I can. "What's going on?" "They told me that if I wanted to get a great interview from Mr. Moss, I should 'flaunt what my Mama gave me and grab his ass.' So I freed a couple of buttons, hitched up my skirt. And I . . . touched his heiney." As she talks, she wiggles her skirt down, rebuttons her blouse, slips into the jacket she'd been holding over one arm. My cock doesn't know whether to toss confetti at the erotic dance or curse the covering up. I, on the other hand, know an explanation is in order. "Ron Moss's a born-again Christian. He doesn't care for, err, bold women." "I'm not bold!" She shoots me a scathing glance, hot enough to leave a burn. "Sorry. It certainly appeared that way." Giving her skirt one last tug, she turns to the linesmen. "You guys are big fat jerks. I needed that interview for my job. Hope you all fry in hell." "Sorry?" One of the three big fat jerks says without an ounce of remorse in his voice. "Go stuff yourself." That's the best she can come up with? In the world of

curses, that's about as mild as it gets. Obviously, the hard-core ones are not in her vocabulary. She storms past Larry, Moe and Curly toward the gate that opens to the parking lot. You have to get through security to get into the Chicago Outlaws' complex, but inside, everything is pretty accessible. Only a waist-high link fence separates the field from the parking lot. "What did you guys do?" I ask. "Man, you should have seen her," the outside linebacker says. "She showed up all buttoned tight in a skirt down to her knees. You know, the schoolmarm look. We told her Ron liked his women a bit more lively." He snickers again. The sad thing is Ron would have gone for the schoolmarm look, but now . . . My gaze follows her as she reaches a junker. That thing's gotta be at least ten years old. She drops her notebook, wipes something off her face as she picks it up. Is she crying? I curse and go running after her. When I catch up, she's juggling her car keys, talking to herself. "Stupid, stupid, stupid." Her notebook hits the ground again. "Hi." She stabs me with a glance. No tears, though. "Don't you have some braying to do with those jackasses?" Her eyes are the color of crushed bluebells. I should know bluebells. They grew all around the run-down shack I lived in back in east Texas. The only spot of color in a dreary landscape. "I'm not with them." "Oh?" Her eyes scrunch as she gives me the once over. "You're wearing the same uniform." "I'm on the same team, yes, but I didn't play this prank on you." "Prank?" She kicks the notebook with her high heeled, open toe shoe. If she keeps that up, she's going to hurt herself. "You call that a prank? I got handed this assignment at the last minute, and this was my chance to impress my boss." Her face crumbles. Is she about to turn on the waterworks? "Hey, hey." I pat her shoulder. "Don't cry." She swats off my hand and hiccups. "I don't"—hiccup—"cry. I never cry." She takes a breath, holds it in. "Idiot." She mumbles out. Smiling, I cross my arms against my chest. "Been called worse." Her eyes flash blue fire. "What are you talking about?" "You just called me an idiot." "I wasn't talking about you." I jerk a thumb backwards. "Them, then. You're absolutely right. They are lowclass worms." "I was talking about me. Idiot." Is it me or her she's talking about now? Her expression hasn't changed. Gotta be her. "Why would you call yourself that?" "I knew it was wrong. Knew it. But I did it anyway. First week on the job, and I wanted to impress my boss, so when they suggested I lose a few buttons, show

some leg, I did it. Stupid, stupid, stupid." With each 'stupid', she nails the notebook. With its spine loose, guts spilling out, the damn thing's on life support. Better change the subject. "Where do you work?" "The Windy City Chronicle." Never heard of the rag. Poor kid. Probably her first job too. I scratch the back of my head. Maybe I had nothing to do with the nasty trick the three stooges back there played, but I feel bad for her. "Does it have to be him?" "What do you mean?" "Does it have to be Ron Moss or can you interview somebody else on the team?" She shrugs. "Guess it could be anyone." She looks back toward the practice field. "What does it matter? No one else will give me an interview. Not after I allowed those jerks to make a fool out of me in front of everyone." Don't have to turn around to know we're probably drawing attention from the players. You think women gossip? Got nothing on professional football players. Busybodies, every last one of them. "Well, there's one person who'd be glad to talk to you." "Who?" "Me. Ty Mathews." I stick out my hand. "MacKenna Perkins." Her dainty hand disappears in my oversized one. What can I say? I'm big all over. And I mean all over. "Would our readers be interested in reading about you?" She gazes hopefully up at me. "You might say so. I'm the quarterback." I lean forward, hoping to impress upon her the importance of my position. "The starting quarterback." "The starting one, huh? That sounds important. Is it? Important?" I fight back the urge to laugh. Given her recent experience, I don't think she would take it well. "You really don't know much about football, do you?" "No. Sorry. I'm interested in social issues. Poverty, women's topics, politics. The important matters of the day. Sports do not seem that . . . important." Did she just insult me and my profession? Man, she's got a lot to learn about kissing up. Given that she's new at this, though, I decide to cut her some slack. "Sports were all that mattered where I came from." "Where are you from?" "Texas." Before I can explain further, someone bellows my name. "Hey, Mathews, you planning on joining us sometime today?" "Umm, gotta go. Practice for that non-important job." I grin, and add a wink for good measure. She gives me a sheepish smile. "Okay." "I can meet you another day, and we can talk." "Tomorrow?" This time I can't hold back the laugh. "No, tomorrow is Sunday. Game day? How about Monday?" She pauses a second and then narrows her gaze. "You're not being nice to me just to get in my pants are you?"

Good to see she has some protective instincts. "Would you believe me if I said no?" "Not really. You look like the type." She's got a point. I do want to get in her pants. But then, what red-blooded American male wouldn't? She has masses of auburn hair, world-class tits, and legs that go all the way up. A man's dick would rise from the grave to ride that rodeo. But the truth is she got the shaft from the three amigos, and that doesn't sit right by me. "We can meet in a public place, if you like." Why am I almost begging here? I never have to work this hard to get a woman. "Not here?" "No." For personal reasons, I never give out private interviews. So I don't want our press office to find out about this before the article appears in her paper. If somebody asks afterward, I'll say I did it to avert a public relations disaster. Not that any one's going to question my motives after I explain what those three did to her. "There's a diner down the street from where I live. We could meet there." I run into that place at least once a week and am pretty sure she can conduct her interview without us being interrupted. "Okay." When she bends down to pick up the hapless notebook, I almost swallow my tongue. My cock twitches at the thought of clutching those hips, sinking into her hot pussy and pounding her all the way to . . . "Where is it?" Where is what? Oh, the diner. "The Honey Bee's on Beach Drive. Let's say ten Monday morning?" I fight the need to tug my damn cup which seems to have shrunk two sizes. Last thing I want is to make her uncomfortable. "See you then." All smiles now, she gives me a little wave before she slides into her piece-of-shit car. She turns on the ignition, and the damn thing knocks for awhile before something grinds and the car lurches forward. Like a prize idiot, I stand there and watch her drive off before giving my dick some breathing room. It's only when she's out of sight that I jog back to the practice field where the quarterback coach waits for me. "Five more minutes and you would have been late for practice. An automatic $10,000 fine." "Sorry coach. Won't happen again." $10,000 is a lot of money, but honestly, if I had to pay? MacKenna Perkins would be worth it.

CHAPTER 2

MacKenna

"P

ERKINS? GET IN HERE!" Horace Bartlett, my boss and the editor of our small newspaper, yells as soon as I walk in the door of the Windy City Chronicle. A grizzled veteran from the old newspaper days, he calls everyone by their last name. Thanks to his hard work and business savvy, he's kept the newspaper afloat in today's fast-paced, social-media crazed world. "How did it go?" he barks as soon as I step into his office. I'm not about to 'fess up that I made a fool of myself, so I fudge things a little. "He was not available to interview." It's the truth, isn't it? Ron Moss walked out on me. "Knew you'd mess it up." Randy Brennan, nephew of the newspaper's owner and all around pain in the ass, yells from his cubbyhole which sits right outside Mr. Bartlett's office. Mr. Bartlett's bushy brows thunder down while biting down on the cigar he chews on more to express his feelings than smoke. "How can that be? That interview was confirmed a week ago." "Some miscommunication with the press office, maybe?" God, I'm going to hell for this. "But the good news is I got another one lined up for Monday." "With Ron Moss?" "No. Ty Mathews." Randy's head pops out of his cubicle, like one of those whack-a-mole games at a carnival. "The God Almighty quarterback of the Chicago Outlaws? That Ty Mathews? No fucking way." Happy that Ty Mathews was telling the truth about his fame, I calmly turn to him, and give him my most brilliant smile. "Way." The word barely makes it out of my lips before Mr. Bartlett slams shut the door. "Damn eavesdropper." Yeah, pretty much what I'm thinking. "How did you manage that? Ty Mathews doesn't give out private interviews." He

pins his famous Bartlett inquisitorial stare on me, the one known to make seasoned reporters squirm. I'm not immune to it, what with me being a wet-behind-the ears rookie reporter, so I fidget about a bit. "He doesn't?" "No. Which makes me wonder what you had to do, or promise to do, to get it." One thing about Mr. Bartlett, he's a straight arrow. He doesn't cotton to reporters providing favors to anyone in exchange for access. "He noticed my disappointment and volunteered as an interview subject." "Just like that, huh?" More cigar chewing. At the rate he's going, that nasty thing will be in shreds soon. "Yes, sir." I'm not lying. Ty Mathews did volunteer. And I didn't do anything wrong, at least not with him. Ron Moss, however, is another matter. If he complains about my behavior, I'm toast. I make a mental note to contact him and explain what happened so things don't spin out of control. "Perkins, I hired you on the strength of your academics and the expose you wrote for your school paper on the women's shelter. You might be a natural for the social issues, but Ty Mathews is another kettle of fish entirely. He's brash, cocky, wins games for the Chicago Outlaws. And he's a hard nut to crack. Nobody knows his real story. That's not by accident. The only information he and the Outlaws have ever divulged is that he came from Texas, graduated from Nebraska State, and took his college team to the national championship. The rest is one great big mystery." "How is that possible in this day and age?" Nowadays you can find out anything on the internet. He jerks the smelly cigar from his mouth and waggles it at me. "You get the answer to that question and every media organization in the country will be pounding on your door wanting to hire you." "I'm not looking for another job, Mr. Bartlett." It's true. I like working for a small paper where I can hone my journalistic skills without the pressure of a big conglomerate. He holds up a hand in the universal stop sign. "I know you just started working here, but you'd be a fool not to set your sights higher. And an interview with a quarterback whose past is shrouded in mystery would get you there. But things may be demanded you may not want to give. Ty Mathews plays hard both on and off the field. You get my drift?" Another down boom of his bushy eyebrows. Those things take up enough real estate to have their own zip code. I cross my arms against my chest and give him a steady stare of my own. "He likes women. I get it." I would have been blind not to notice the way Ty Mathews looked at me. Like I was a great big ole turkey sandwich and he couldn't wait to gobble me up. Thing is I've been ogled my whole life. Been fighting off boys since I turned fourteen and grew into 36C cups with the hips to match. Granted none of those boys had been a famous football player with enough charm to melt the panties off any living, breathing female, but Ty Mathews does not impress me as

the kind who won't take no for an answer. And, believe me, I won't be saying yes. No matter how much he flexes his muscles at me. "Don't worry, Mr. Bartlett, I can handle him." He must be reassured by what he sees because he drops the cigar into an ashtray and drops into the chair behind his desk. "So when and where does this interview take place?" "Monday, at a diner close to where he lives." "In a public setting. That's good. Have your piece on my desk no later than Wednesday. If it passes muster, I'll include it in the Sunday edition." "Yes, sir." I smile, thrilled about the possible inclusion of my first piece in the Sunday edition. I float toward my cubbyhole in a cloud of glory only to get the stink eye from Randy when I pass by him. I don't know what he's got against me. He reports on the street beat scene; I cover the social issues. Maybe he's upset about the football interview. He shouldn't be. Mr. Bartlett asked me to talk to Ron Moss because the sports reporter and his backup both came down with the flu. I was the only reporter in the office when his call. If Randy had gotten to work on time, maybe Mr. Bartlett would have handed the assignment to him. So he's got no one to blame but himself. By now it's late afternoon and beyond my quitting time, so I head home to my minuscule apartment in the Avondale section of the city. Not the best of neighborhoods, but it's all I can afford. As soon as I walk in the door, my cell rings with the special peal I've programmed for Marigold Thompson, my best friend and ex-college roommate. She's a school teacher who, just like me, is working her first job. We've been so busy, she teaching second graders, me at the newspaper, we haven't gotten together for two weeks. But it's Saturday night and she wants to cut loose. An hour later, she shows up, wearing a tight, micro skirt, a see-thru white blouse with a black bra underneath and a pair of long, sparkling earrings. Not exactly the schoolmarm look she sports during school hours, but it's pure Marigold. Since I live only a short distance from one of the most popular clubs in town, we decide to walk, rather than cab it. On the way, I fill her in on the details of today's fiasco, leaving out the part about me touching a certain portion of Ron's anatomy. "Can't believe you did that." She's not being judgmental. After four years in college, she knows me only too well. I never wear anything low cut or high rise, so yeah, today was out of character for me. "I know. I was an idiot." "Give yourself a break, MacKenna. You fell for a practical joke, that's all." She curls her arm through my elbow in a show of support. "So who were they?" "I don't know. They didn't introduce themselves." And afterward, I'd been too embarrassed and angry to ask their names. But next time I see Ty Mathews, I'll ask him. I'll get even with those clowns if it's the last thing I do. "So what did your boss say? Are you in trouble?" Clearly, she expects the worst.

"Well, another player volunteered to be interviewed so I think I'm going to be okay." I wrap my shawl tighter around me. It might be early September, but with the breeze blowing from Lake Michigan, the air's turned cool. "Who?" "Ty Mathews." She comes to a dead stop in the middle of the sidewalk. "Shut-up!" Her screech almost deafens me. "The star quarterback of the Chicago Outlaws?" Marigold is what you might call a football fanatic, something she grew to appreciate from tutoring half the college football team. "Yeah." She clamps her hands on my shoulders and shakes me. "Girl, you just won the lottery. He never gives private interviews." "So I heard." I squirm beneath the pressure of her hands. For a five-foot nothing, the girl's got a mighty grip. "Mar, let go." Once she releases me, I flex my arms to get the blood flowing again. We've reached the corner across from the nightclub, so I push the button to get the walk light. As busy as this intersection is, we'd be risking our lives if we mad dash it across the street. "He talks to the press at the end of each game, but he doesn't do one on ones. So this is like huge. Bigger than huge. It's like . . . What's wrong?" She must have noticed me chewing my lip. One thing about Mar, she's tuned in to the universe. Comes from being raised by new age parents and living in a commune. The 'Walk' light comes on. Not trusting Chicago drivers, I look both ways before crossing the boulevard. "Do you think he offered because . . . you know?" "He wants to do the nasty with you? I think there's a big chance, yeah." Rather than walk, she beebops her way across the street. I come to a dead stop on the island in the middle of the intersection. "You're supposed to make me feel better about doing this interview. Not worse." She tugs at me. "Come on. We gotta get across." As we make the other side, she dismisses my objection with a wave of her hand. "You got nothing to worry about. He's got women lined up all over town begging him to screw them. That boy's a playah. And he never sleeps with the same woman twice." "He doesn't?" "Yep. So he doesn't need to screw a dewy-eyed virgin from the middle of nowhere Iowa." "I'm not a virgin!" Granted, I've only done it three times, but once is all it takes to lose your V-card. Right? "Guarantee he doesn't think so. Not with that purer-than-driven-snow vibe you put out. Honestly, MacKenna, you gotta get some and pronto." Tired of being thought of as a goody-two-shoes, I blurt out. "I touched Ron Moss's ass." "You did? No wonder he walked out on the interview. That wide receiver is about as straight as they come." Marigold knows her jocks. Comes from tutoring so many of them in college.

"And Ty Mathews called me a bold woman," I say with a note of pride in my voice. "Woot!" She high fives me. "MacKenna Perkins, there might be some hope for you after all." Her ebullient spirits make me feel better until we turn the corner and run into the block-long line in front of Platinum. We're not getting in. No way. No how.

CHAPTER 3

MacKenna OTALLY DISAPPOINTED, I whoosh out a breath. "We're never getting in." I T didn't realize how much I wanted this, needed this, until now.

"O, ye of little faith," Marigold says, dragging me to the front of the line where a mountain of a man stands, a foot taller and a mile wider than us. Parking herself in front of the behemoth, she greets him with a, "Hey, you." A smile breaks out on the mountain's lips. "Marigold." He picks her up like she's a toy doll, and, with her feet dangling, bear hugs her. She bops him on the shoulder. "Oomph. Put me down, Beast." Beast? It suits him, that name. With the greatest of care, he returns her to the ground. "How are you, Mar? Long time no see." "Good. Graduated in June. I'm teaching second graders at Mayer Elementary now." A wrinkle forms across his brow. "That's a dangerous area." "Don't worry. I know how to take care of myself." "Don't I know it." He rubs the top of his head. "I still have the bruise from the nookie you gave me when I didn't do my English homework." Marigold knocks elbows with him. "That was just tough love, Todd. Listen, any chance we could get into the club?" She points toward me. "My friend here's just dying to see the inside of Platinum." "Is she?" He gives me the once over. Not the leer I usually get from the men, but the look a security guy would do. "Marigold, meet Todd Gryzinski. Todd, MacKenna Perkins." "Nice to meet you, Todd." I stick out my hand and shake his paw. "A pleasure, MacKenna." His grip is surprisingly gentle for such a huge man. Unable to leave well enough alone, Marigold pipes up with, "She's a newspaper reporter, looking to do a piece on Platinum." "Mar." I warn her beneath my breath. I don't do the street beat scene. That's

Randy's job, and I'm not eager to step on his toes. "Welcome to Platinum, ladies." Unclipping the black velvet rope holding back the masses waiting to get in, he turns to the man standing two feet away at the club's entrance. "Bruce?" Only slightly smaller than Todd, the mini-mountain answers. "Yeah?" "These ladies are my very special guests. Please see that they get a good table." Bruce two-finger salutes Mar's friend. "Sure thing, boss." "Thanks, Todd. You're the best." Marigold pulls him down for a quick kiss on his cheek. Once he straightens out, he puts his paw size hand over his heart. "You've slain me, merry maiden." "See, that Shakespeare homework came in handy after all." He winks at her. "You don't know the half of it. The ladies love all that poetry mush." He nods toward the club's entrance. "Bruce will see you right. Have a great time, Mar. Nice to meet you, MacKenna." As she waves goodbye to Todd, Mar hooks her other arm through mine. Together, we head toward the Platinum door, a black garish monstrosity with silver blinking lights. There's a momentary lull while the guard holds a conversation with yet another bouncer inside the door. Boy, this place has more security than Fort Knox. They truly don't let just anybody in. While we wait for the go ahead, I turn to Mar. "That was pretty impressive, kiddo. I thought we wouldn't get in, not with that line. When did you tutor him?" "My sophomore year. He was a junior and pretty well known around campus. Students fell all over themselves to talk to one of the college's star football players. So I tutored him at our apartment, rather than the library. Otherwise, we'd never get any work done. You don't remember him?" I shake my head. "No. Not really." Busy as I was with school, a part-time job, and volunteering at the women's shelter, I was in our apartment only long enough to grab something to eat and fall into bed exhausted. Whenever I ran into one of the football players she tutored, I never paid much attention. They all looked pretty much the same—big, bulky, missing a couple of chromosomes. "No." She shrugs. "If it hadn't been for me, he would have flunked his Literature class. He needed at least a C to stay on the football team." "And now he's a bouncer?" "Don't judge, MacKenna. He's part owner of the club." "Sorry." One of my constant sins. I tend to make quick decisions about people before getting to know the real them. That doesn't jive with being a journalist, I know. But it's the reason I became one. Because I wanted to get to the truth. I've gotten better through the years, but there are times when I slip back. "You're right. But why isn't he playing football?" "His first year in the pros, he blew out his knee. They had to let him go." "He looks okay." "Okay is not good enough for professional football. You have to be in tip top

shape." Bruce gives us the high sign and we follow him inside. The club is wall-to-wall people. A band's supposed to play tonight, but at the moment, a DJ is spinning music which blares from speakers hanging from the ceiling, poles, even the floor. The music is so loud, my body vibrates with it, which I guess is entirely the point. Smoke machines are hard at work throughout the club. Guess they add to the mystique of the place. Or maybe they use it to cover up the bumping and grinding going on. We follow Bruce to a section that offers a prime view of the dance floor. Miraculously, a table opens up right in front of us and Bruce grabs it before somebody else does. The mini rounds are on raised platforms so that you can not only catch the goings on on the dance floor crowd, but take in the whole scene. "Thanks, Bruce." Marigold blasts him with her most brilliant smile. "You're welcome." He hands Marigold a card, and, over the loud music, he yells, "Free drinks, all night long." "Thanks!" Mar doesn't drink much, and neither do I. But, hey, free drinks are free drinks. After I tell her what I want, Mar makes her way to the bar while I hold down the table. A couple of guys come hit on me, but I ignore them. Eventually, they get the message and drift away. By the time she returns with an Appletini for me, and a Mojito for her, the band has taken the stage. "They're quite good," I yell. "Yeah, that's why I wanted to come tonight," she screams back. "They just cut a record and they're getting great buzz." Before I get a chance to comment, a commotion erupts by the front door. People cramming the entrance swerve back in a great big wave. At first I can't figure out what's causing all the brouhaha. But then the crowd parts, and I see HIM. My jaw drops as my mouth waters at the sight. God, if he was gorgeous all sweaty on the football field, he's a hundred times more stunning now. Dressed in dark trousers, dark shirt and black leather jacket, he exudes heart-pounding sex appeal. No wonder women flip over him. He's taller than just about everyone in the club, but not taller than the mountains around him. Some of his Chicago Outlaws' teammates, I bet. "Gah." "What's wrong?" Mar asks. I nod my head toward the front entrance. "Well, well, well, small world, huh?" "What?" "What a coinkydink. Out of all the club joints in Chicago, Ty Mathews had to walk into this one." "Misquoting Casablanca now? Really, Mar." And then I catch the man standing behind him. "Oh, God. Ron Moss is with him." I try to crawl under the table, but there's nowhere to hide. "Where?" She's so short, she doesn't spot Ron. "Behind Ty Mathews." She grabs the edge of the table and boosts herself up. "Oh, yeah. I see him now."

Dropping back to the floor, she says, "What's he doing in this den of sin? Although I do remember when he wasn't so uptight." My gaze swerves to her. "You know him?" I'd never heard about this. "Yeah. We went to the same high school. I was a freshman, he was a senior." Given my disastrous interview with Ron Moss, I need to ask her about him. But I'm so focused on Ty Mathews, I can't think about anything else right now. "Shouldn't they be, I don't know, resting up for the game tomorrow?" "Oh, honey." She pats my hand. "This is what they do to 'rest up.' If they party too much, they'll have plenty of time to recuperate. It's a Sunday night game." She sips on her Appletini. "I can't get over Ronnie being here. This is not his type of thing. Not these days." "Maybe he wants to feel like he's a part of the team?" I volunteer. "Yeah, maybe." Someone shows up to escort the Chicago Outlaws to the VIP section on the other side of the club. When Ron goes along, not once glancing our direction, I breathe a sigh of relief. Ron did not catch sight of me. After the excitement by the front door dies down, a guy I've never met before comes up to our table. Turns out Mar knows him. After a quick check in with me, she goes off to do her boogy thing. Soon she's on the dance floor, letting her freak flag fly. A stranger I've never met walks up to the table and asks me to dance. Even though he's polite about it, I give him the brush off. Mar's the dancing queen Me? I like to observe. Hopeless, I know. While I sip my drink, my gaze wanders toward the VIP section. Located up a flight of steps, it's not so high I can't tell what's going on. And what's going on is plenty. The Outlaws are spread out over several open booths. On the left, two of the players are putting on quite a show, groping, open mouth kissing a couple of blondes, and a brunette. On the right Ron Moss sits with a couple of other players, but no women. Well, except for the waitress who's bending forward flashing a pair of impressive breasts at him. Honey, that's not going to work. Sure enough, he says something, squeezes out of the booth and heads toward the back of the exclusive area. Now that I know him better, I feel bad for him. This has to be hard for someone who doesn't enjoy these types of recreational activities. Maybe I should go talk to him and apologize for what happened today on the field. While I'm debating the wisdom of doing that, my gaze wanders to the middle of the VIP section where Ty's holding court, front and center. The blonde on his right is rubbing his chest, kissing his jaw. When she tries to kiss him on the mouth, he jerks away and says something. She pouts before taking on a new tack and nibbling his ear. The brunette on his left smirks, presumably at the blonde's lack of success. She pushes her breasts right against his bicep and whispers something in his ear. When he nods, she crawls under the table, between his knees. It's so smoky in the place at first I have a hard time seeing what's going on. But suddenly the mist dissipates long enough for me to catch a gander of what she's

doing. Her head's bobbing up and down right between his legs. Holy shit! Is she going down on him, right here in front of God and everyone? He bares his teeth as his hips move in tune to her rhythm. Is anyone else seeing what I'm seeing? Yep. Many at the raised tables around me have their gazes glued to Ty and his floozy. He'll get into trouble, won't he? Anyone could complain to the cops about the lewd PDA. But the audience doesn't look shocked. Going by the snickers and the laughter, they're titillated, excited, but not shocked. They came to see a show and they're getting one. Besides, who'd be stupid enough to report the god almighty quarterback of the Chicago Outlaws the night before game day? Like a magnet unable to fight the attraction, my gaze's drawn right back to Ty. His gorgeous face tight with passion, his sensual mouth huffing breath after hard breath. My face flushes with heat. My panties get wet. All of a sudden I imagine it's me doing that to him. My mouth on his shaft, my lips wrapped tight around him. When the crisis hits, his head rolls back. I can almost hear his moan of ecstasy from clear across the space. The woman takes a second—to wipe her mouth? to zip him up?— before she climbs back into the booth. She makes a big show of swiping her lips again before she drinks from her glass. But when she tries to kiss him on the mouth, he turns his head, just like he did with the blonde before. "What's going on?" Mar asks. When did she get back? Did she catch the peep show? Or worse, my reaction to it? In a panic, I come to my feet. "We have to leave." Hot and sweaty from dancing, she stops blotting the perspiration from her brow. "But we just got here. Wait. Something's wrong, isn't it?" Her darn spidey sense has picked up on my distress. "I don't feel well." It's true. My stomach roils with nausea, excitement, something. "You do look a little flushed." "Yeah, I think I'm coming down with that bug that's going around." My gaze drifts to the VIP section. Ty Mathews is standing up, throwing an arm around each companion. Oh, God. He's coming down the stairs. I grab Mar's hand. "We gotta go. Now." I run toward the exit, but before I get there, like Lot's wife I look back. And just like her, I'm punished when his gaze finds me. For an infinitesimal second, he smiles, not the least hint of embarrassment on his face. Horrified, I drag Mar out the door and don't stop running until I reach home.

CHAPTER 4

Ty ONDAY MORNING, I WAKE UP GROGGY FROM LACK OF SLEEP. After the M game, we'd gone to the downtown Chicago hotel where the Outlaws regularly hold

victory celebrations. A pair of blondes made me an offer I could not refuse, and we'd move the party to my hotel room where we engaged in some serious menage action. Around four in the morning, I'd caught my ride home, and stumbled into my own bed at five. Alone. I never bring women to my house. I blink at the digital display on my night table—12:06 p.m. I normally don't sleep this late, but we don't practice the day after a game. So, it's my day off. I have all day to recuperate, and I'll need every fucking second of it. The cocksucker linebacker of the Texas Roughriders almost took me out of the game. But I got him back. After the referee called a penalty for roughing the passer, I threw what turned out to be the winning touchdown. My body doesn't feel much like celebrating this morning, though. Too many hits, too much alcohol, too much . . . No, there's no such thing as too much sex. I trudge to the bathroom to relieve myself, and, after a much-needed shower, grab some OJ to rehydrate. Something tugs at my consciousness, something I should remember. And then it hits me. The redhead reporter. Shit! I was supposed to meet her at ten o'clock at The Honey Bee. It's fucking 12:45 now. Damn. I fucked up. Royally. No way is she still there waiting for me. Can't call her. I don't have her number, but our press office must have her contact information. No reporter can interview a player without providing it to the Outlaws. Protection for the player, the team. The reporter as well. I call the head of PR who has the information I need—MacKenna's business number, the address where she works, and a whole lot more. A phone call's going to get me nowhere. She'll probably hang up on me which means I'll need to drive to her job and apologize. So I plug in the address into my car's GPS and head out. When I arrive at her newspaper, the frizzy-haired receptionist squints up at me, not a hint of recognition on her face. "May I help you?"

"Umm is MacKenna Perkins here?" "I'll have to check. What's your name?" Her failure to recognize the Outlaws' quarterback surprises the hell out of me. Not only is the city football crazy, but I'm its best-known player. "Ty Mathews." She pushes a button into her console and announces me. "MacKenna. Ty Mathews is here to see you." After a short conversation, the receptionist hangs up. "She'll be right out," she says before going right back to sorting papers on her desk. I barely get out a thank you before MacKenna is there in all her glory. Masses of auburn curls cascade down her back, a soft contrast to the fuzzy blue sweater she's wearing. My dick hardens at the thought of pounding into her with my hand wrapped tight around that magnificent hair of hers. "Hello, Mr. Mathews." She drills out through thinned lips. Ooookaaayyy. She's obviously pissed, not that I blame her. "Can we, uh, go somewhere and talk?" "Sure. How about the Honey Bee Diner?" She's not making this easy. "Look. I'm sorry." "Uh huh." She crosses her arms underneath her luscious breasts, calling attention to her hard nipples. Lord, have mercy! Those things could take a man's eyes out. "I overslept." "I waited an hour." "I'd like a chance to make it up to you." From out of nowhere, an older man emerges, beefy hand stuck out. "Mr. Mathews. How do you do? I'm Horace Bartlett, editor of the Windy City Chronicle." I shake. "Hello." "Ms. Perkins tells me there might have been a misunderstanding about the time you were supposed to meet." Smart man. He's come up with a way for me to save face, without flat out calling me a jerk. "Misund—" MacKenna spits out. But before she can complete the word, her boss interrupts. "Ms. Perkins is available now if you have the time." I rock back on my heels and grin. "As a matter of fact, I do." "Well, I don't." As sparks fly from her eyes, MacKenna wiggles her foot. Probably itching to kick me in the behind. "Perkins." The way he commands her to silence with a single word and a look, I'm liking this guy better and better. "Why don't you take Mr. Mathews into one of our interview rooms? Can we get you something to drink or eat?" "Actually, I haven't had a chance to eat. Would Ms. Perkins be available for lunch?" I address the question to her boss. I'm not stupid enough to ask her. "Nope." "Absolutely." "My treat, of course. L'Herron is just down the street." L'Herron is a high class

French restaurant. By the time we get there, it'll be two o'clock, and their lunch rush should be over. Should reduce the number of autograph seekers while she conducts her interview. After she shoots me one more dirty look, MacKenna excuses herself to get her things. Soon, Horace Bartlett is waving us out the door, his face wreathed in a smile. Don't know how he manages that with a cigar stuck in his mouth. MacKenna's tight lips reflect the conflict battling within her. She can't let me have it, not with her boss watching from the newspaper's front door. But she's holding on so tight to her temper, she may very well explode. To my surprise, she manages to keep it together until we reach the restaurant. There, we're shown to a booth with a clear view of Lake Michigan. Disregarding her "I'm not hungry" remark, I order the Chateaubriand Bouquetiere for two—roast tenderloin of beef, accompanied by an array of fresh vegetables with a béarnaise sauce—and a bottle of their best red Burgundy. After the server leaves, she jams her arms across her chest while giving me the evil eye. Obviously, she still has it in for me. A simple apology did not work. And seemingly, neither does the fancy luncheon. Don't know why I care about turning her up sweet. She's a rookie reporter, for heaven's sakes. It's not like I don't have women clamoring for my time. Right now, at least three of them are eying me from across the room. But somehow, MacKenna's good opinion matters to me. So I decide to punt while I try to come up with a plan to changer her view of me. "You're not hungry?" "I ate breakfast. At the diner. Once I got tired of waiting for you." I walked right into that one, didn't I? Stupid of me. "I apologize. Again." "Where I come from, Mr. Mathews, actions speak louder than words." Me too. But, of course, she's not going to believe that. Not now. I have to get her in a better mood. If for no other reason than I screwed up. "Please call me Ty. You must have eaten four, six hours ago." She probably weighs a buck twenty soaking wet. So she doesn't have the same caloric needs my six six, 250 pounds of hard muscle require. Still, she needs to eat. "How about some bread?" I push the basket at her. She grabs a roll, tears off a piece, and, without taking a bite, drops both halves on her plate. Okay. So she's not a bread lover. I, on the other hand, love it. I grab the last aromatic French mini-baguette and slather it with fresh butter. Without being asked, the waiter replaces the empty container with a fresh batch. "Would you like to ask some questions while we wait for the entrée?" I ask, after wolfing down half the baguette. Her eyes flash at me, and not in the good way that usually goes with, 'Oh, yeah, baby, baby, baby.' "You'd like me to start the interview? Fine." She fetches her recorder from her purse, grabs her notebook, slaps it down on the table. "Tell me, Ty, is the reason

you overslept a blonde or a brunette?" I choke on the bread. "What?" "How do you like to do it? I imagine missionary must be pretty boring for you. I'm betting doggie style is more your thing. Or perhaps something more exotic?" Damn if she doesn't write 'How Ty Mathews likes to do it' in her notebook. What the fuck? "We're supposed to be talking football." She dismisses my statement with a wave of her hand. "Most readers don't care about such things. They want to know about your sex life. So tell me, the blonde and the brunette at Platinum Saturday night, did you take them home and do the nasty with them?" Her eyes spark with emotion—anger, for sure. But there's something else there. Something much darker, more primal. Excitement. Lust. Some men might be clueless when it comes to women. Yeah, I'm not one of them. I know exactly where they're coming from. MacKenna is pissed I stood her up, but she's also angry about what she witnessed at the club. "You saw me. At Platinum." "Yes, that was quite a show you put on. Half the people there could not keep their eyes off you. So for our readers, Ty, tell me, why did you allow that woman to blow you in a public place?" She's so worked up, her breath fails toward the end. And then she goes and licks her mouth. In an instant, I'm hard as stone. Fighting the urge to put that soft mouth of hers to good use, I order, "Turn off the recorder." The Texas twang I've fought so hard to get rid of creeps into my voice. Something it does when my emotions get the better of me, like now. She turns off the machine, stashes it in her purse. "There. It's off. Now tell me, why do you do such a thing?" She should be detached when it comes to an interview, and yet, she's not. Although she's trying very hard to hide it, her voice's quivering with emotion. The last few months I've grown bored with my personal life. I have nothing to look forward to except more of the same. But now this spitfire sits next to me, all wet, pouty lips, and red-hair down to one luscious ass, challenging me, sparking my interest like no one has done before. And the warrior in me, the one who vanquishes defenses with his golden arm, crawls out, aching to conquer this female. Ready to fucking own her. "The question, little darling, is not why I did it. You're smart enough to figure that out." I lean into her, brush a finger down her cheek. It's soft, just as I imagine the rest of her is. "The more important question is, why do you give a damn?"

CHAPTER 5

MacKenna OUT. What else could I do after I made a fool of myself. Again! I WALKED Granted I have every right to be upset after he stood me up. But the reason I'm

angry has nothing to do with him blowing me off, but with the reason. Or what I thought was the reason. The entire hour I waited for him at the diner, I pictured him having sex with the floozies from Platinum. And the longer I thought about it, the angrier I became. So when he breezed into the Windy City Chronicle, expecting all to be forgiven because he's the Chicago Outlaws' golden boy, the fire I'd been stoking all morning burst into flames. He didn't help matters when he railroaded me into going to lunch with him. Sure, I went along. What else could I do with my boss pushing us out the door? But when he suggested I should start the interview like he'd done nothing wrong, I went off like a firecracker, not stopping to think about the inappropriateness of such questions or the consequences of my action. After the stunt I pulled, I'm sure to lose my job. Doubt Mr. Bartlett will keep me after failing to deliver not one, but two interviews. How could I have acted so irresponsibly? Hoping to escape his notice, I creep into the newspaper office. But as soon as I step in the reception area, my name's called. "Perkins. Get in here." No help for it. I'll have to face the music. I'm not going gentle into that good firing, though. I'm going to take it on the chin with my head held high. I walk into Mr. Bartlett's office and shut the door. I'll be damned if I let that little pipsqueak, Randy, witness my defeat. "Back so soon?" Mr. Bartlett asks, chomping on his cigar. "Yes, sir." "How did it go?" Before I have a chance to answer, his phone interrupts us, and he jabs the speaker button. "Yes." "Chief." Dotty, the receptionist. She likes to call him chief. "Mr. Mathews is

here again." "Tell him to come on back." "Roger that." Did I mention she used to be in the military? Seconds later, Ty Mathews walks in Mr. Bartlett's door, hair all windblown. He must have run all the way to get over here so fast. "There you are. I thought you'd wait while I had them box our lunch to go." Huh? No idea what he's talking about. But it's a reprieve from getting fired, so I snatch at the lifeline. "Sorry." "I get it." He smacks his forehead. "You were so eager to get your boss's approval to cover the Outlaws visit to the Boys and Girls Club that you rushed back to your office." He glances at Horace Bartlett, flashing a bright smile that would put the sun to shame. "It's a promotion event. Some of the Chicago Outlaws will be tossing a few balls to the kids." "And the press is invited?" Mr. Bartlett's voice rises with excitement. Of course he's thrilled. It's the kind of feel-good, human interest story our subscribers eat up with a spoon and go back for seconds. "Of course." "When and where?" "Four o'clock, the Lamont Boys and Girls Club." Lamont is an inner-city neighborhood where some of the poorest residents of the city live. Mr. Bartlett picks up his phone, punches some numbers. "Peter, you doing anything this afternoon?" A couple of seconds' pause. "Never mind that. The Chicago Outlaws will be at the Lamont Boys and Girls Club this afternoon. Get over there and snap a few pictures. Starts at four." He hangs up. "The photos will go great with Perkins's article." What article? There isn't going to be an article, not after the way I embarrassed myself at the restaurant. "About that, Mr. Bartlett." Mr. Bartlett's phone buzzes. Again. He punches the speaker button. "Yeah?" "There's a delivery guy here," Dotty says. "He's got some food for Mr. Mathews." Ty rubs his hands together. "Great. I'm starved. Horace? You don't mind if I call you Horace, do you?" The cocky quarterback is sure to suffer a setdown. I've heard not even Mr. Bartlett's wife calls him by his first name. "Of course I don't mind," Horace says. My jaw drops. "Great. Well, MacKenna got the great idea to conduct the interview here rather than the restaurant. That place's great, but it's too public. People are always stopping by to get my autograph." He curls a massive arm around his best bud's shoulders. "You understand, don't you, Horace?" "Absolutely." Beaming a wide smile, Mr. Bartlett throws open his office door. "Feel free to use the interview room."

"Will do." Ty gestures me out. "After you." What else can I do but follow him out the door? He saved my bacon, after all. I tag along while he grabs the food from Dotty, taking the time to wink at her before turning to me. "Lead the way." "It's, uh, back there." With him hauling the bags of food, we make our way through the space. He might be big and and wide-shouldered, but he maneuvers his way through the narrow aisles with surprising grace. "Which one's yours?" His chin gestures toward the cubicles. "This one." I point to it as we walk by. My cubbyhole houses an old beaten desk, a rickety office chair, an ancient file cabinet and a state-of-the-art laptop. The newspaper might skimp on furniture, but the electronics are first rate. When we arrive at the glass-enclosed interview room, he plops the bags on the table. I try to help him unpack, but he waves my hand away. "I got it." He lays out the chateaubriand, veggies, and bread rolls. The aroma of the French cuisine permeates the room, and my stomach growls, reminding me it hasn't been fed. A smirk pops up on his face. "Not hungry, eh?" I frown. If he were any kind of gentleman, he wouldn't have mentioned it. From a tall container, he retrieves a bottle of wine that the restaurant was nice enough to decant. All he has to do is pull off the stopper. They even included two wine glasses. Granted they're plastic, but still it was a nice gesture on their part. Can't believe he's being such a gentleman after the way I behaved, though. Which means I need to apologize. "I'm sorry for . . . the way I acted. Those questions were entirely inappropriate and unprofessional." 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 S SOON AS WE REACH THE FAR SIDE OF THE PARKING LOT, MacKenna lets me A 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 and 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 cheers. 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. "Wait" She trips, and I tighten my grip to keep her from falling. "That was rude. I was talking to Ryan." I keep up the pace, not slowing down one bit. "You don't talk to him. You hear me." "Why not?" We're close to where the media lies in wait, cameras clicking away. "Who's the lady, Ty? Your girlfriend?" Damn it! I should have thought this through before I went ape shit. If there's one thing, the Outlaws' organization is adamant about is good press. Whatever a player has to do, he must present a positive image. And right now, there's only one way to do that. My grip slides down and grabs her hand. "Smile for the reporters, MacKenna." Thankfully, she obeys me. She clutches her notebook to her chest and smiles. Until we get inside my SUV and I snap her into her seatbelt. Then she lets me have it. "What was that all about? Why can't I talk to Ryan Taylor?" All screeching tires, I peel out of the parking lot before somebody snaps a photo of her screaming at me. "He's a sleazeball. All he wants to do is nail you." "Oh? And you don't?" "Give me some credit, MacKenna. I've been the perfect gentleman so far." Well, perfect for me.

Other than breathing hard, she's silent until we take the highway out of the city. "Where are we going? This is not the way to my apartment." "My house. We need to talk." She needs to understand professional football, and I'm not just thinking about the game. "Don't I get a say in this?" "Nope." She mumbles something under her breath. Neanderthal, among a few other choice words. Yeah. I get it. I'm dragging her to my cave. Perfect gentleman flew out the window the second I hauled her away. I shouldn't have acted the way I did. I know it. She knows it. My overprotective streak's flying a mile high. Something I haven't felt in a long time. Since college, I've stuck with women who know the score, not dewy-eyed virgins who have no clue. Angry with myself, I smack the wheel. "Damn it." "What's wrong?" Her voice quivers with emotion. God, don't let it be fear. Couldn't handle that from her. "Nothing." 'Ignore her,' Warrior Ty whispers. You can't afford to care about her. You can't allow your emotions to get involved. Not when you need to focus on football and your bum arm before coach notices and takes you out of the game. But I'm not listening. Somehow she brings out the savior in me. I may have only known her a few days, but I ache to protect her against any and all harm. To give her the life she should have. But let's face, the part of me that's most in command is my cock. And the damn thing's rapidly growing out of control.

CHAPTER 7

MacKenna HOUSE RESIDES IN A GATED COMMUNITY. Of course, it does. He might be H ISa playa, but I doubt he wants a horde of women and fans crashing his home.

Before we're allowed entrance into the property, a dour guard at the front gate requests my ID. Unwilling to reveal my identity to a stranger, I argue about it, but Ty cuts me off. "Every visitor has to do it, MacKenna." Still fuming at Ty, I pull out my driver's license and hand it to the beefy man. He glances back and forth between the ID and me before stepping inside the guardhouse. I suspect he's running my driver's license through a scanner, something that doesn't sit right with me. Still unsmiling, he returns, hands me back my ID and waves us through. "That was a violation of my rights." "They have to be careful. Many prominent families live here. Some employ their own security as well. Last thing the property management company wants is some criminal breaking and entering somebody's home, and worse." He has a point. Security has to be tight to prevent a home invasion. But I don't like to provide my personal information unless absolutely necessary. At the Outlaws' camp, I'd handed over my license for identification, not realizing I needed to check the form that would keep my information from being entered into their database. Lesson learned. From now on, I'll be more diligent about reading documents when my driver's license is required. Although I resent having had to provide ID at the gate, especially when I've been shanghaied, what's done is done. Nothing I can do about it. Might as well enjoy the view. And what a view it is. The community's Colonial houses sit on what appear to be three-acre lots, some with huge swimming pools in the back, the yards landscaped to an inch of their lives. He drives up the driveway of a gorgeous mansion nestled between towering trees and pulls into a three-car garage in the back of the house. A huge truck occupies one of the bays. The third one contains a vehicle with a tarp thrown over it.

Once we emerge from his SUV, he leads the way into a gleaming-bright kitchen whose vaulted ceiling must be ten, eleven feet high. "Would you like something to drink?" "Water, please." He opens a subzero refrigerator, pulls out a bottle, uncaps it and hands it to me. "Make yourself at home. I'm going to change." And then he starts to walk away, like nothing's wrong. Is he kidding me? "Wait.You're not going anywhere until you explain what happened back there." He swivels toward me. His jaw flexing, he eats the distance between him and me. "You mean when you threw yourself at Ryan Jackson?" He's way into my personal space, so much I have to tilt back my head so I can glare at him. "I didn't throw myself." I sound like a harpy my voice's so high. "I was talking to him. You know, like a reporter." His eyes narrow. "He doesn't want an interview. He wants to fuck you." He's so wound up he's practically vibrating with coiled tension. Unwittingly, my gaze drops to his crotch. He's hard. Very hard. Apparently, Ryan Jackson is not the only one who wants to screw me. He manacles my arms, pulls me toward him. "And you practically invited him to do it." My nipples grow rock hard from being thrust into his chest. How could I be this turned on by his caveman behavior? "I did not." He goes on like I haven't said a thing. "Yeah, you did. You pranced up and down that field with your hair down to your ass, your breasts bouncing all the way. Whatever bra you're wearing, it doesn't do shit, except draw attention to your tits." I wiggle in his hold. The way my body's reacting, I can't be this close to him. "Let me go, Ty." When he does, I fling a hand across my chest. My nipples turn into hard little nubs whenever I get excited. And god knows I'm excited now. His behavior might be Neanderthal, but he's turning me on. "That was not nice." He throws his hands in the air. "Jeesus H. Fucking Christ! I'm not trying to be nice. I'm trying to clue you in. Some of those players you were flirting with? Half of them are aching to nail you. They think you're easy." He steps toward me again, and I stumble backwards. "They think all they have to do is crook a finger and you'll fall into their laps. They've seen hundreds of girls like that, groupies who are only interested in one thing—bagging a Chicago Outlaw. And I guarantee you a lot of them have put you into that category." Moisture seeps into my vision. I shake my head to stop the tears. I'll be damned if I cry in front of him. "I'm not like that. I'm not." Taking a step back, I run dab smack into the kitchen counter. "Then stop acting like you are." "What did I do that was so wrong?" "You flirted with them." My lower lip juts forward. "I did not."

"Yes, you did. I was watching you the whole time. You flipped your hair, smiled, touched some of them. Since you don't know shit about football, I can imagine what they were thinking." "That's so unfair. I never asked for the interview with Ron. It was thrust into my lap." "And it was supposed to begin and end with him?" "Yes." "At the Boys & Girls Club, you were talking to players as if you wanted to interview them. What happened to change your mind?" "Well, I met you, and someone at the club who used to play football." "Who?" He snarls out. "One of the owners. My friend, Marigold, knows him from their college days." "Todd Gryzinsky." "Yes. You know him?" "Yeah, I know him." His eyes flash at me. "Did he hit on you?" "No! He was at the door. After Marigold talked to him, he was nice enough to let us in." "He wasn't being nice, MacKenna. If your friend looks anything like you, he admitted two smoking hot females, bait for the hordes of playahs who frequent the club." "Like you?" I snap. "No. Not like me." Two muscled arms clutch the edge of the counter, caging me in. "In case you didn't know, I don't chase women. They chase me." I blow out a disgusted snort. "Yeah. I know." Having heard enough, I'm more than ready to leave. "Well, this has been a really nice conversation, but I'd like to go home now." He pushes off to wander around the kitchen, his hands jammed into his jeans pockets, his hard body in full display. My stupid heart beats a mad, wild rhythm at the sight of his broad shoulders, slim hips, and mighty fine ass. Stopping his pausing, he glances back, his green eyes drilling into mine. "Are you serious about interviewing players?" "Yes." "You never explained why." "I just thought of football players as—" I can't say that I thought of big, beefy men fighting over a pigskin as Neanderthals— "athletes." "And now?" "Well, after talking to you and Ron and watching mad dog Buchinsky work with kids as gently as he did, I'm beginning to see there's more to them than football." "And that's important, why?" "Any reporter can cover the statistics, how far somebody threw a ball, how many balls a player caught. But I'd like to explore the human side of the players and write about them. What makes them tick? What makes them human? The newspaper's subscribers, especially the women, would eat up those stories."

He lets out a hard breath. "You'll need to earn their respect before they open themselves up to you." "I know. How do I do that?" All fluid grace and masculine power, he strolls back to me. "Well, for starters. You need to learn the game." I nod in agreement. "I'm reading up on football and doing research." "You need to do more than that. I can teach you." His voice softens, as his hand reaches out to fiddle with my hair. "I can teach you lots of things." His body's tight against me. His hard on's pressed against my belly. "Ty?" I glance up at him through my eyelashes. He's so much bigger than me, so much of a man. He smells like one too. Not of expensive cologne, but like a guy who's been pitching balls to kids. Nice, clean sweat and, underneath it all, him. "You drive me crazy, you know, with your soft hair, pouty lips, and milky skin." He puts his lips to my neck, and I shiver. "You smell so good." I'm trembling beyond control. My body flares up into a fiery need. I want him. I want this man more than my next breath. But there's something he must be made to understand. "I'm not a groupie." "Oh, sweetheart, of course you're not. You're sunshine and rainbows and everything that's right in this world." "Ty?" "Say, yes, sweetheart. Say yes, and I'll give you anything you want." I don't breathe a word, but let my body do the talking for me. Interpreting my silence as consent, he slowly strips me of my sweater, my jeans, leaving me in nothing but a pink bra and panties. "Look at you. You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen." "I bet you say that to all the girls you bring here." His lips flatten. "I've never brought a woman here." "You haven't?" "No. You're the first." He hasn't kissed me, but that's gotta be worth something. "Take off your shirt." One handed, he rips it off in the way guys do oh so very well, and my breath cuts short. Ty clothed is one thing. But bare chested, he's magnificent. Hard pecs, huge arms. And his abs? I could do a week's worth of laundry on those ridges. "MacKenna, baby, say yes. I can't do it unless you agree." I let out a shaky sigh and, even though I know better, breathe out one, single word. "Yes." One handed, he picks me up, walks to the sofa, and lays me down, gently, like I'm a porcelain doll. His hand flicks off my bra. Next instant his mouth's on my breast, suckling, teasing. I'm writhing beneath him, wanting more. I'm not a virgin, but don't have much experience. And I never felt this way before. The boy back home who took my virginity was in too much of a hurry. Doubt he even knew how to pleasure a woman, But Ty? He's good at this. He knows football and

apparently he knows women too. They don't go to bed with him just to notch up a score. They do it because they know how good he is. He kisses down my belly, he's headed down to— I gasp. "Wait." "What?" He looks up, his gaze so heated. "I need to shower before you do . . . That." I can't even say the word. "Oh, honey, you're going to taste like heaven. I just know it." He comes to his feet, strips off his jeans. He's wearing nothing but skin underneath. "Tell me you're not a virgin." His hard on is huge, beyond huge. I didn't know they came that big. "I'm not." I choke out. "Thank you, God." He fishes out a condom from his jeans pocket—does he travel with those things?—and rolls it over his massive hard on. "Ty?" I gulp. "I don't think. I'm not sure about this." I can't keep my eyes off his cock. Has it gotten bigger than a second ago? "Don't worry, sweetheart. I'll go slow, even if it fucking kills me." Tearing off my panties, his mouth dives into my pussy—licking me, sucking me, tasting me. And it feels good. So good I wrap my hands around his hair and tug, every time lightning shoots through me. "Ty, ohmygod, Ty." He widens my legs, positions his erection notches it in. "Slowly, slowly." He says to himself. I whimper, not with hurt because right now just the rim of his penis inside me feels so good. I think I'll die with pleasure. Hope I don't because I want to know what happens next. "Tells me it's good. Tell me me it's okay." He's perspiring now and a drop of sweat falls from him on my belly. I pick it up, and bring it to my mouth. "It's good." He pushes inside a little bit more. "You're so fucking tight, so blazing hot." My hands go around as much of him as I can reach. Not enough. Not nearly enough. One of his hands goes to my ass, lifts me as he pushes inside a little bit more. And just like that, I come. "MacKenna?" "So-sorry." I've climaxed before, but nothing like this never ending wave of heat and pleasure, so much pleasure. I buck against him, driving him even deeper into me. "Oh, God, sweetheart, don't be sorry." While I'm falling apart beneath him, he surges deep and pounds into me, grunting, groaning. All I can do is hang on as best I can but we fall off the couch on the floor where his hips swing back and forth in a pounding grinding rhythm. Nothing elegant about this. He's a primal, virile male taking me to heights I never dreamed about. He lets out a final groan, and collapses on me. Just for a second, and then he rolls and brings me up so I'm lying on his scorching hot skin. "That was fucking amazing." Yeah, it was.

Once we catch our breath, he moves us to the bedroom, where he makes love to me again. And then he drops into a deep sleep, the likes of which I've never seen before. Hours later, I wake up, sore and needing to go to the bathroom. Trying not to wake him, I slide out of bed to urinate. Done with the call of nature, reality kicks in. He never sleeps with the same woman twice. I need to go home. Before he wakes. Because I don't want to see the look in his eyes that tells me he's through with me. I grab my clothes from the living room and dress as silently as I can. I fish my phone from my purse and call a cab. And in the cold, in the dark, I walk out of his house, past the guardhouse where the same guard stares at me. "Going somewhere, Miss?" "I called a taxi. Told them to meet me in front." "Why don't you wait here where it's warm?" "No, thank you." I keep on walking, rubbing my hands up and down my arms, feeling his eyes drilling into my back. The cab shows up ten minutes later, and I give him my address. And I don't cry.

CHAPTER 8

Ty from the soundest sleep I've had in a long time. My body's aches and I WAKE pains nonexistent, warm and pleasured by MacKenna's body. Should have

known a wildcat lived inside her body. How could it not with that red hair and those intoxicating curves? I pat the bed beside me, but it's empty and cold. Is she in the bathroom? I don't hear any sounds coming from it. Maybe she went to the kitchen to get something to eat. We never had dinner last night. Not that I minded. I was too busy feasting on her. My stomach growls now though. After I take care of business and brush my teeth, I throw on a jersey and jeans and go looking for her. When I don't find her in the living room or kitchen, I race through the house. Ten minutes later, it's clear. She's gone. She left without telling me. Hell, she didn't even leave a note. I grab my phone, find her cell number in the information Trevor shared with me and dial it. "Hello?" "MacKenna?" "Yes." "Where are you?" "Home." "Why?" "I have to get ready for work." She sounds perfectly normal, like she fucks and walks out on a guy every day of the week. I count to ten to keep from yelling at her, but make it only to three."How did you get home?" "I called a cab." "Why didn't you wake me? I would have driven you home." "I thought a clean break would be best." I choke back a curse. "Clean break?" "Everyone knows you don't sleep with the same woman twice. Why drag out the

goodbye? Besides, I have my career to think about. You yourself said it, anyone who sees me with you will think I'm a groupie. That doesn't do me any good. You understand, don't you?" I stare at the phone like it's grown legs. Is this the same sex kitten who scratched my back? Who begged, "Harder, Ty. Deeper." How could I have been so wrong about her? I thought her sweet, a little naive. But she's a tramp. Like every other woman I've fucked since I joined the league, she was interested in only one thing—fucking the Chicago Outlaws' quarterback. Fine. Two can play at this game. "Yeah, I understand. Hope you had a good time." "It was nice." Nice? Fuck nice! I rocked her world, and she knows it. "Well, see you around." "Yeah." Her voice quivers before she hangs up. Did that sound like a sob? Not likely. She's probably thinking about her next score. She won't have to try too hard. My teammates will line up around the block to talk to her. Yeah, talk and a whole lot more. I toss my cell to the couch, stomp toward the shower. Gotta get her rose-lavender scent off me. Throw the sheets in the washer too. Fuck. I'll need my maid service to sanitize the whole house because I fucking don't want to smell her perfume again.

CHAPTER 9

MacKenna

"P

ERKINS, GET IN HERE." One of these days I'm going to walk in the door without my boss bellowing at me. Pasting a smile on my face, I walk into his office, with the cup of coffee I'd picked up from the shop next door. "Yes, sir?" "The Ty Mathews interview? How did that go?" "I'm going to need more time." "Why?" "There's something there I want to explore." A secret in Ty's past he doesn't want to discuss. He's not going to volunteer that information, not after I walked out on him. So I'm going to have to unearth it some other way. His brows hunch up as he stares at me. "Does exploring mean getting chummy with him?" He can't possibly know I spent the night at Ty's. Can he? "What do you mean?" "This." He pounds a finger on something on his desk. I approach to see what he's talking about. It's a photo from yesterday. The Chronicle staff photographer must have snapped it as Ty and I headed for his car. "Why is he holding your hand?" Oh, sheesh. "There were a lot of people there. He didn't want to lose me in the crowd." "What about this one?" He jabs another photo. Ty and me again, my back to his front. One hand holds my arm while he instructs me on the technique of throwing a football, his other arm is wrapped around my middle. "You two look mighty cozy." "A little boy was having a hard time throwing the ball, so Ty demonstrated using my arm." He wanted the kid to see the technique before working with the boy himself.

"Ty, huh? What happened to Ty Mathews or Mr. Mathews. I warned you yesterday about getting too close to your assignment. And yet here you are plastered to the quarterback of the Chicago Outlaws with not much daylight between you." "We weren't that close. It's just the angle." His mouth curls in disapproval. Darn. He's not buying my story. Let's face it. I did get close to Ty. Much, much too close. And if Mr. Bartlett finds out, my heiney might be tossed to the street. He scrubs his face. "Maybe it would be best to let Joe interview Mr. Mathews." Joe Johnson, the sports reporter for the paper. He'd come down with the flu which was the reason the Ron Moss interview had been assigned to me. It may have been originally Joe's but it's changed to something else, and I'll be darned if I allow the interview to be taken from me. Mr. Bartlett's bushy brows hike up when I close the door to ensure our privacy. I don't want Randy the worm to hear what I'm about to say. "I think I can get a series of interviews with other Chicago Outlaws players." "Besides Ty Mathews?" "Yes. At the rec center, I talked to a couple of them—Ron Moss, Maddox Buchinsky. Ron agreed to do another interview and Maddox seemed amenable as well." Although Ron had indeed agreed, I hadn't broached the subject with Mad Dog. But I don't think he'd say no. "You'll need to get approval from the Outlaws' press office." "I met the head of their public relations. He seemed to like me. He's all for women covering sports." Actually, I did no such thing. And I have no idea how Trevor Howard feels about women reporters. But I'll be damned if I let that little detail stand in my way. Mr. Bartlett's expression doesn't change. "Joe might will go ballistic if you move in on his turf." "But I wouldn't be. He can still report stats and such while I get the human interest stories. What makes them tick? What makes them something more than a football player? They'll share things with me they wouldn't share with Joe." Of this much, I'm sure. Otherwise, I wouldn't be pushing so hard. "Like what?" "I got Ty to open up about his childhood. As far as I know, no one has gotten him to talk about that. And I know I can do the same with the other players. Just give me a chance. That's all I ask." "Look. Ty Mathews is interested in you. Something I don't approve of, in case you haven't noticed. But the others? Maddox has a wife, a family, kids. Ron's a loner, and from what I've heard, he doesn't cotton to women much." "It's his religious background. He's a born again Christian, Mr. Bartlett. I have my ways to make them talk. And no, they don't include sex." That much I can promise him since I'm done with Ty. He scratches the back of his neck. "I don't know, Perkins. Joe out there—" He

nods toward the clear glass window. Joe's head's poking out of his cubicle, brazenly glaring at us. "He's complaining you lost him the Ron Moss interview." "Joe would have done a run of the mill story. You know that, Mr. Bartlett. It would have included football stats and maybe a paragraph or two about Ron Moss's background. I can get more than that out of him." "How do you know?" "Call it woman's intuition." And the fact Marigold knows something about him, something I'm going to drag out of her if it's the last thing I do. "I deserve this chance. What do you have to lose? Let me interview Ron Moss. I'll turn in the article. If you don't like it, Joe can finish the Ty Mathews interview." Over my dead body. "And Ty Mathews will allow a one-on-one interview with Joe just on your say so?" "I can talk him into it. Yes, sir." Actually, I'm pretty sure after my blow off this morning he'll hang up on me. But Mr. Bartlett does not need to know that. He plops on his office chair, fiddles with the pencil, the one he's practically chewed through. His mouth jerks right, left, right again. He jams the pencil into the cup and stares at me. "Fine. You have until Friday to write Ron's piece. If I like it, and that's a big if, I'll put it in Sunday's edition." "Yes, Sir. Thank you, Mr. Bartlett." I head to the kitchen to dump the now cold coffee in the sink before heading out for a fresh cup. The newspaper's generic coffee will do in a pinch. But today I need a premium brew. And the shop next door serves the best. I won't be breaking the bank, either since I'll be paying for it with a gift card I won. Once I'm caffeinated, I call the Outlaws' Press office and ask to talk to Trevor Howard. By some miracle, I'm put right through. "Ms. Perkins, if you're calling about your information, I can guarantee you, no one but the employees inside this office have access to it." "Thank you, Mr. Howard. I appreciate you letting me know. But I'm calling about something else." "I have a meeting in five minutes. So give me the short version." He snaps out. I rush to make my case. "I'd like another chance to interview Ron Moss. I talked to him yesterday at the Boys & Girls Club and he's fine with it." "He's willing to give you a second chance?" "Yes." I can practically hear the wheels turning in his head. "I'll have to talk to Ron, but if he agrees, I don't see any problem with it." "Great. I'd like to interview another player, as well." I hurry to say before he hangs up on me. "I talked to Maddox Buchinsky as well. He's such a great example of a professional football player who's also a family man. Our readers would eat up that story. A large percentage of The Windy City Chronicle's subscriber base consists of middle-class families. They'd love to read about him." For a moment, he doesn't say anything. A bad sign. "I don't know." He finally

pipes up. "Ron may have agreed to another interview, but your first attempt did not go all that well. And Mad Dog is another kettle of fish entirely." "I understand your hesitation, but give me another chance to prove myself. My article on Ron Moss will be in Sunday's paper." I hope. "If after you read it, you're not convinced I'm a good reporter, you can turn down my request." "Okay. Fine. I'll approve it on that condition. But if your article does not pass muster, I won't hesitate to deny you access to Mad Dog." Something beeps on his end. "Damn. Now I'm late. I have to go, Ms. Perkins." "Wait. There's one more player." He huffs. "Who?" I don't know what makes me say it other that I want to prove to myself I can do it. "I'd like to interview Ryan Taylor as well." "You sure about that?" "I can handle him." I bite my lip. Handle is so not the right word. He laughs. "Can you?" Great. Now he thinks I'm a joke. But he surprises me. "I'll approve it conditioned on my liking your other two interviews. Just do it in public. The interview, that is." He laughs again. This guy's a regular comedian. "Yes, Mr. Howard, and thank you. I really appreciate it." "Just don't make me regret it." And he slams down the phone. Randy, the worm, sticks his head into my cubicle. His face is beet red and he's practically foaming at the mouth. "What do you want Randy?" "You think you're hot shit, don't you?" He hisses out. I'm probably the only one who can hear him, his voice is so low. "You got all these men wrapped around your finger. All you have to do is wiggle your ass and flash your tits and just like that you get an interview that should go to Joe Johnson." That language would get anybody else fired. But since he's the newspaper owner's nephew, he'll probably get away with it. "I'm not taking anything away from Joe. He can continue to write about the game. I'm doing human interest stories, not sports." "Yeah, right." Somebody clears a throat somewhere, and he crawls away like the worm he is. My stomach growls, reminding me it hasn't been fed. With no dinner last night and only a cup of coffee this morning, I'm ready to gnaw off my arm. In the kitchen, I run into our receptionist, Dotty, who likes to eat an early lunch. "Hi." The newspaper provides snacks for its employees, so I toss open the cupboard in search of something to eat. "Hungry?" "Yeah, didn't get breakfast." "Remember you have leftovers." She points to the refrigerator. "Did you forget?"

I smile sheepishly. "Yeah, I guess I did." It's only eleven thirty, but I'm starving. The container from yesterday's lunch, the very one Ty threatened to dismember someone if it disappeared, lies untouched just where I left it. My eyes grow watery as I open the container, pour the leftovers into a paper plate. "He's something else, isn't he?" Dotty says. A fifty something veteran of the Navy on a pension, she returned to the workforce because sitting at home bored her silly. I don't pretend not to know who she's talking about. "Yeah, he is." "My husband was a lot like him. Overprotective, big. Drove me crazy at times, but I had no complaints in bed." Yeah, I don't have any either. Too bad it will never happen again.

CHAPTER 10

Ty FTER A GRUELING WORKOUT ON TUESDAY, I can barely lift my arm. I want A nothing more than a long soak in the whirlpool, followed by a hot shower and a cool

drink. But before I can head to the recuperation room, the coach calls me into his office. "Yeah, Coach." "Shut the door, son." He's called me son since he drafted me into the Nebraska State University football team. The moniker rankles, but I don't bother to correct him. If it weren't for him, I wouldn't be playing professional football. The look on his face tells me it's not the usual run of the mill discussion he has in mind. "You were looking a little tentative out there. Something wrong with your shoulder?" I shrug like it's not a big deal. "Nothing that an ice pack and a massage won't cure." "You sure? We need you in top shape for the game." Monday night, we're playing against the Texas Roughriders. Needless to say, nothing short of death will keep me from playing that game. "I'm good." For a couple of seconds, he doesn't say anything else. "Is that it?" I ask. "No. There's something else." He rubs a thumb across his lip. Something's worrying him. "That redhead reporter that was here the other day?" God, this is all I need. A reminder about the woman who made a fool out of me. "MacKenna Perkins." "Yes. I heard you got cozy with her at the Boys and Girls Club." I keep my trap shut since I have nothing to say. "She called the Press Office this morning. Wants to interview some players." "Who?" "Ron Moss for one, Buchinsky for another." I don't get it. If she wants to bag another Outlaw player, why choose him? He's a

straight arrow who doesn't screw around, unlike other married players I could name. But maybe she doesn't know that. Or maybe she thinks he's more of a challenge than I was. "I'm not worried about Ron. He's practically a choir boy and Mad Dog's a family man. But it's her third interview request that worries me." "Who's the third?" Don't know why I bother to ask. I know what's coming. "Ryan Taylor." I curse under my breath. What is wrong with her? "Exactly. A young, attractive woman interviewing a player who can't keep his dick in his pants. This has sexual harassment written all over it. I don't have to tell you what a scandal would do to the team. " "So deny her the interview." "You think I didn't argue just that. That idiot head of PR thinks she's aces. 'Woman's point of view. Fresh light will be shed on our team. Yadda, yadda, yadda. Bullcrap. Whoever approved women reporters ought to be strung up by his testicles." I don't contradict him. I've heard this tirade a million times before. "Yeah, Coach. I better go." I thumb toward the door. "Get in some whirlpool time." "Yeah, fine. While you're in PT, have Doc Latimer take a look at that shoulder." Damn. If our team physician examines it, he might decide it needs a rest, which would take me out of the game. And that's not happening. For weeks, I've looked forward to giving the Texas Roughriders the whipping they deserve—all within the rules, of course. The cocky sons of bitches defeated us last year on the way to the Super Bowl. This season, I mean to show them up for the pussies they are. But in order to do that, I have to be on the field, and not warming the bench. No sense arguing with Coach about me submitting to an exam, though. Better agree with his plan now, and wiggle out of it later. "Yes, sir." As soon as I step into the recuperation room, I'm stopped by one of the athletic trainers. "Coach called. He wants us to take a look at your shoulder." "It's fine. Nothing that a massage and some whirlpool time won't cure." "Just the same, let's have a look." He stands like the semi he is blocking my way. Fuck! I'm not wiggling out of this. I follow him to the medical space where they prep me for an MRI. While the machine takes a look, I pray like I haven't prayed in a long time that they don't find anything. But when the technician picks up the phone, I know my goose is cooked. Fifteen minutes later, I'm seated across from Doc Latimer's desk while he examines the results of the test. "Looks like you have a small tear in your rotator cuff, Ty." "Okay. Nothing than some aspirin or ibuprofen can't handle, right?" "That and rest. I'm benching you for tomorrow' game." I come to my feet, knocking over the chair. "The fuck you will." "Sit down. Now." He doesn't bother to yell. Every football player knows his word is law when it comes to our ability to play. Whatever he says, goes.

I park my butt back on the chair. He takes off his glasses, polishes them before plopping them back on his nose and giving me a hard stare. "It's small enough it can heal on its own, but only if you put it in a sling, and rest it. We'll reassess in three weeks." "I have a game to play on Monday." I try to keep my voice in control. Pissing him off is not going to do me any good. "Not anymore you don't." He takes a deep breath, let's it out. His eyes takes on a softer tone. "Look. I know how much playing means to you, but if you don't rest your shoulder, it will become a bigger tear, and then you will need surgery and be out for nine months. You'll miss the rest of the season. Is that what you want?" Damn it. I hang my hands between my open legs. "No." "Coach will have to know so he can prepare Pedro Santiago for the game." The rookie quarterback with the golden arm. Damn it. He offers me a commiserating smile. How many veteran quarterbacks have been replaced "temporarily" by the second-string quarterback and never return to play. Too many to count, that's how many. "The three weeks will fly by, you'll see." "Sure it will." I stand up. "Is that it?" "Yes. Go have a shower, get in whirlpool time, a massage. Don't have them touch the shoulder. Once you're dressed, come back so we can put your arm in a sling." "Fine." In the recuperation room, I act like nothing's wrong and give a couple of players a 'Hi, how you doing?' before heading for the whirlpool. Once I've sunk into hot water nirvana, one of my linesmen strolls over and asks if I'm going to Platinum tonight. I shake my head. Not exactly in the mood to get pawed by another groupie. Not after getting gamed by MacKenna. After a hot shower, I drive home, fix dinner, turn on the tube. Nothing on TV holds my interest. So I pop in Texas Roughriders game tapes and examine their defense, something I do before every game. I usually make notes of their tells, but with my arm in a sling and strict instructions not to use my right arm unless I absolutely have to, I resort to something else—my smartphone which has a recording app. I make notes of their tells—the weak side linebacker looks to the right before every blitz, the cornerback's right hip is bothering him. Even if I can't use it, Pedro sure can. I may resent like hell the fact that the kid is going in for me, but I'll be damned if I don't do everything in my power to beat the Roughriders. Some time in the middle of the night, I wake up on the sofa, my face buried in a pillow that smells like lavender and rose. My dick's throbbing so hard I'm seeing stars. Goddamn it. Nothing she has I can't get from a thousand other women. So why is my John Thomas so hung up on her? Doesn't matter. Only one way out of this mess. I pull down my pants and jerk off, all the while picturing her soft thighs, her hot pussy, her luscious tits. It takes me barely a minute to come. Wrung out, I stumble to the bathroom and clean up, cursing the cocksucker who designed her

witches' brew of a scent.

CHAPTER 11

MacKenna N WEDNESDAY, I dress in my most conservative outfit—a buttoned up blouse O and a two-piece business suit whose skirt comes to my knees—and drive to the

Outlaws' practice facility. I've requested a private room to interview Ron. This time nothing's going to stand in my way. He arrives in a pair of jeans and a Chicago Outlaws t-shirt, which I find a tad weird. Doesn't he have practice today? "Why aren't you wearing your uniform?" "Street clothes are more comfortable. Hope you don't mind." He cocks his head to one side as a tenuous smile rolls across his lips. Why, he's uncertain about me, about the interview. And that's the last thing I want. I need his cooperation to get the information I need. "Of course not." I clear my throat. Maybe I should apologize again. "Sorry about what happened before." The next grin he offers is sweetness itself. "That's okay. Ty explained it to me. Those three linesmen. They like to play jokes on every one. I should have known. You don't look like a loose woman." "I'm not. I come from a very conservative background." If he only knew how conservative. He raises a brow as if he doubts my statement. "Honest." I flash him the scout's honor sign. He laughs and waves me back. "I'm just joshing with you." A great big weight is lifted off my shoulders. He knows I'm nervous and is trying to make me feel comfortable. How sweet is this guy? "Great." I start with the easy questions before I tackle the meat of the interview. What school did he go to? Did he play ball as a kid? I tried my best to pump Mar for information, but she refused to discuss Ron, other than to say he's very bright, which doesn't help a whole bunch. I know there's a story in him somewhere. I just have to get it out. He keeps looking at the football primer I brought with me. I smile. "Pretty basic, right? But I know very little about the game. So anything's

a huge help." "Whatever you need to know, just ask." Another big grin. Call it a hunch, call it intuition, but an idea blooms in my mind. I get them now and then. And they usually prove true. "Thanks but Football for Morons has got me covered, I think." He glances at the book. His lips move as if he's trying to sound out the words. "Yeah." He laughs again. "It's Football for Dummies, Ron." His face turns bright red as his gaze drops to the floor. Darn it. I've totally embarrassed him which is not my goal. Reaching out, I brush my hand against his. But then I remember he doesn't like to be touched. "It's okay. It's okay, Ron." "No, it's not." Still red-faced, he rises and walks toward the door. He's getting away. Again. But I can't allow it. Not this time. "Please don't leave. I'm not trying to make fun of you. Just trying to understand. Please sit." I push the chair toward him. For a couple of seconds, his breaths bellow, before he turns and walks back to the seat. "Tell me, please." I beg him. His shoulders bunch, and his face closes in. "Why? So you'll write about it in your paper?" "You've hidden this your whole life." I hadn't picked up one hint of his reading disability, and I'd spend hours researching him. When he doesn't say anything, I go on. "You can't read?" He shakes his head. "I don't understand the letters. They're all jumbled to me." "Didn't you get help in school?" "I attended a very small school in the California mountains. The teachers did their best, but did not know what was wrong. They didn't figure it out until I was in high school." "I don't understand how you did so well in school." I flip through my records. "You graduated with a B average in high school and a B+ in college." At that he looks up. "I can remember anything I hear. In grade school, my mom read the textbooks to me. In high school, a team of volunteers recorded my lessons. They earned their community volunteer credits that way. To preserve my anonymity the students were not told who they were reading for." But somehow Marigold found out. "What about tests?" His glance darts to the floor again. I wish he'd look up. I'm truly not looking to shame him. "I would fake take the tests, so I wouldn't arouse suspicion. Later, my teachers administered them orally." "And no one figured it out." "No." He shakes his head. "Memorizing all that material, that's quite a hard thing to do."

"I don't forget. I have a perfect aural memory." "That's amazing. Truly. And you've kept this secret all these years?" "Yes." What he's managed to accomplish boggles my mind. School's hard enough when you can read, but to do it without being able to study the material? I don't know how he did it, but I aim to find out and write his story. I won't do it, though, unless he approves the piece. "Aren't you tired of keeping this secret all these years? Sooner or later, it will leak out. Wouldn't it be better if you revealed it now? I can work with you so you can tell your story the way the way you'd like it to be told." His head jerks up at that. "Why should I do that?" "Well, for one thing, someone's bound to discover your secret. And it might come out in a way that would embarrass or hurt you. For another, you can help others like you, Ron. I guarantee you there are kids out there who think themselves failures because they can't read. But it you talk about how you overcame your disability and point to the fact that you're a starting wide receiver for the Chicago Outlaws, you'll give kids hope for the future." "I don't know." "How about I write up the article and let you read it?" At that inane statement, he raises his head and cocks up his left brow. My face heats up. Stupid much, MacKenna? "Sorry. I'll read it to you. If you don't like what I write, I'll take out anything you want." This is not something I'd normally do. A journalist is supposed to report the truth. But I don't want to do it at his expense. "Deal?" I stick out my hand. For a long time, he looks at it and then his huge hand engulfs mine. "Deal." "Great!" I beam him a wide smile. "I'll come by Friday with the article. If that's okay." "Sure." He nods. I can see he's not quite convinced. No matter. I intend to write the most brilliant piece I've ever written, one sure to knock his socks off.

BY DAWN ON FRIDAY, I'm exhausted and bleary-eyed from the hours I've spent writing and polishing Ron's piece. The last thing I need is Ron's okay before I turn it in. So early morning, I call the Outlaws' camp and make an appointment to meet him. They assure me he can squeeze in a few minutes. No sooner do I hang up with the Outlaws PR office than Mar calls. A broken water pipe at her school has given her a rare day off. Am I available for lunch? I jump at the chance to get together. I need to tell her about my one night stand with Ty. Because if I don't, I may very well explode. Since her place is on the way to the football training facility, I offer to pick her up. She can sit in the car while I meet with Ron, and then we can head out to a restaurant where we can talk.

At the Outlaws' camp, I read the article to Ron. It's rock solid journalism if I say so myself. One sure to get a lot of reads. Not only does it cover the football angle, but the human side as well. He clarifies a couple of things I got wrong, and I gladly make the revisions. He may have appeared reluctant on Wednesday, but now he seems pleased with the piece. Maybe it's because he won't have to hide this great big secret anymore. On my way to my car, I spot Ty on the edge of the field. My heart scrunches at the sight of him. Unlike the first time I met him, he's not wearing his uniform but dressed in a fisherman's sweater and jeans. Why isn't he playing? Did he get hurt in practice? Although I'm aching to know, I can't very well approach him. Doubt he'd give me the time of day after the way I brushed him off. Besides, I don't want him to see me. It would hurt too much. I duck my head into the hood of my coat and tear down the perimeter of the field. I'm so lost in my misery I don't look where I'm going and run dab smack into a hard chest. Cheeks flushing with heat, I jump back, and my hoodie slides off. "Oh, I'm so sorry." Two hands grab my arms to steady me. "MacKenna?" I glance up to find Oliver Lyons staring at me. Cousin to a neighboring family back home, he'd spent a summer at their farm. I'd fallen so hard for the gorgeous college-bound guy, I'd spent hours and hours daydreaming about him. "Oliver!" The dirty blonde hair he'd worn long is now cropped into a stylish, businessman's cut, but his amazing eyes still blaze electric blue. Dressed in a dark blue business suit that frames his tall, powerful body to a T, he's still as gorgeous as ever. Unable to help myself, I embrace him. After he returns my hug, he steps back to gaze at me. "Look at you. You're all grown up. What are you doing in Chicago?" "I attended college here and then got a job at The Windy City Chronicle. As a reporter." "You always loved to write." He smiles, and those dimples I loved so much pop up on his cheeks. "Yeah." The summer he visited I wrote about him in my journal all the time. "So what have you been doing?" Last time I saw him, he'd been headed for the University of Chicago. But that's the only thing I know about him. His cousins' family sold their farm that fall and moved away, so I'd lost track of them and him. He cocks his head to the side. "You don't know?" I blink. "No. Should I?" He gestures toward the field. "I own the team." I gulp. "The Chicago Outlaws?" "Yes." I knew he came from my money. Lots of money. But I didn't know he was super rich. "Wow." A woman standing a couple of feet away calls out, "Mr. Lyons, we have to go or you'll be late."

An entourage surrounds him—several men dressed in expensive-looking suits and a woman, probably his assistant. Business types by the look of them. A frown of annoyance rolls over Oliver's brow, as if he resents the interruption. "Listen. I have a meeting I can't get out of, but I'd love to catch up." I clutch my notebook to me, resembling the schoolgirl I once was. "That would be nice." His smile tells me he's pleased by my response. Sensing more than seeing someone roll up behind me, I turn to see who it is. "Marigold. Hi." I'm surprised to see her since she'd decided to stay in the car. Her glance ping pongs between Oliver and me. "Sorry to interrupt, but it got cold in the car. I thought I'd grab the keys so I could turn on the heat." "I'm so sorry it took so long. Here." I fish out the keys from my purse and hand them to her. "Thanks." She turns to leave, but before she can get away, I stop her. "Mar, wait. Let me introduce you to Oliver Lyons. He's an old friend. Oliver this is Marigold Thompson." She nods, unsmiling. "Nice to meet you." So does he. "Pleasure." "Oliver owns the team." She folds her arms across her middle, and shoots a scathing glare at Oliver. "Yes, I know." Wow. What's that all about? "Meeting's starting, Mr. Lyons," Oliver's assistant says, tapping her wristwatch. "You better go, Oliver." His lips firm as he turns to his entourage. "Go on. I'll be right there." As soon as they're gone from sight, he asks, "Are you free tomorrow?" "What?" I ask. He repeats the question. "What are you doing tomorrow night?" "She's busy," Marigold spits out. "Saturday's movie night." We'd made plans to go see the new Benedict Cumberbatch movie. "Yeah, we are." "Surely, you can skip that. Whatever movie you've chosen will still be there next week." "Well." I glance at Marigold. Her cocked brow does not seem the least bit encouraging. "The Outlaws are holding a charity function. I don't know if you're into old music, but Tony Landon will be there." Mar's hostility dissolves like spun sugar at a carnival. She loves all kinds of music but her absolute favorite is the swing era. Tony Landon, a throwback to that time, just happens to be one of her favorite artists. "I love him." "Your friend can come too if she wants." Oliver tosses out, both including and dismissing her with a wave of his hand.

Attending his team's charity function is not a good idea. His players are bound to attend, which means Ty will be there. What if I run into him? No. This is not going to work. But just as I make that decision, Mar's cinnamon gaze pleads with me. "Please, MacKenna." A wrinkle pops up on Oliver's brow while his glance darts between Mar and me. I blow out a sigh. "Okay, fine." It's dinner and a concert, four hours max. Surely I can avoid running into Ty for that long. We agree on a time. I don't want Oliver to see where I live. So rather than have him pick me up, I tell him I'll meet him at the hotel where the event's being held. Mar and I can either drive or cab it over there. He pulls a gold card holder from his suit's inner pocket and writes something on the back before handing it to me. "Here's my card. If you change your mind about me picking you up, call me. That's my personal cell number." Out of the corner of my eye, I spot Ty walking in our direction, but he's so deep in discussion with the man next to him, he doesn't notice me. I need to get away before he does. "Thanks, Oliver. See you tomorrow." Ty's head snaps up. As his gaze zeroes in on Oliver and me, his brows scrunch together and he frowns. Time to get the heck out of Dodge before he storms over here. I stick the card in my purse's outside pocket, grab Mar, and haul buns back to my car. I don't stop running until we've reached my car. "Get in, Mar." I tug at the driver door's handle, but the damn thing won't cooperate. "What's the hurry?" "I'll tell you later. Just get in the damn car." "Okay. Okay." She has no trouble opening her door. It's only mine that's stuck. Afraid Ty might be coming after me, I redouble my efforts. The darn thing finally pops open. I jump in and jab the key into the ignition. Thankfully, the engine comes to life. Car's wheels squealing, I peel out of the parking lot. I don't bother looking back. Too afraid of what I'll see. "What is wrong with you?" Mar's clutching the dashboard and hanging on for dear life while giving me a wide-eyed look. "Tell you later." As I race toward the exit, I finally glance in the rearview mirror. Thankfully, I don't spot Ty. Still, I don't breathe easy until I reach the main road. My nerves are shot, though. I need to stop somewhere before I land us in a ditch. Luckily, I find a diner a mile down the road. After we're seated at a booth, I wait until the waitress takes our order, before spilling the beans. "I slept with Ty Mathews." Mar's eyes bug out. "What? How—when did this happen?" "Monday. I was scheduled to interview him in the morning. But he stood me up. He showed up at the newspaper, full of apologies. Of course, my boss ate it up. The

Chicago Outlaws' quarterback in his newspaper is not a sight he gets to see every day. When Ty asked me out to lunch, I couldn't turn him down. Mr. Bartlett practically ordered me to go. Then he invited me to cover the Outlaws' appearance at a Boys & Girls Club. You can guess what my boss had to say about that." "Wow. So what happened?" "Well, at the Boys & Girls Club I talked to some of the players, Ron, Mr. Bunchinsky." "Mad Dog." "Yeah. He's actually pretty sweet." "Sweet? MacKenna, he eats quarterbacks for breakfast. He's the number one tackle in the NFL." "Well, he was super nice to the kids there. But when I talked to Ryan Taylor, Ty went ballistic. He hauled me out of the club and dragged me to his house where one thing led to another, and we ummm did it." "He didn't force you, did he? Because if he did, I don't care what or who he is, he's going to have to deal with me." That would be a sight to see. She's a will of the wisp five two, weighing in at a hundred pounds and Ty's six five with hard muscle to spare. "No. He didn't hurt me. It was . . . good." Truth to tell, the sex had been incredible. No wonder women lined up for a chance to go to bed with him. The waitress interrupts with our food. A veggie burger for Mar, a chicken salad for me. "Well, in that case. Way to go!" Marigold high fives me. "Who knew you had it in you. So, spill and don't spare any details." My hook up with Ty is way too personal to share. So I'm not telling her what happened even if she's my best friend. Not sure if she'd even believe me. The memory of me scratching his back and asking for more doesn't jive with the prim and proper MacKenna Mar knows. "Mar. Don't you understand? I had a one-night stand with the most notorious player in town." "And?" "It was amazing, okay? He did things . . ." I'm probably turning beet red. Me and my darn redhead complexion. "What things?" "I'm not telling. It's embarrassing enough as it is." Her brow scrunches. "Why?" "Don't you get it? I slept with him." My voice rises a little and the two women next to us turn to stare at us. "Yeah, I got that," she says, biting into her hummus, tomato, and cucumber sandwich. "Why is that a problem?" "I'd known him for all of two days. I don't sleep with men two days after we meet." She dabs at her mouth with a napkin. "MacKenna, it happens. You fell for him.

Hard. How could you not? The man has the body of a Greek god. Tell me. Is his dick as fine as the rest of him?" "Mar! For Pete's sake." "So after you did the deed, did he drive you home and kiss you goodnight?" "He didn't drive me home. I took a cab." She drops what remains of her sandwich on her plate. "That pig. You mean to tell me he didn't have the decency to drive you home after you screwed?" By now we've gotten the attention of everyone around us. Where's a hole to crawl into when you need one? I bury my head in my hands. "Would you please keep your voice down?" "What happened?" Steam's practically coming out of her ears. "I walked out while he was sleeping." She blinks a couple of times like she's having a hard time processing this. "Why?" "He doesn't sleep twice with the same woman. Remember? And I just couldn't face the 'See you later' look in his eyes." The cab had cost over forty dollars. Money I don't have. I'll need to dive into my sock drawer for my emergency stash to pay this month's rent. "Is that why you were in such a hurry to leave the Outlaws' compound?" "Yes. He saw me, and I'd just as soon avoid any further conversations with him." She picks up her sandwich and takes a bite out of it. "Aren't you supposed to be interviewing him?" "I got all the information I need to do a basic article." Of course, I wanted to dig deeper, but fat chance of doing that now. She does more damage to her sandwich, swirls a French fry into a mound of ketchup and pops it into her mouth. "Did he see you talking to Oliver Lyons?" "Yeah." "How did he look?" "Mad." She wipes her hands on the napkin and steeples them together. "If he was jealous of you talking to his teammates, I can't imagine how he feels about you being chummy with his smokin' hot boss." "What?" "Come on, MacKenna. Don't tell you didn't notice how gorgeous Oliver Lyons is? The man won Chicago's Hottest Businessman Award, for heaven's sake." "Oh, I noticed. When I was a teenager, I had a huge crush on him." "And now?" Her voice carries more than curiosity in it. I shrug. "Guess I got over it." Oliver's handsome but he doesn't hold a candle to Ty's earthy masculinity. "You might not be attracted to Oliver any longer, but you still have a problem." I have more than one, if truth be told. But I'll need her to explain. "What do you mean?"

"Well, you slept with Ty Mathews, who seems to be a tad jealous with you talking to other men. Aaannnnd you were talking to his boss who invited you out on a date." "Ty doesn't know Oliver asked me out. Besides, it isn't a date. It's a catch up kind of a thing." "Sure it is. MacKenna." She thumps her elbows on the table. "It's a date. Plain and simple. If Ty sees you with Oliver Lyons at that charity event, fireworks will explode." She's right. If Ty went ballistic when I simply talked to Ryan Taylor, what's he going to do when he spots me with Oliver at a banquet? I drop my head into my hands. "Oh, God. What am I going to do?" Having finished all of her fries, Mar snags one of mine and bites down on it. "Well, I for one can't wait to find out." "I hate you." She smirks. "That's what best friends are for, isn't it?"

CHAPTER 12

Ty ATURDAY NIGHT I'm stuck at a charity event the Outlaws set up. I'm not in the S best of moods. Not only does the rotator cuff brace restrict my mobility, but the over-the-counter meds aren't cutting it. My shoulder still throbs like a son of a bitch. And prescription drugs are not an option. Doc Latimer may have approved them, but I'm not taking them. Last thing I want is to get hooked on them. So for the next three weeks, I'll just have to deal with the pain. Monday night, I won't be able to play against the Texas Roughriders. Coach's working with Pedro Santiago, the UCLA boy wonder. The kid's good, better than good. But I'll be damned before I let a rookie take over my starting spot. So this shoulder damn well better heal pronto. And those are not my only problems. What was MacKenna Perkins doing talking to Oliver Lyons? Does she know him? They looked mighty chummy at the Outlaws' training facility. Maybe she's eager to interview him. I mean, why would she stop at football players when she could work her allure with the billionaire owner of the Outlaws' team? Agony streaks through me, and I grit my teeth. Damn it. I might be unwilling to take prescription drugs, but maybe a drink will help. On the way to bar, I spot MacKenna, dressed in a blue evening gown, her gorgeous breasts in splendid display. She's enough to take my breath away. A crowd of reporters interviewing one of our star wide receivers block my way to her. But I'll be damned before I let her get away. Skirting them, I step into her path, and she comes to an abrupt stop. "Ty! What a surprise. I didn't expect to see you here." The way she says it tells me she's lying. She totally expected to run into me. "PR event for the Outlaws." "Are you okay?" She brushes her hand across my arm before jerking it back to her. How does she know I'm hurting? And what does she care if my shoulder aches?

She broke things off with me. It's probably just a public show which doesn't mean a thing. "I'm fine. Just a small tear in my shoulder. Nothing major. Should be back playing in no time." "That's good." Her patented smile rolls over her lips, the one that projects innocence. Fell for that once, but I'm not about to fall for it again. "What about you. Why are you here?" She can't afford the tickets to this gala. Someone had to have paid for her. Oliver Lyons. Maybe that's what they were talking about yesterday. "I came with a friend, Ty." She points to the young woman by her side. Her friend bought tickets to the charity function? Wouldn't know it by the way she's dressed, but then rich people can dress however they want. The woman's not as tall as MacKenna. She's tiny in fact, with pixie cut golden hair. Some would call her cute, but she doesn't hold a candle to MacKenna's beauty. "This is my friend, Marigold Thompson." "How do you do? I'm a big fan." Pixie cut says with a blinding smile. She's enjoying herself, that much is clear. I shake hands before I turn back to the woman I haven't stopped thinking about. Even after five days. Even after she made a fool out of me, my dick wants more of what she's dishing out. Right now, if it can be arranged. But I can't very well jump her in the middle of the ballroom floor which means I'll need to act civilized. "You look beautiful." MacKenna's cheeks turn a soft rose pink. "Thanks." How does she do that? How does she turn on that purer than undriven snow act when down deep she's nothing but a groupie. Not that I care. All I want to is to drag her somewhere where we can be alone so we can do all those dirty, filthy things we did before. "Is there somewhere we can talk?" Before she has a chance to respond, a shadow descends upon us. "MacKenna. There you are." A flustered look rolls over her face. "Oliver." Oliver Lyons. Son of a bitch. Did he bring MacKenna to the charity function? Is he the 'friend' she referred to? He rests his hand on her arm, as if he has every right to do so, and I see red. "The hotel's so big, I worried you'd gotten lost, so I came looking for you." "No. Not lost. Ran into Ty. I'm interviewing him for the newspaper." She rushes to explain. I hiss out a broken breath.Yeah, that's all I am to her, a way to further her career. I don't care. My cock doesn't care. It wants to sink into her hot pussy again. "Yeah, about that interview. We never finished it. We can go somewhere and do that." Her eyes widen. "Now?" I struggle to get my anger under control. She won't come with me if she sees how pissed off I am. "No time like the present." I give her my most charming smile.

"But I don't have anything to take notes with." "We'll find something. Let's go." I grab her free hand and pull. But we go nowhere. Oliver's holding on to her other hand. I turn toward him, and we square off like a couple of raging bulls, with MacKenna stuck in the middle in a game of pull and pull. A light flashes to our side. The three of us turn to stare at the camera which goes off again. Damn. A photographer snapping photos of the Outlaws' owner and his starting quarterback fighting over the same woman. This will make for a really, really bad publicity shot. But before the photographer can snap another picture, MacKenna's quickthinking friend comes to the rescue, "Oliver, darling." She insinuates her body against Oliver's, effectively breaking his hold on MacKenna. "What?" Dumbstruck, Oliver glares at MacKenna's friend. She curls one arm around his neck and pulls him down to her level. And then she whispers something in his ear while her hand sinks to his crotch. Well, that's one way to get his attention. Whatever she says has him shifting the gears. He straightens and hauls her into him, lifting her clear off the floor. "Whatever you say, sweetheart." Her eyes grow wide before he plants a take-no-prisoners kiss on her ruby red lips. Knowing a good thing when he sees it, the photographer snaps another photo of the four of us. If this causes an uproar, it won't be my fault. I'm holding hands with MacKenna in a proper pose. Oliver, on the other hand, is going at it hot and heavy with Marigold, with one arm wrapped around her ass. "One more of just the two of you." The papparazzo points to MacKenna and me. "Of course." Grinning, I cradle her against me, her back to my front. After a couple of snaps, the photographer drifts away. Marigold and Oliver unclench long enough to come up for air. He shakes his head as if he's in a daze. More sure of herself, Marigold grabs Oliver by his tie and tugs. "Let's dance, lover. They're playing my tune." The music is some melody straight out of the 1940s American songbook. Oliver resists pixie cut's lure long enough to turn to MacKenna. "Wait. I can't leave MacKenna alone." "I'm not alone. I'm with Ty." She smiles at him as she points to the ballroom floor where people are swaying to the music. "Go dance with Marigold. I'm fine." As Marigold drags Oliver away, she tosses a glance over her shoulder and mouths "You're welcome." MacKenna laughs. "She's something else, your friend." "Yes, she is. Met her my first day in college. We've been best friends ever since." "I can see." Now that they're gone, I give in to the aching need to touch her and curl my hand around her jaw. "How do you know Oliver?" She neither protests nor pulls away. "He's an old friend. His cousins owned the

farm next to ours in Iowa, and he visited one summer. I was surprised to run into him at the Outlaws' compound. I didn't know he owned the team." A muscle ticks in my jaw as I recall how close together they'd stood. "Why were you there?" "To get Ron's blessing on the piece I'd written on him. When I ran into Oliver, he invited me to this event so we could catch up." When my hand clenches around her chin, she hurries to say, "I hadn't seen him for years, Ty." I glance in the direction her friend and Oliver took before turning back to MacKenna. "Were you sweet on him?" She hitches up her chin. "Yes. I was." It hurts that admission. Maybe she's still attracted to him. The decent part of me wrestles with the caveman howling within. Much as I want to take her to a place where we can be alone, I can't force her if she'd rather be with her friends. "You want to go with them?" The question comes out as a growl. "No." She shakes her head, and her glorious auburn curls riot around her shoulders. "I'd rather be with you." She sounds shy and sweet, like she's not sure of her welcome. For a moment, doubt rises within me. Maybe she's not faking it. Maybe she wants to be with me. But then I recall the phone conversation. She's doing this to advance her career, nothing more. Once she writes her article for the newspaper, she'll want nothing to do with me. That's fine. I only need her for one thing as well—that tight pussy between her legs. "Good." Holding on to her hand, I head for the nearest exit. She trips along while holding up her evening gown. "Where are we going?" She sounds breathless. Can't tell because she's excited or the maddening pace I'm setting. Either works for me. "To my hotel room. We can be private there." "You have a room here?" "The Outlaws always get their athletes rooms at the hotel where teamsponsored events are held. Technically, when we're at one of these parties, we're still on the clock. Last thing they want is a player involved in a drunk driving accident or an incident involving substance abuse." "But you don't have an alcohol problem." She states it as a fact, like she already knows. She's right. Although I enjoy the occasional drink, I never drink to excess. "No. But others, yeah." "Like who?" Not a casual question. She's a journalist, after all. "Sorry. Not my place to tell." When we reach the bank of elevators, I press the up button. Amazingly, one set of door slides open. We climb in, and I press 27. We're the only occupants in the car, so I turn and drive her against the side of the elevator. "You're fucking gorgeous tonight." Her eyes grow wide, like she wasn't expecting my move. "Th-thank you." "New dress?"

"Oh, no. I can't af—No." She can't afford a new dress. That's what she meant to say. Not that she needs to mention it. Since her apartment and junker pretty much told me what I need to know about the state of her finances. A fruit basket and two bottles of champagne wait for me in my room. Standard operating procedure from the Outlaws PR. "Would you like something to drink?" "Not now. Thank you." I remove my jacket and toss it on the couch. "Where's your coat?" "Downstairs in the coat check." "We'll get it tomorrow when we leave." "T-tomorrow?" "Yes. You're spending the night with me." Fuck if I'm going to ask her if she wants to stay. She wouldn't be here unless she did. She glances around the luxury suite, bites down on her thumbnail. Her nails have been bitten right down to the quick. "But I thought . . ." "What did you think?" I tear off my bow tie, throw it on top of my jacket, and start unbuttoning my shirt. I know what she wants. The same thing I do. Her wide-eyed glance takes me in. "That we were going to continue your interview." "In my room, in a hotel, late at night? No, MacKenna. I asked you here to fuck you." Her brow wrinkles, as if she finds my language offensive. "But that's not. But you don't . . ." Finished with the shirt, I wrangle it off with my good arm, and toss it on the growing pile. "I don't what?" "You never have sex with the same woman twice." Her voice grows breathless as she stares at me. "What are you wearing?" "A rotator cuff brace. It'll stabilize the shoulder." "Does it hurt? Your shoulder I mean?" "A little." I'm not about to tell her it throbs like a bitch. She's a reporter after all. "Who told you I don't fuck the same woman twice?" "Marigold. Plus I did some research on you, Ty. You have quite a reputation as a player. And I'm not talking about football." Her words manage to make their way through the fog-induced lust, and a light glimmers in the recesses of my mind. "Did you know this before you came to my house?" "Before you dragged me there, you mean? Yes. I knew." "Is that why you walked out on me? Because you thought I wouldn't want to make love to you again?" "That was part of it, but the other part was I don't do that." I prop one hand on my hip. "Don't do what?" "Have one-night stands." "Never?"

"Never. And we didn't make love. We had sex. I may not know much, but I know the difference." Fuck. She's everything I thought she was. A wide-eyed innocent, trying to make her way in the world. And here she'd run into the big, bad wolf, who didn't waste a second gobbling her up. "God. I've been such an idiot." "What do you mean?" "I thought I'd been taken in by a groupie. When in reality, you're exactly what you appear to be. Sunshine and rainbows and unicorns and lollipops." She hitches up her chin. "I don't believe in unicorns." Maybe not unicorns, but she's everything that is good and sweet in this world. I twist a finger around one of her glorious curls, breathe it in. "We made love, MacKenna. Trust me. I know the difference." "We couldn't have." "I wanted you like no other woman, so determined to get you in my bed. And once I got you there, I made sure you enjoyed it." "You don't do that with . . . the others?" "They get what they need from me, and then they're gone. Not you, though. Not ever you." Tears swim in her eyes. "That can't be, Ty. That just can't be." "Oh, yeah. Then tell me, why am I still hung up on you? Why can't I sleep? Why does my entire house smell of lavender and roses even after the cleaning service been in twice?" Her gaze grows more luminous. "Does it?" I pull her against me, and my hand rides down her back to her ass. No way can she miss how much I want her. I'm hard as stone. "Yes."

CHAPTER 13

MacKenna ONFUSED AS HELL, I spin and take a couple of steps away from him. I can't C think when I'm mashed up against him, his shaft practically imprinted on my skin. "What do you want from me, Ty?" He brushes a thumb across my cheek. "Right now I want to make love to you." I breathe in that male scent of his, and a ripple of heat races across my skin. Wanting, so much. But I can't give in to my hunger for this man. "I can't." "Why not?" "I have a job, responsibilities, bills I have to pay. Going to bed with you will jeopardize much of what I want from life. If Mr. Bartlett finds out I slept with you, at the very least he would take me off your assignment. Probably send me to interview the dog catcher at the pound. I can't ruin my entire future for a fling with the Outlaws' quarterback." "MacKenna. You're special. Very special." He curls one of those big hands of his around the nape of my neck and leans down to kiss my throat, my jaw, my cheek. Something hot streaks within me, and I tremble. Who knew I had this much need inside of me? And it's all for this man because Oliver, gorgeous as he is, does nothing for me. "You want me," he whispers in my ear, nips the lobe. I'm in trouble. Big, big trouble. I dig deep inside and fight off the insidious voice that tells me to go for it. "Any woman would want you, Ty. I mean, look at you." Six foot five of hard muscle, green, hungry eyes, never mind the erection he's sporting. He's a lethal combination, able to seduce a woman with a single glance. But I can't allow myself to fall for him. "Desiring you is not enough." His eyes flash with anger as he steps back, dropping his hands to his side, fisting them at the ends. "You're denying me, denying your own need for the sake of your fucking job?" "It's my future, Ty. Can't you see that?"

He gestures to the space around us. "Nobody here but you and me. No one has to know." "Things have a way of coming out. Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to return to the ballroom, find Mar and leave." The excitement's gone from this evening. I want to go home, stick my head under my pillow, and forget about Ty Mathews. If that's possible. He shakes his head as if he can't believe what I'm saying, but he reaches for his clothes and slowly dresses. "Fine. If that's what you want." "It is." In total silence, we walk back the same corridor, ride the same elevator as before. When we arrive at the ballroom, neither Mar nor Oliver are anywhere to be found. Neither is her purse. I ask the people at the table, acquaintances and employees of Oliver, if they've seen my friend. No one has seen hair nor hide of them since they took to the dance floor. Darn. "Can you call her?" Ty asks. I shake my head. "I have her cell. Her purse was too tiny to hold it." "Maybe he took her home." "I don't think so. He's so not her type." Mar's type is an environmental tree hugger, not a billionaire businessman. "I meant her home." Mar wouldn't like for him to know where she lives. If anything, she probably ditched him and took a cab home. She knew I was with Ty and more than likely thought I would spend the night with him. Wish I knew she was safe and sound. Maybe she headed back to my apartment. She was supposed to spend the night, and she has a set of keys to my place. I bet that's it. Better return home and make sure. If she's not there and I don't hear from her by tomorrow, I'll run over to her place. "Yeah. You're probably right. Well, thank you for the interview." I stick out my hand to shake his. If anybody's listening, and they are, they would hopefully think we were together for professional reasons, and not anything else. "How are you getting home?" He doesn't let go of my hand. "Taxi." The same way Mar and I arrived. "I'm leaving. I can drop you home." "I thought the Outlaws provided transportation for the players." "They do. I'll have the driver take you home before he drops me off at my house." "Oh. There's really no need, Mr. Mathews." "Please. It's dangerous out there. I couldn't sleep easy without knowing you made it back home in one piece." A couple of people at the table nod in agreement. I sigh. If I make a big deal out of his offer, it'll be worse than if I simply accept it. Then they'll really suspect something. "Thank you. That's very generous of you." "You're welcome. Let's go get your coat." The ride home is uncomfortable to say the least. I don't say much. Neither does

he. What can I say? I want you but I don't want to have sex with you. Just being seen with him is a problem. Those pictures that were taken? They'll show up in a paper somewhere. And I'll get chewed out by Mr Bartlett. Again. No. Other than in a professional setting, I can't be seen with him any more. He asks the driver to wait while he escorts me to my apartment. We walk down the hall, not touching. I just want to curl up on my bed, put a pillow over my head and forget about tonight. But it's not to be. When we arrive at my front door, we find it ajar. I take a step to widen the opening, but he pulls me back. "Don't." Sliding in front of me, he pushes the door, and it slides open with a slight creak. The TV lies broken on the floor, its innards strewn helter skelter on the beige rug. Somebody slashed the sofa, it's great big chunks of stuffing tossed around the room. There's broken glass everywhere. "Oh, God. What if Mar was in there? She was supposed to spend the night." Before he can stop me, I rush in with him hard on my heels. The bedroom's no better than the living room. If anything, it's worse, because the things in here are more personal. The bed, just like the sofa, has been slashed. My clothes ripped out of their hangers, some torn to pieces. I doubt I'll find something whole in this mess. But there's no sign of Marigold. Did she come back to the apartment? "Marigold." I cry out. "What if she walked in while they were tearing apart the place?" "That didn't happen. Oliver would have been with her. He would have called the police." I hang on to his words with every bit of hope I can muster. "You think so?" "I do. He never would have allowed her to come up alone. He probably took her home. Can you call her there?" "She doesn't have a landline. Only her cell." He steps close to me, hugs me to him. "She's safe, MacKenna. If you don't hear from her by tomorrow, I'll drive you to her place." If I have anything to say about it, he won't be driving me anywhere. But I'm so devastated by the evil destruction of my apartment, I can't fight that battle right now. Ty grabs his phone, dials 911. "I'd like to report a breaking and entering." After he hangs up, he contacts the driver, lets him know what happened and asks him to sit tight. "We should wait in the hallway for the police." "Fine." Nothing much I can do inside my place, other than stare at the devastation. Fifteen minutes later, two members of the Chicago police department arrive—a cop and a detective. To their credit, neither makes a big deal out of Ty, but proceed in a professional manner. The detective jots down my information, while the cop trudges through the place taking notes. Not much later, the forensic investigators show up. They proceed to dust for fingerprints and take pictures. Like the other two, they're fast and efficient. Within an hour, they're done.

Before they leave, the detective gives me a phone number and a case number to provide to my insurance company when I file a claim. Except for my laptop, my goods don't amount to more than two thousand dollars or so. So I'd never taken out insurance on my personal belongings. But now I wish I had. How am I going to replace the little I have when I can barely afford rent? "One more question, Ms. Perkins," the detective says, his pen hovering over his notebook. "The attack seems personal. Anybody you know have a personal grudge against you?" The worm comes to mind, but surely he wouldn't go to this much trouble. "No." "Do you have somewhere to stay tonight? I can contact the American Red Cross, if you don't." Before I can say anything, Ty interrupts. "She's got a place. She's coming home with me." "Very well. Do you want to get anything from your apartment tonight? I'll need to put a 'Police Line Do Not Cross' tape across the door. You won't be able to enter without giving us a call." "Oh, okay." "Come on," Ty says. "I'll help you." In my bedroom closet, I find a suitcase that doesn't appear to have too much damage as well as Mar's overnight bag. I quickly go through my things. Whatever is whole, I stuff in the bag, along with the toiletries in the bathroom. It barely takes fifteen minutes to pack. When I drag the bag, I quickly realize it's got a couple of wheels missing. And that's enough for a tear to slip down my cheek. Ty puts his good arm around me. "It'll be okay, MacKenna. You'll see." "Yeah," I swipe at the silly tears. He gently takes my bag from me and leads the way. I grab Mar's overnight and follow him to the hallway where the detective is waiting. "All done." "Yeah." "Okay." The cop proceeds to fix the crime scene tape across the door. There's so much of it, nobody can cross it without a noticeable tear. Not that it will stop anyone intent on breaking in. "If you want to get back into your apartment, please call us ahead of time. We'll need to remove the tape." "I will. Thanks. You've been very thorough." And very kind. "No problem. That's our job. Have you called your landlord?" "Not yet." "You might want to do so right away. At the very least, he'll need to provide you with a new door." "I'll call him." "Goodnight." As he walks away, we silently follow, with Ty dragging the crummy suitcase with his good arm.

"I don't want you to worry. We'll figure things out. Okay?" 'We' aren't going to figure anything out. I'll deal with whatever needs to be dealt with. Just not tonight.

CHAPTER 14

Ty N THE DRIVE HOME, she doesn't say a word. She's got to be hurting. Burglary is O not only a robbery of your things, but a theft of your soul. But she doesn't cry.

"My whole life was in that laptop." "Did you store the data somewhere?" "Yes. My files are backed up daily. I'll be able to retrieve everything. But whoever stole it has all my personal data. I feel . . ." "Violated." "Yes." "We can go shopping for a new one in the morning. And you can transfer your files. We'll put a GPS locator on it. If it disappears again, you'll know exactly where it is." She hitches up a shoulder. "No need to do that. The laptop belongs to The Windy City Chronicle. They'll provide a replacement." When we come to a red light, I glance at her. She's fighting off the tears, but her lip chewing gives away her state of mind. I engulf her small hand in mine and squeeze. "Okay. But if you need one before they can replace it, I have one I never use." Her head swivels toward me. "You have? Why don't you use it?" "The Chicago Outlaws gave it to me, but it doesn't have all the bells and whistles I like." "Such as?" "A first rate gaming video card and lightning speed ram." A small smile fights to make an appearance. "Boys and their toys." "Hey, don't knock it. I play Madden Football on the thing. It's taught me a thing or two about the game." She snorts. "Yeah. Right!" Happy her mood has lightened, I turn the conversation toward her friend. "You and Marigold don't seem much alike."

"We're not. We're into different things, and she's much more of a free spirit than I am. But somehow we became fast friends." "What do you mean free spirit?" "Mar dated a lot of guys in college, and I mean a lot. Hooked up with a bunch of them. She doesn't believe in tying herself to one man. She views marriage as a form of financial and social bondage. Not a surprise, given she grew up in a commune in California. Her parents never married." "But you're not like that, are you?" "Far from it. I was born and raised in Iowa by parents who believe marriage is sacred and the ultimate outcome of two people who love each other. Needless to say, they do not approve of pre-marital sex." She sighs. "Sometimes I wish I could be more like Mar. I hate being Miss Goody Two Shoes." I reach over and squeeze her hand again. "I like you the way you are." My phone rings. Caller ID identifies the individual as a flunkie from the Chicago Outlaws, the one in charge of checking on the players. The team wants to confirm I'm tucked in for the night at the hotel. I turn to MacKenna. "Sorry. I have to take this." "Sure." Letting go of her hand, I click my phone. "Mathews." With the speaker function on, MacKenna can hear every word. "Just calling in with your pickup time. Your driver will pick you up tomorrow morning at nine." "I'm on my way home. Don't worry. I used the car service." Dead silence at the other end. "Okay, but I'll have to let them know." Them being the Chicago Outlaws' management. "Do what you have to do." I click off. Honestly, sometimes they treat us like children who can't wipe our own asses. "Are you in trouble with your team?" Probably. The Chicago Outlaws want us to stay at the hotel after every event, so I'm bound to get flack from them. But I couldn't leave MacKenna in that apartment, and going back to the hotel was not an option. So I'll just need to deal with whatever they hit me with. Probably a penalty of some kind. "Me? No." "You sure?" "Positive. Look, we won't be home for half an hour at least. Try and get some rest." Last thing I want is for her to worry about me. She's got enough to worry about in her own life. "Okay." I sense more than see her darting a worried glance at me. But she does as I say, and closes her eyes. When I curl my arm around her and tuck her against me, she doesn't protest but snuggles against my side. It's the most peace I've enjoyed in a long time. After we arrive home, I grab MacKenna's bag as well as Marigold's from the trunk of the town car. When we reach the kitchen, I pause to do the polite thing, "You want something to drink?" She shakes her head, "No, thanks. What I really need is a shower and sleep."

"Then let me show you to your room." As we wander down the hallway to one of the guest rooms, I keep up my patter, hoping to make her feel welcomed. "Mi casa es su casa. Whatever you want, it's yours." Her lips curl into a sad smile which makes me want to embrace her and tell her everything is going to be fine. But, of course, I can't. She's made it clear how things stand between us. "Thank you, Ty. I'll get a hold of Mar tomorrow. Ask if I can move in with her. For a little while anyway." She's staying with me, but there's no sense discussing her future living arrangements. Not tonight when she's in shock. Tomorrow will be soon enough. "Why don't we talk it over in the morning. Things usually look brighter in the daylight." "Yes. You're right." I've never taken the time to buy much furniture for the other four bedrooms in the house, so the furnishings of the guest room are basic stuff—a bed and a night table. But it does have its own private bathroom. I point out the door. "You'll find fresh towels in there. I have a service that comes in once a week to clean and do laundry." I drop the bags by the foot of the bed. "If you need anything, all you have to do is ask." "I won't. Goodnight." "Goodnight." I head back to my room. After I shower, I pad naked to my bed, leaving the door to the hallway open. You know, in case she needs anything. Even from two doors away, her lavender-rose scent drifts into my room. God. Over the next hour, I punch my pillow, toss and turn over. I'll never get any sleep tonight. Maybe a snack or drink would help. I'm just about to head to the kitchen when she appears at my door. "Ty?" I sit up. "Anything wrong?" "I can't sleep." Me neither. "May I come in?" Hell, no. "Absolutely." She strolls to the bed wearing an oversized night shirt that falls to her knees, her glorious breasts bobbing with every step she takes. My cock goes on Def Con 3 status, ready for launch in 3-2-1. "Would you like some warm milk? Sometimes that helps." Well, aren't I being the Good Samaritan? She shakes her head. "No. It's just . . . I thought I heard something." Probably me, gnashing my teeth. "Everything's locked up tight. No one can break in. It's probably the house settling down." "I know, but . . . " "But?"

"Every time I close my eyes, horrible thoughts pop into my head. If Oliver hadn't invited me to that event, I would have been home. Would I have been hurt? Would I even be alive right now?" The hitch in her voice tells me she's struggling to control her fear, but not quite succeeding. Fuck. I ache to comfort her, but not much I can do. She's pretty much erected a 'Keep Out' sign. "If it's not too much trouble, can I stay here? With you? I won't take up much room on your bed." What does she think I am? A eunuch? First is don't touch me. Now it's, can I crawl into bed with you? I scrub my face. But she seeks reassurance so I cram down all my nasty lust and focus on what she needs. "Sure. I'm not wearing pajamas, though, so you might want to stay on your side of the bed." That's as much of a warning as I'm going to give her. "Okay." She climbs on, taking only the smallest sliver of bed space. Sheesh. If she as much as breathes the wrong way, she'll roll right off and crash land on the floor. "You're going to fall, scoot over some." She moves an inch. "Oh, for Pete's sakes." With my good arm, I reach over and haul her to the center of the bed. Big mistake. Her breasts are front and center beneath me, with only flimsy cotton between me and those beauties. I've touched them, tasted them. And right now I can't find much of the gentleman within me. Digging deep, I roll over with a jerk. "Go to sleep, MacKenna." "Ty?" "What do you want now? You want me to sing you a lullaby? What?" "You've taken all the covers." "Here." Keeping one, I toss the rest to her. I sure as hell don't need them. I'm burning up. "Goodnight." Fat chance of that happening. I roll over, turn my back to her again. My dick's throbbing so hard, I can hardly breathe. A soft curse escapes me. "I'm sorry." Is she crying? She sounds like she's crying. Fuck's sake. I roll to my side, face her. She's not crying, but it's close. "Go to sleep. Please." I'm begging here. "I can't. I keep thinking about somebody breaking into my apartment. I don't think I'll feel safe there anymore." "Well, you don't have to worry about that. You're never living there again." Curious blue eyes shine up at me. "What do you mean?" "I'll find another place for you to live. A safer one." "Safe places tend to be expensive." "Don't worry about the money." She sits up. "Of course I have to worry about the money. Sometimes that's all I

think about." Her maddening scent surrounds me. A lock of her gorgeous auburn hair slides down to curl over her left breast. If she doesn't stop, she's going to drive me insane. I glare at her. "I'll give you the money. Go to sleep. Please." "I can't accept money from you! I'll move in with Mar and save my pennies until I can afford something." "Where does she live?" "In the South Side." That's in an even worse part of town than her current address. "No. You're not moving there." "You can't tell me what to do, Ty." She drops back on the bed, crossing her arms against her chest. "Somebody's got to. You don't have the sense God gave you moving into that place." "Easy for you to say. With all the millions you have." She lets out a hard breath. "Maybe it wasn't such a good idea me staying here. I think I better leave."Rolling off, she comes to her feet on the other side of the bed. I immediately jump out. "You're not going anywhere." Her eyes round. No wonder. I'm hard as stone and my cock's curled up almost to my belly button. Well, what the fuck does she expect? Any red blooded male would react the same way to her smell, her voice, her. She pries her gaze from my dick to glare at me. "Says who?" "Me." "You're not the boss of me." "Real mature, MacKenna." I cross my arms against my chest, widen my stance. "It's past three in the morning, tell me, where would you go?" "I'll find a motel somewhere near by." "This is a residential neighborhood. Nearest hotel is several miles away. How would you get there?" "I'll call a cab same as I did before." I fling down my arms, knot my hands into fists. "The hell you are. You're staying here with me." "No." I stomp toward her, pick her up, drop her on the mattress. My shoulder screams with pain. Fuck. Fine job I'm doing of resting it. "If you don't stay put, so help me God, I'll tie you to the bed." "You wouldn't dare!" Sparks flash in those beautiful bluebell eyes of hers. "Watch me." I beat feet to my dresser, yank out a couple of belts, turn around and swing them at her. "Now, what will it be?" "You're a Neanderthal." I shrug off the insult. Been called worse. "Fine. I'll stay." She slams back to the mattress. Not one to trust her I shove the dresser in front of the door. "And don't even

think about sneaking out the window. If you do, an alarm will go off." "It didn't go off last time I was here." "I forgot to set it that night." I crawl into bed, wide awake and jacked up by the turn of events. Good luck falling asleep. She's breathing hard next to me. "I hate you." I roll over and face her. "No, you don't. You want me." I point to her hard little nipples. "See." "If you were any kind of a gentleman, you would not point that out." She bands her arms around her boobs which does nothing but put them in gorgeous display. I could say something, but I don't. Elbows bent, I prop my head on top of my hands and stare at the ceiling. It's going to be a long night. For a while, the only sounds to be heard are the sawing of our breaths. "Maybe we should just do it." What!!! Is she suggesting what I think she is? "Do what?" "Have sex." Shhiiiitt! My cock is pulsing so hard it's fucking leaking by now. "MacKenna, I'm not going to take advantage of you. Not now when you're not in a good place." There. I acted like a gentleman. Disgusted, my cock tears up my player card. "Ty." She touches my arm and I hiss out a breath. "See? You can't sleep. I can't sleep. I liked it when we had sex last time. I liked it a lot. Maybe if we have sex all this tension will disa—" I tackle her to the bed. My hand snakes beneath the hem of her shirt, skims her soft thigh, and heads for the promised land. I tried. God knows I tried, but there's only so much temptation a man can withstand. "You're wet." "You make me wet." She purrs. Jeezus, how can I hope to be a gentleman with that admission? One handed, I wrestle the shirt off her, toss it to the floor. "Are you sure MacKenna? Are you absolutely, positively sure you want to have sex with me?" "Yes, Ty. I'm sure." She curls one of her soft hands around my neck and tugs me down, brushes her lips against mine. And then she pulls back, a horrified look on her face. "I'm sorry. I forgot." "Forgot what?" "You don't kiss." "Did Marigold tell you that too?" "Yes." Man that chick's a fount of information when it comes to me. "She's right. I don't kiss other women. But"—I kiss her soft shoulder, her supple throat, her satiny cheek—" I very much want to kiss you." I haul her body directly beneath me. Her eyes darken as I swoop in for a kiss. I keep up that swaying motion while I kiss her soft lips. She smells of everything that is sweet and good in this world. Her hands clamp down on my shoulders while I play with her mouth, nibbling, licking the edges, sucking in the luscious bottom lip. Her pussy's drenching my

cock. She loves what I'm doing to her. But as much as I want to pound into her, I keep up the soft, easy pace. I suck her tongue into my mouth, gently explore hers. She's breathing hard and so am I. Don't know how long I can keep up this gentle pace. But this is MacKenna, not some groupie interested in hard and quick. She wants the tenderness, the romance. I'm going to give her exactly what she wants. Even if it kills me. But first I need to make sure she's protected. I reach for the drawer in the night table, fish out a packet, rip it with my teeth and roll the latex over my cock. The damn thing's so hard I struggle to get it on. Eyes wide, she lies watching the whole operation. "Do you always—?" she asks. "Yes." Every damn time. "What's wrong?" "Nothing. It's just . . . the condom makes it real. You know." "Have you changed your mind? About the sex I mean?" Like there's another offer on the table. She curls her soft hand around my neck and pulls me down for a kiss. "No. I haven't." "These beauties of yours drive me crazy. So plump and bouncy." I slip the tip of one into my mouth and suckle. She moans. "Oh, God. Ty. Do that again." "With pleasure." I settle down to feast on her skin while my hand plumps and kneads the other one. She wiggles and I notch my hard on between her legs right where it will do the most good. "Oh, yes. More, please." I'm a big man and she hasn't had much experience, so I ease into her an inch at a time, while I savor the sweet skin of hers. Man, she tastes of brown sugar all over. And her scent? Well, I don't have to tell you what that scent does to me. I keep up that surging motion while she writhes beneath me. "You like this, MacKenna?" "Yes, Ty, yes." I kiss her, a deep soulful kiss that goes straight through me. And her too, going by the way her body trembles. "A little more, sweetheart?" "Okay." I do, and she bites down on her lip. "Too much?" "No." She curls her hand around my neck and brings my mouth to her lips. "Just right." I try to go slow, for her sake. Hell, for mine as well. I want to enjoy this as long as I can. But soon her motion becomes more frantic and her moans become more urgent. When she scratches my back, something inside me breaks. And I let go and pound into her, giving her everything I have. "Ty, oh, my god, Ty." Her climax hits and she screams. I bury my head in her neck and reach for my own release.

Minutes, hours later, our breathing, our heartbeats return to normal. I know she can't leave, not with the blockade at the door, but even so, I curl my body around her and latch my arm around here. If she so much as twitches, I'll know.

CHAPTER 15

MacKenna IN A SNUG COCOON, engulfed in blankets. The heat never worked right I WAKE in my apartment. But this morning even my toes are toasty warm. I pat the

bed around me, hoping to find Ty, but emptiness greets me. Maybe he's in the bathroom? But only the sound of silence greets me. Wrapping the comforter around me, I head for the bathroom, taking care not to walk too fast. After last night's marathon session, I'm aching in all the right places. On the bathroom mirror, I find a sticky note. "Off to practice. Back in the afternoon. Make yourself at home. Plenty of food in the fridge." Of course, he's at practice. He's a football player after all. They train just about every day, as I discovered during my interview with Ron. But can he practice with his arm in that brace? When I asked him about it, he clammed up. I make a mental note to find out about it. After a soak in the tub, I throw on some clean clothes and head to the kitchen for some much needed coffee. While the Keurig's doing its thing, I open the refrigerator door. He's not kidding about the fridge. It's jam-packed with all kinds of food. Keeping it simple, I scramble a couple of eggs, make toast, pour orange juice. As I'm cleaning up, my cell rings. It's him. "Good morning," he says in a voice full of gravel. "Morning." "Whatcha doing?" "Just finished breakfast." "Good. Had a great time last night." I blush, remembering all the things he did to me, all the things we did together. "Yeah, me too." "I'll be home by one. See you then?" Not an odd question. I did walk out on him before. But that's when I had somewhere to go. Right now, I don't. "I'll be here." "Great." His voice perks up, as if it's that important I remain in his house. Why?

I have no idea. It's not like we're an item. Yes, we've had sex—twice. But surely for a playah like him, that's nothing. Except he doesn't sleep with the same woman twice, and he certainly did with me. But I was the one to force the issue last night, wasn't I, after I crawled into bed with him? So it shouldn't mean that much to him. I can't think about this right now. Not when other things clamor for my attention. I call my boss to let him know my apartment was broken into and my laptop was stolen. He'll need to file a claim with the insurance company and also get a replacement. To his credit Mr. Bartlett is more concerned about my safety than the computer. "Machines can be replaced. Human beings can't." "Thank you, Mr. Bartlett. I appreciate that." "Do you have a place to stay?" "Yes. I'm bunking in with a friend." I don't tell him which friend. If he finds out I'm in Ty's house, he'll hit the roof. At the very least, he'll take me off Ty's interview. And I can't have that. I have to interview Ty. I need to interview Ty. He's hiding something. And I'm going to find out what. Ty may not want anyone to know about his past, but unfortunately, secrets have a way of coming out at the worst possible time. But what if it's something bad? Something that could damage his career. And football is everything to him. If it's something unpleasant, I'll deal with it when the time comes. The last thing I want is to hurt him. "If you need money, let me know. We can float you an advance on your paycheck." Even though I could use the cash, I decline his offer. I'll need funds to get a new place to live. When I find one, I can ask for an advance then. If I find one. Cheap apartments in safe neighborhoods are thin on the ground in Chicago. "Thanks, but I'm good." "Well, you let me know, if you do." He clears his throat. "Did you check the Sunday edition of the Windy City Chronicle?" "No. With what happened last night, I haven't had a chance." "You might want to." Does he mean what I think he means? Did the Ron piece make it on the paper? Suddenly breathless, all I can say is, "I will. Thanks again, Mr. Bartlett." Dying to find out if I'm right, I fire up my smart phone and enter the website's address. Sure enough. My Ron Moss article is front and center. I squeal. And it has comments! I squeal again before settling down to reading them. Individuals who have dyslexia, parents of dyslexic children. And every post is positive, praising Ron for his courage, for bringing this topic to light. There's even one from an eight-year old boy saying he doesn't feel so alone any more. That one brings a tear to my eyes. The more comments I read, the more my heart fills with joy. This is why I wanted to be a journalist. To bring social issues to the fore. Who knew I'd find it by writing a piece about a football player? I want to call Ron and share my joy with him. But he's got to be in football practice as well, so I put it off until the afternoon. In the meantime, I need to get

back to reality. I dig out my landlord's business number. When I call, all I get is voice mail so I leave him a message telling him what happened. Having done as much as I can about the apartment, I turn my thoughts toward my next interview. Without my laptop, I don't have anything to write on, so I go searching in Ty's kitchen for something to make do. I strike gold in a kitchen drawer where I find a small pad. The kind you use to make shopping lists with. Music helps me channel my inner journalist, so I fire up one my favorite playlists on my smartphone. I spend the next couple of hours, jotting down notes for my interview with Mad Dog Buchinsky. The key to him is to reveal the soft marshmallow heart of the strong linebacker. I'm so lost in my process, I don't realize Ty's home until he rolls in behind me and drops a kiss on my shoulder. I squeal and practically jump out of my skin. "God, you scared me." He walks around the end of the couch, lifts me and kisses me like I'm his last hope of salvation. When he presses against me, his erection brushes against me. Amazingly, he's just as hard as the night before. When I lost my mind with lust over him. My face grows hot as I recall the things I did, the words I yelled while we had sex. "I missed you." "Oh." Busy as I was jotting down notes, I didn't miss him. What does that say about me? Am I using him as a hook up? As a crutch? Or maybe I was just trying to fill my mind with thoughts about my career to avoid any personal introspection. Wouldn't be the first time I've done that. He breathes in my hair. "You smell like me." "Yeah, I used your stuff when I bathed." His body wash had been right there in plain sight, as well as his shampoo and conditioner. I'd brought my own, but it'd felt right to use his. If he couldn't be here, I could be surrounded by him. Boy, am I confused. Do I want him or not? He sweeps a lock off my face, and kisses my lips again. "Are you sore from last night?" My face heats up. "A little. But I don't regret it one bit." A boyish grin pops up on his lips. "Good." He reaches for the remote, turns on the TV, and a show pops up on the screen. A bunch of men talking about football. "The Raiders and the Cowboys. Should be a good game." "Okay." I cut the music app on my phone. "You want something to eat? I'm starving." He throws over his shoulder as he walks away. "I make a mean sub." "I'll take half of one." I follow him to the kitchen where he's already pulling stuff from the fridge—sub rolls, luncheon meats, cheese, all the fixings. "So what did you do this morning?" he asks as he starts making a Dagwoodstyle sandwich. Who thought he'd be so domesticated? Not only that, he's happy I'm here. Strange, since he's the love 'em and leave 'em type. I tell him about my conversation with my boss. "You didn't tell him you were staying here."

"No. That would not have gone well." I park my bottom on one of the kitchen stools while he slathers mayonnaise, avocado, and some dressing on one of the sub rolls. "He's bound to find out sooner or later." With any luck, he won't. I plan to move out as soon as I can. "Ty, I thank you for your help, but last night was a one time thing. Well I guess it's a two-time thing. If I moved in with you, my boss would hit the roof. I can't get personally involved with my interview subjects. If I did, I couldn't write an objective piece." Never mind it would break about a zillion journalistic rules. "That ship has sailed, hasn't it?" He plates my sub, adds a mountain of chips, and slides it over to me. "You want something to drink?" "I'll take a coke." He does have a point, but I believe I can still write an objective piece on him. But only if I'm not living beneath the same roof as him. He grabs the soft drink and a bottle of some artisanal beer I've never heard of, and plops down on the stool next to me. Grabbing the remote, he turns the kitchen television to the same pre-game show. Great! Now he has two tvs blaring football. After taking a huge bite of the sub, he washes it down with the beer before pointing to mine. "Eat." "Yeah." I tear off a piece of my sandwich and chew carefully. "You like?" I nod before swallowing. "You make a great sub." When his tongue darts out to lick his lips, my senses come alive. I know what he did with that tongue. A grin pops up on his face and he winks. Does he know what I'm thinking, what I'm feeling? Probably. He wouldn't be the player he is if he couldn't read women. But I can't go down that road, not when it will interfere with what I want out of life. Sooner or later the fact I'm in his house is bound to leak out. Finished with his sandwich, he takes his plate to the sink. Here's he gone and wolfed down his food, and I've barely taken a bite. "I've been thinking. If you stay here, I can help you." "How so?" Done rinsing the dish, he perches back on the stool and faces me. "I was serious about teaching you about football. The positions, the players, the strategies and tactics. It would help you interview the other Chicago Outlaws. I can see a whole series of articles." Exactly the same thing I thought. But his comment doesn't sit right with me. Maybe because that's not the journalistic future I envisioned for me. "I did not plan a sports journalism career. I want to report on social issues, women's issues." He waves a hand, dismissing my argument. "The Windy City Chronicle is small enough you could do both." "Joe Johnson is the newspaper's sports reporter." And he's already pissed off at me. One or two sports interviews are okay. But I can't dedicate all my time to

football. And yet? Somehow Ron's interview whetted my appetite for more. I'm so confused. "Joe is great at the game, but he can't get things out of the players like you can. They respond differently to you. I could help ease your way with them. Tell you what to ask. What to look out for." His brow scrunches. "Everyone except Ryan Taylor. Stay away from him." That's the second time he's warned me away from Ryan Taylor which only makes me more eager to interview him. But wait. He said something that doesn't track. "How do you know what I can get out of the players?" "I read the piece you did on Ron." "When?" I ask breathless. "It's in today's paper. Come on, let's go to the living room. It's more comfortable there." He grabs my plate, soda and his beer and heads to the coffee table where he promptly drops everything. "Come sit." He pats the couch next to him. Like a puppy dog, I do as I'm told. "How did you know the article was in the paper?" "How else? I looked, MacKenna. It's good. Very good," he says, toasting me with the beer. Pleased with the compliment, I smile. "I didn't know you read the Chronicle." "I didn't. Until I met you." "Oh." I grab the sub and take another bite, to give me time to think. He's never read the paper before me. What's that supposed to mean? That he's interested in me? Or that he wants to make sure I can write a decent piece on him? Probably the latter. His gaze narrows. "What's wrong?" "Nothing." I can't believe how easily he picks up on my moods. He's very good with women, maybe that's all it is. Except, that something tells me it's not the only reason. But I refuse to think about that right now. That's a dangerous path I don't want to travel. The important thing is to focus on my career. "I wish I could talk to Mar about the article. We always shared our college victories." His brow scrunches. "You haven't heard from her yet?" "No. I'm beginning to worry." "You want me to call Oliver?" I bop my forehead. How stupid can I be? "Why didn't I think of that? I have his personal cell number." "Oh, you do, do you?" His gaze narrows. Oops. Why, oh, why, didn't I keep my mouth shut? I could have made a beeline for the bathroom and called him. Too late now. The only thing I can do is explain. "He gave it to me at the Outlaws' facility when he asked me to attend the charity affair." The explanation doesn't help one whit. If anything, his eyes darken to a stormy green as fire breathes out of his nostrils.

My phone trills. Grateful for the interruption, I pick it up. It's the number of some hotel I've never heard of before. Even though I have no idea who it might be, I answer it. Anything to give me time to figure out a way to deal with Ty. "Hello." "MacKenna." A wave of relief rolls over me. "Mar! I'm so happy you called. Where are you? Did you go home last night?" "No. I'm at the"—she clears her throat—"I'm at the Golden Nugget." "The Golden Nugget? Sounds like a gambling casino." "It is." "Step on it, sunshine, breakfast is here." The male voice in her background sounds an awful lot like . . . Oh, my God. "Is that Oliver?" She groans. "Yes." "You and him?" "Yes. Look, I gotta go. We're leaving here soon. I'd like to come by your apartment and pick up my things." The fairyland I've been living in disappears, and reality sets in. "You can't. My place was broken into last night. I'm staying with Ty. I brought your bag. Can you come by his house instead?" "Your place got broken into? What happened?" "Last night, Ty accompanied me to my apartment. When we got there, we found my door busted, the place tossed. They took my laptop, a few other things." My stomach heaves. Darn it. I shouldn't have eaten that sub. "Did you call the police?" "Yes. They came. Wrote down the details, took fingerprints. They didn't hold out much hope they'd find whoever did it, much less what was stolen." "So Ty took you back to his house." "Yes, but—" A quick glance at Ty tells me he's focused on the game, so I whisper into the phone, "I can't stay here." "You can move in with me, MacKenna. As long as you need." A big wave of relief washes over me. "Thanks, Mar. I was hoping you'd offer." "We probably won't make it there 'til this afternoon. We're moving kind of slow this morning." "Err. It is afternoon, Mar." "Ouch," she yells. "What happened?" "Oliver snapped my butt with a towel. Why did you that?" The latter sounds fainter, like she's turned away from the phone. His voice comes over the phone, clear as a bell. "So I could kiss it and make it better." Oh, geez. An amorous Oliver and Mar, the queen of I'll see you when I see you. That can't end well. "Gotta go." Her voice sounds crazy strained and . . . urgent.

"Okay." I hang up. Wow. Oliver and Mar. Is she interested in him? After one night? Yeah, MacKenna, and how long did it take you to fall into Ty's bed. A whole two days, that's how long. And you're the no-sex queen. Darn. I never gave her Ty's address. I shrug. Maybe she'll call back, when she's not so . . . busy. And even if she doesn't, Oliver probably has it, or knows someone that can get it for him. I shrug. They'll figure it out. I return to the living room and take my spot next to Ty. Even though his gaze is pinned on the game, his hunched-over shoulders still brim with tension. "So, is your friend okay?" He mumbles after taking a sip from his beer. "Yeah, she's with Oliver, if you can believe it." The tension leaches from his body, as he turns to me with a smile. "Really?" "Yeah, really." I return his smile. "And you're not upset?" "No. Why should I?" "He asked you to the function, not your friend." "Actually, he asked us both. After Marigold found out that Tony Landon would be there, she practically begged. They're coming by this afternoon so Mar can pick up her things. Hope you don't mind." "Nope. I don't mind." Sitting back, he wraps an arm around me and tucks me against his side. "I figured I'd give you your first football lesson this while we watched a game." "Okay. Do you have a notebook I could write on? I found your shopping list pad this morning, but it's too small." "Yeah, I do." He rises and disappears into the hallway. A few minutes later, he returns with a notebook and hands it to me before sitting back down. "Now, tell me what you know." He spends the first quarter explaining positions, starting with his, of course. But soon he's moving on to the other players. "Now the tight end there." He points to a player on the TV who's lined up at the end of the line. "That's kind of personal, isn't it? I mean his heiney is pretty toned, but to call him that seems rude." He stares at me like I've grown an additional head. "That's the position he plays." "Oh." Blushing, I duck my head and write that down. "Now the fullback and the halfback? They run the ball." "So if they're fullback and halfback, are they more important than the quarterback?" "Hell, no. No position is more important than the quarterback. I call the plays, throw the ball, manage the players on the field. Shoot, they'd be dead in the water without me." His Texas accent emerges, something that seems to happen when his emotions enter the picture. "Uh." I cringe when one of the ball carriers gets tackled. "But they're the ones

getting hit." "Believe me, I get hit plenty. Got a concussion once." "That explains it, then." "Explains what?" "Never mind." I bite down on my lip to keep a smile from breaking out. But, darn it, he notices. "You messing with me?" All innocence, I widen my eyes. "No, Ty. I'm not." He looks at me askance, but doesn't push me for an answer. During half time he takes me outside to demonstrate the 'finer points of the game.' Before I join him, I throw on my coat. No way am I going out there in only jeans and sweatshirt. He lobs a couple of balls, makes a few moves. I'm supposed to tackle him. Fat chance. When we come back inside, the third quarter has started so we make our way to the couch. But he pays no attention to what's happening on the television. Instead, he cups my face between those big hands of his. And softly, so softly, brushes his lips against mine. I shiver from the contact. Who would've thought he'd be so gentle? From the corner of my eye, I spot a double reverse. "Oh, look at that." "I'd rather look at you." "But—" "Hush, I'm kissing you." Boy, for someone who doesn't usually smooch, he's aces at it. His kisses are everything I ever dreamed about—soft, tender. I throw my arms around his neck and kiss him back. He nibbles my lower lip. He doesn't invade or force himself on me, but licks the seam of my mouth as if he's asking for permission. Eager for his taste, I grant it to him. Gently, he pushes me down on the couch where he proceeds to taste every corner of my mouth. He's so big, so strong. I curl my hands around him and enjoy the feel of Ty against me. He rips off my top, the jeans I threw on. All that's left are my bras and panties. Leaning in, he smells me like a feral creature out in the wild scenting his mate. "You wet, MacKenna? I bet you are. I bet you're soaked down below. Shall I find out?" "D-don't." But it's too late. His hand skims up my thigh to my panties. He tugs them off, and suddenly he's there. At the place where I can't lie. His finger slides into my slick pussy. "Ooohhhhh." And then he goes down on his knees and kisses his way up my leg to my mons. Oh, God. No. "Wait. I need a shower. I'm all sweaty." "No, you don't." Next thing I know his mouth is on me, licking, suckling, nibbling. My heart pounds like a big bass drum. I writhe because I know what's coming this time. Me. "Oh, my god, Ty." Those green eyes of his shine up at me. "Tell me you want this, MacKenna." "Yes, oh, yes." He lifts one of my legs over his shoulders, then the other and proceeds to feast

on me. His hot, ravenous mouth gives me no quarter, not that I want any. I clamp on to him while his hot greedy mouth draws the cream out of me. I should be horrified at what I'm letting him do, at what I'm doing, but the truth is I don't care. Plain and simple, I love what he's doing to me. The bra clasp is child's play to him and it soon joins the rest of my clothes on the floor. I'm naked and trembling, and all I want is him. "I love your breasts," he says filling his hands with them. He leans down sucks one into his mouth while his fingers tweak the other's nipple. "You taste like brown sugar." "And your pussy?" He slips a finger into his mouth, the same finger which teased my mons. "Sweet honey." He rubs that same finger over my mouth. "Suck." I do, tasting myself. "I love the way you taste, MacKenna." He dives into his pocket and fishes out a condom. In seconds, he's shed his clothes, and stands in front of me, his cock proud and eager like the warrior he is. After he rolls on the love glove, he picks me up and walks toward an empty space on the wall, his raging hard on pulsing against my belly. Oh, God. I know what he's going to do. The scent of hot, sweaty man invades my nostrils, and I love it. Because it's him. Because it's Ty. "Do you want me to fuck you, MacKenna?" I'm trembling so hard I don't know if my knees will hold me up. A whimper is all I can manage. "You'll have to do better than that." His fingers sink into my pussy, teasing a "Yes"out of me. "Good girl." He lifts me, fits himself into me. When he rams home, we both grunt. He thrusts and thrusts and thrusts, while I hang on tight for all I'm worth. He bangs me against the wall, repeatedly, his hands squeezing my ass tight. I bury my head in his neck and suck his skin. I can't get enough of the taste of him. "Bite me." I do, and he comes in a rush inside of me. We collapse to the floor, me on top of him. When our labored breathing returns to normal, he sweeps the hair from my face. "I'm not letting you go. Ever." "Ty." My heart skips a beat. I can't be with him. It would derail everything I want out of life. "I—" But before I can say another word, he covers my mouth with his, in a tender, soul stealing kiss that ends my objection to his scheme.

"

CHAPTER 16

MacKenna S THE GAME ENDS, Marigold and Oliver finally make it to Ty's house, dressed A in the same clothes they wore to the charity event. I don't comment on it. Aside

from the fact, it's none of my business, I don't have room to talk. Last night I'd accepted Ty's offer with the full intention of staying only for one night. But one rustle of the trees outside my bedroom window had me crawling into his bed. Not only that, I'd practically thrown myself at him. Hell, not practically. I had first chance I got. And this afternoon, I'd willingly enjoyed round three. Offering the excuse we need to get her bag, I lead Mar to the guest bedroom. "Here it is." I point to the suitcase with the bright flower power tag, a reminder of her commune upbringing. "They didn't touch it. Whoever broke into my apartment seemed content to damage only my property. I didn't want to leave it behind in case whoever broke in came back." After a glance at her suitcase, she sweeps her hand down my arm. "How are you holding up?" I've held tough until now, but with her comforting gesture, I break down. Tears spill down my face as she puts her arms around me. She's so short, I have to bend to rest my head on her shoulder. "Oh, Mar. They trashed the place. My clothes, my furniture, my stuff. It's like they wanted to destroy everything rather than steal them." "Does the police have any leads?" "No. And they didn't hold out any hope, either. Break ins like mine happen all over Chicago. My guess is hoodlums who enjoy vandalizing just for kicks. Only thing of value they stole was my laptop." "Your newspaper will replace it, won't they?" "Yes, and all my research and articles are stored in the cloud, so I haven't lost anything, but still I feel so . . ." "Violated." The same word Ty used. And she's right. It feels like somebody defiled my soul,

the very essence of me. My information is protected, encrypted by a software program, but who's to say whoever stole my laptop can't break the code and read my most intimate thoughts. My hopes and dreams for the future, things I wrote about Ty and our first night together. The thought sickens me. "Yes." "So what are you going to do?" "Ty asked me to stay with him, but I don't think that's a good idea. Aside from the fact it would complicate things at the newspaper, I don't want to get too attached to him. Nothing good can come from it." Wish I could get my body to understand, but every time Ty comes near me, I fall apart in his arms. Her eyes signal nothing but kindness. "In all the time we were in college, you never dated. Not once. And now you go and fall for the football league's most notorious player." "I didn't fall for him." Her lips twist into a wry grin. "If you say so." Yeah, I'm lying. To her. To myself. But I just can't acknowledge the depth of my attraction to Ty. Not when I know nothing but heartache awaits me at the end. "Mar, please don't. I'm having a hard enough time keeping it together as it is." "Fine. Okay. No sense getting attached to him. He's not the sticking kind." She's right about that. "No, he's not." "And you're the kind who needs a man to stick around." She brushes her hand down my hair, squeezes my shoulder. "So, you want to stay with me?" I gaze at her out of what I know must be hopeful eyes. "Do you mind, Mar? I hate to impose." "Not a problem, kiddo. We can stop by your place and pick up whatever you need." "There won't be much. The thief destroyed most of my things. But I do thank you." After I give her a quick hug, I stand back and study her. She has a certain glow that wasn't there before. "Don't mention anything to Ty about me moving in with you." "You're not coming home with me tonight?" "No. Not tonight. I'll have to pick the right time to tell him." I'm stalling, I know. I should just rip off the scab. Thing is I can't. After his declaration this afternoon, I need to find the right words. She squeezes my arm again. "Whenever you're ready then." "Thanks, Mar" I tilt my head to the side, considering the best way to ask something I'm curious about. "There's something I need to ask. It's none of my business. And if you tell me to butt out, I will." "Go ahead. Spit it out." "You and Oliver?" A spot of pink blooms in her cheeks. "Yeah, who would have thunk, right? He's not exactly my type." During college, her type had been those in need of sexual guidance— dumb jocks, ignorant nerds, clueless intellectuals. She'd taken them under her wing and

literally made men out of them. Someone as gorgeous and sophisticated as Oliver Lyons was way out of her league. If anything, he'd probably taught her a thing or two. "You found something in common?" "Yeah, lust." She shrugs. "Pure chemistry. Plain and simple. We have the hots for each other. But I'm nipping this in the bud. Don't need any complications in my life. Especially when I hate his guts." "Why?" Oliver's is a gentleman from his toes up. "He's a heartless bastard." My stomach lurches. That can't be right. The Oliver I knew was nice and honorable. It's been a few years, but surely he wouldn't have changed that much. "What are you talking about?" "A plot on the edge of town had been earmarked for a new STEM school. But then he found out about it. The land's right next to Lake Michigan. A perfect place to build a new football stadium. He got his cronies together and threw so much money at the city council, they couldn't say no." "What happened to the school?" "They relocated it to the edge of the town. Much harder to get to. Some students depend on public transportation to travel to and from school. The first location was ideal, right on the main drag, bus lines running all the time. A lot of inner city kids can't afford the time or money to attend a school so far away." "But wouldn't they be bused to school?" "Yeah, but many have part time jobs in other sections of the city. If there is no public transportation from the school to the places where they work, chances are many will drop out. They need money more than they need school. It's a disaster in the making." "Maybe he'll change his mind if you explain it to him." "You think he doesn't know? That was one of the main arguments against the stadium, but his mind was made up, and there was no changing it." I pat her shoulder. "I'm so sorry, Mer." "Yeah, me too." We walk out of the bedroom and head back to the living room where Oliver and Ty are talking football. "Mar and I were talking. Mind if we go back to my apartment?" Ty's brow wrinkles. "Why?" "I was so upset yesterday, I may have missed a few things. And I'd like to clean up. As much as I can." His brow clears up. "Whatever you want, MacKenna." "Marigold is coming as well, you know, to help out." "Of course," Ty says. "I'll come too," Oliver says. "If you want my help, that is." "The more the merrier," I say pinning on my brightest smile. "Let me go get my bag." "I have bigger bags. Bring mine." Ty says.

"Okay." With that long-legged gait of his, he heads down the hallway. Suddenly regretting giving in so easily, I run after him. I catch up with him in his bedroom. "You don't have to do this. You've already done enough." "Don't be silly, MacKenna. It's only a couple of suitcases." He pulls me into him, kisses me and I melt. No wonder he doesn't kiss women. If he did, they'd puddle at his feet and he'd never get rid of them. He takes my hand and drags me toward his walk-in closet where he nabs a huge bag from its depth. "That's too big. I can't handle it." "I'll handle it, not you. Here." He hands me a much smaller bag. "You take this one, fill it up with your things." Just as I grasp the suitcase, he tweaks my chin and gives me that lopsided smile of his. My breath shorts. Leaving him is going to be very hard. When we return to the living room, Oliver and Mar spring apart. The look on both their faces tells me they weren't exactly saying goodbye. Guess I'm not the only one who's going to have a hard time letting go. But Miss love 'em and leave 'em is made of sterner stuff than me. More than likely, her attraction to Oliver will burn itself out in a very short time. I don't know if mine will. What I do know is I need to put some distance between Ty and me. As I buckle the seat belt in his Cheyenne SUV, I pray I can packing up and the cleaning will be painless. I didn't make that many memories in that apartment, but the devastation cuts me to the quick. Before we head out, I call the police to let them know we're coming back to the apartment. They'll need to tear down the tape so we can enter. But when we arrive, we find the landlord there, putting up a new door. Since there's no need to tear down the tape, we call the police to let them know they don't need to show up. Once the landlord's done installing the door, he hands me a new key. "She's not staying here," Ty says. "The place is not safe." The landlord shrugs. "Doesn't matter if it's safe or not. I installed a new door. That's all I'm required to do." Ty bangs on the wood. "That door's as cheap as can be. What is it made out? Balsam? She's leaving. Capisce?" "She has nine months left on her lease. If she refuses to pay rent, we'll sue." Fists drawn, Ty advances on the landlord. "Why, you—" "Ty, don't," I yell. Last thing we need is bloodshed. The landlord at last gets a clue and takes off at a run. "What the hell was that about?" Oliver says. "The man's scum." "There are ways of dealing with this situation, Ty, that don't involve violence." Ty smiles as he flexes his wrists. "Yeah, but it wouldn't be as much fun." Oliver's only response is an arch of his brow. "Come on. Let's get inside. We have a lot of work to do." I thought I could get out from under the lease, seeing how my apartment had been broken into. But

something tells me the landlord has the law on his side. He's fixed the door, and that's all he's required to do. Which means I'm stuck paying rent for a place I can't live in. "Maybe I should stay." "What?" Ty's head swivels toward me. "The hell you will." What was I thinking? I can't stay. I wouldn't get an hour's sleep in this place. "You're right." "I can have someone look into it, MacKenna and see if you can break the lease." With hope blooming in my chest, I glance up at him. "Okay. I appreciate it." "No problem." Without saying another word, I head into the apartment to reassess the damage. It's even worse than I remember from last night. Not only have my things been stolen or damaged, but great big holes have been carved into the walls. BITCH has been spray painted in bright red letters on my bedroom wall. "This is personal," Oliver says. With a great big lump in my throat, all I can do is nod. "Who would do something like this?" "I don't know." Tears roll down my face, and Mar hugs me to her. "It's going to be okay. MacKenna," she says, patting my shoulder. "You'll see." "Yeah." I don't know how. I don't have the money to replace the damaged things. I've worked so hard to get to this point. A job I love. An apartment close to everything. Maybe it was not the best, but the location suited me. But now? I don't know. I just don't know. Marigold fetches the broom from the closet and starts sweeping. Ty and Oliver walk through the space straightening furniture. They work well together, silently and efficiently, while I either nod for something to be tossed into the heavy duty trash bags we picked up on the way or ask for something to be put aside. After two hours of cleaning, the guys go out for pizza and beer. While Ty's gone, I finish packing up what's wearable or usable to take back with me. That's when I notice a framed photo is missing. "Oh, God." I wrap my arms around my waist trying not to succumb to the pain. "What?" Mar asks. "Jeanie's picture. It's gone. I know who broke in." My teeth are chattering so much, I can hardly get the words out. "It was him, wasn't it?" Mar asks. Him. Tommy Hawkins. The man who kidnapped and raped my sister. It'd been a fine summer day with not a cloud in the sky. While Jeanie groomed her horse below, I'd climbed to the barn loft to play with the new litter of kittens our barn cat had delivered. He'd covered her mouth to keep her from screaming while he violated her. Too afraid of what he'd do to me, I'd cowered in the loft, not making a sound while he abused my sister. I'd been eight at the time. It took the police a month to find her. That monster had caged her like an animal. He'd beat her up so badly, they couldn't set her legs straight. She'll walk with a limp the rest of her life. But the worst damage had been to her mind. Jeanie

had checked out and never checked back in. My parents had prayed and prayed for her recovery. But it was not to be. Upon the advice of her doctors, they'd placed her in an institution where she spends her days coloring and singing songs from fifteen years ago. She's safe and cared for, but she'll never be the same outgoing, happy sister I once knew. "I think so." Not surprising he's coming after me. I testified at his trial. It had been my testimony that had put him behind bars. My father had asked our neighbors not to discuss what happened to Jeanie. Our community honored his wishes. After a year, they put away all her pictures, and never mentioned her name again. They erased her from their memories like she never existed. But I never forgot. "I'm so sorry, MacKenna. But wasn't Tommy Hawkins in jail?" "He was sentenced to twenty years. But he was paroled a few months ago. He must have tracked me down." When my parents were notified he'd been released from jail, they called in a panic. I calmed them down as best I could. They hadn't told anyone where I'd gone to school. I'd legally changed my last name to Perkins. So there was no way he could find me, and yet somehow he has. A sudden thought occurs to me. "You can't tell Ty. Or Oliver." "I won't. But you have to tell the police." "Yes. They need to know. I'll call the detective tomorrow. Tell him what I suspect." During his sentencing, Tommy Hawkins had promised he'd get even with me if it was the last thing he did. And seemingly, he is. "It will be okay, MacKenna. You'll see. Once we get you settled at my place, things will look better." I shake my head. That's not happening. Not any more. "Mar, I can't. If I move in with you, then I'll place you in danger, and I can't have that." "But where will you go?" "There's only one choice, isn't there?" "You mean—" "Until the police catch that monster, it means I'll be living with Ty."

CHAPTER 17

Ty

"Y OU'RE NOT DRIVING YOUR CAR TO MY PLACE. Or anywhere else for that

matter." No way is she going out in that clunker of hers. A mulish look rolls over her face. "Why not?" "The front driver's door jams. The engine knocks when you switch on the ignition. You're not driving that thing. I'll get you another set of wheels. Something you can rely on not to leave you stranded by the side of the road." Eyes flashing, she jams her right hand into her hip. "No. You're not, Ty. My car might need some work, but it hasn't failed me yet." "Until it does." I square off against her, determined to get my way. She's not winning this argument if I have anything to say about it. "Your job takes you all over Chicago, doesn't it? What if it breaks down in a crappy neighborhood? What would you do then?" "Call for a tow truck like any other normal human being." "And while you wait, you could be robbed or worse." For a second, apprehension flickers in her eyes. Maybe I'm getting through to her. "I'll get you something you can depend on." Her mouth twists with distaste. "You're not getting a car for me, Ty, and that's final." She's challenging me? How far does she think her slender five seven will go against my muscled six five height? Stepping into her private space, I hulk over her. "Like hell I'm not." "Actually, I may have a solution." Oliver's smooth, elegant voice cuts through the strained atmosphere. It takes her a couple of seconds to react to his words. But then she tears her death match glare from me and turns toward him. "Do you?" "Yes. The Outlaws have a fleet of leased cars for players who occasionally find themselves without transportation. Most of the automobiles sit around, hardly ever used."

Her shoulders relax as the tension drains out of her. "That's very nice, Oliver, but I can't afford the lease." "You wouldn't be paying for it. I'm already doing so. It's a business expense, a tax deduction." "Oh." She thinks about it for a moment or two. "Are you sure it wouldn't be an imposition?" "No. You'd be doing me a favor. I can have someone deliver the car and the key tonight to Ty's house." She bites down on her bottom lip as she considers his offer. Finally, a smile wavers across her lips. "Okay. I guess that would work. Thank you, Oliver." She hugs him and kisses him on the cheek. A low and nasty growl crawls out from deep inside of me. Marigold grabs MacKenna's arm and tugs her toward the bedroom. "Let's get back to packing, shall we?" After a worried glance in my direction, MacKenna doesn't resist, but goes along with her friend. I'm left alone with Oliver Lyons. Much as I want to, I can't tear him limb from limb. He's my boss and the owner of the Outlaws. And I doubt MacKenna would appreciate my breaking his bones. Not the least fazed by my caveman behavior, he quirks a brow and grabs another cold brew from the six pack we brought. I do the same, tearing off the cap and gulping down half the beer while he calmly sips his. I get why MacKenna would accept an offer from him and not me. He's all smooth, sophisticated edges, and I'm a rough football player. Why would she choose me over him? And then there's the fact he seems more sexually aware of MacKenna's friend than MacKenna herself. So maybe she was telling the truth about him. Maybe they're only friends after all. Yeah, and monkeys fly out of my butt. Before I do something I may regret, I need to find out how he feels about her. "How long have you known MacKenna?" "About six years. My cousin's family owned the farm next to hers. I visited the summer before I went off to college." "Why?" "They were looking to sell the farm. My offered to buy it if farming appealed to me." "And what did you decide?" "The farm was a prosperous enterprise, but it demanded total commitment. Whoever owned it had to love working the land. I didn't. So we passed on it." Glancing down, I pick at the bottle label. "Did you spend time with MacKenna that summer?" "Occasionally. My family insisted I pull my weight with farm chores, so I was pretty busy from dawn to dusk. But she and one of my girl cousins were good friends, so she tended to visit. And then there were socials and church activities."

I force a question from my lips. "Did you like her?" "Yes, I did. She was beautiful. And true." Another growl escapes me. "Oh, for Pete's sake. Stop it with the growling. I never laid a hand on her." I snort. "Yeah. Right." I take a long pull of the beer while trying to figure out where I can hide his body. He clamps a hand on my shoulder. "Ty, you have nothing to worry about. She was sweet, but she was barely fourteen. And I was interested in, shall we say, a more mature woman. Someone who could teach a horny eighteen year old a thing or two." I know about horny eighteen year olds. Used to be one myself. During my first year in college, I'd enjoyed a fling with a college professor. She'd taught me plenty about pleasuring women. "Oh." "I asked her to the charity function because I wanted to catch up. Nothing else. And in case you haven't guessed, I'm more interested in that firebrand friend of hers than MacKenna." Happy to have my intuition confirmed, I grin. Maybe I won't have to kill him after all. "Yeah, I noticed." I point my beer bottle at him. "By the way, since when do we have a fleet of cars for the players?" Oliver laughs. "Since today. Is that car of hers as bad as you say?" "Worse. She can't get the driver's door open, and the engine knocks. God knows why, but she likes that car. I'll have somebody take a look at it to see if it can be fixed. Let me know how much the lease costs, and I'll pay for it." He dismisses my suggestion with a wave of his hand. "Don't worry about it. I'll handle it." "No. You won't." I shoot him a no-nonsense glare. For a couple of seconds, Oliver stares at me. "You know what? I don't get it." "You don't get what?" "You and MacKenna. What is she to you?" I bristle at the question. First off, it's none of his business, and second, I don't know how to describe my relationship with MacKenna. All I know is I've never cared for a woman the way I care for her. But what it means? I have no clue. "Don't butt in, Oliver." "I can't. I feel a certain sense of . . . responsibility over her." I laugh. "Oliver, you walked away and left her with me at the charity party." "That's not fair. MacKenna made her wishes crystal clear. She wanted to stay with you." "Yeah, she did, didn't she?" She'd chosen to remain with the caveman rather than go with Mr. Sophistication. But then I'd dangled a pretty carrot in front of her —the interview. That's the only reason she'd come with me. Well, whatever the reason, she'd picked me, not Oliver. It's a start. "I can understand why you left. MacKenna's friend was making certain demands on you." "Demands? Hell." He belts out a laugh. "She clamped on to my balls and told me

she'd yank them off if I didn't follow her lead." My groin twinges in sympathy. "Ouch." "Right. I wasn't about to let her damage the family jewels. My family's counting on me to procreate." "I thought you had an older brother. Wouldn't it be up to him as well?" A shadow crosses over his eyes, and he looks away. "Yeah, but he's not . . . able." "Oh, sorry about that man." I'd heard rumors about his older brother, nothing definite. But enough to tell me something's going on with him. Whatever's bothering Oliver, he shakes it off. "Now. About MacKenna." "Man. You're like a dog with a bone, you know that." "Like I said. I feel a certain sense of responsibility. I know her family. She comes from really good stock. I'd hate to see her hurt." "Last thing I want to do is hurt MacKenna." "That's what you say now, but I don't see how you wont. You're taking MacKenna home, offering to get her a car. You're getting close. She might get attached to you. And let's face it. You're not the serious kind. Everybody knows you don't date the same woman twice. At some point, you'll part ways, and she might end up brokenhearted." "She won't if I have anything to say about it." MacKenna's different from the women I usually date, way different. "I promise. I'll do my best with her." Before he can say anything else, the girls return to the living room, dragging my suitcases behind them. We gather our pizza feast leftovers and toss them in the trash chute out in the hallway. While MacKenna and Marigold remain behind to tidy up as much as they can, Oliver and I make a couple of trips to my Cherokee with her things. Done loading the SUV, we lock her apartment door behind us. Fat lot of good that will do. The wood's just as flimsy as the one it replaced. But mentioning it will just upset MacKenna, so I don't. After the girls hug and say goodbye, MacKenna and I climb into the SUV. With all the lifting and carrying, my shoulder's throbbing. I'll have to pop a couple of ibuprofens as soon as I get home. MacKenna's silence during the ride is deafening. I have to get her out of her head. So I bring up a topic that has nothing to do with her. "So, Marigold and Oliver, huh? Who knew?" "Yeah." Rather than look at me, she stares out the window. I should leave her alone. She needs to process what's happened. Except, I can't. "Cat got your tongue?" She fights to put on a smile. "I'm trying to figure out what to do next." I squeeze her hand. "Everything will be all right. You'll see. You have a place to stay, and soon a car to drive." "For now. Eventually, I'll need to find a place of my own and get my car fixed." "There's a mechanic who works wonders with some of the players' cars. He tricks them out. That kind of thing."

She jerks away her hand, and stares straight ahead. "I don't need someone who tricks cars, but a mechanic who fixes them." "He does that too. I can have your car towed to his place of business. He can call you with an estimate." She heaves out a sigh and rests back against the headrest. "I just hope it's not too expensive." "I can—" She turns toward me. "No. You cannot pay for it, Ty." "I was going to say, I can float you a loan, and you pay me back when you can." She shakes her head. "I don't know if I can accept any more from you. You're already putting me up at your house. I can't very well owe you money for the car repair, as well." "It's a loan, MacKenna. That's what friends do." "It's that what I am to you? A friend?" "Yes." I squeeze her hand again, bring it to my lips and kiss it. In truth, she's a hell more than than a friend. But what she is exactly, I don't have a clue. Once we arrive home, we carry her pitifully few belongings to her bedroom—a couple of boxes filled with books, suitcases stuffed with clothes and things. Knowing last thing she wants is my help, I stand by while she unpacks and sets out her belongings in the closet and around the room. "If you need more hangers, let me know." "Thanks, but I brought enough with me." Strangely enough, she doesn't unpack a picture frame of her family. And other than a Winnie the Pooh, there's not a single memento from her childhood. She has a father and a mother. From what Oliver revealed, they seemed a pretty tight knit family during the time he'd known them. Did they have a falling out? Done, she zips up the bags and returns them to me. "Thanks." "Anytime." Wanting to stay with her a little bit longer, I ask, "You want something to eat or drink? I can whip something up." She sends me a patient smile. "No thanks. Still full from the pizza." "I'll just go, then." Dragging my feet all the way, I walk toward the door. Once I reach it, I turn back around. "If you need anything, anything at all—" She steps forward until she's standing right next to me. Dark shadows mar the skin under her eyes. Clearly she needs her rest. "I'm okay, Ty. Thanks." As soon as I step into the hallway, she shuts the door. Can't blame her. After what she's gone through in the last couple of days, she probably needs to regroup. Sometimes solitude helps you do that. After I stash the empty suitcases in my bedroom closet, I wander through the house making sure each window and door is closed tight, and the alarm's set. Satisfied the house's as safe as it can be, I head for my room and a quick shower. It'll be lonely tonight without her in my bed. I'll miss her curvy ass snuggled against my groin, her luscious tits pressed against my hand. Heaving out a hard sigh, I slip into a pair of sweat pants and slide into bed.

Sleep does not come easy, but finally I doze off. Some time later, I'm awakened by the rustle of my sheets and MacKenna slipping into bed with me. I breathe out a soft sigh. "Couldn't sleep?" "No. You don't mind, do you?" "Of course not." I can't take advantage of her, not when she's hurting so much. So I merely put my arm around her and pull her close. "Go to sleep." She turns over and kisses my cheek. "You're very sweet, Ty." My lips curve up in a grin. "Don't tell anybody, will you? I have a reputation to protect." "Your secret is safe with me." She swivels back around, shimmies her ass close to my private bits, and breathes out a soft sigh. And in no time at all, she's fast asleep. That makes one of us, because with her luscious ass pressed against my prick, fat chance I'll do the same.

CHAPTER 18

MacKenna ONDAY MORNING, I'm snuggled against Ty when my cell rings. Darn it. I'd M left it behind in my room. I crawl out of the warm and cozy cocoon, and mad dash it

back to my room. All groggy voice, I answer. "Hello." "Good morning." It's Oliver. "I didn't wake you, did I?" "No. I was up doing . . . stuff." "Oookay." I can hear the smile on his face. Oh, God. Now he's probably thinking I was doing it with Ty. "Just wanted you to know your car will be delivered in the next hour or so. Sorry for the delay, but there was a problem last night." "No worries. Thanks. Hopefully, I won't need it that long." "What do you mean?" "Ty's having my car towed to a repair shop. With any luck, I'll get it back by the end of the week." "Sounds good. But you can keep the leased one as long as you want." "Thanks, but I'd rather not impose on you." "It's not an imposition." After hanging up, I dress quickly. By the time I'm done, the scent of bacon and coffee tells me Ty's busy in the kitchen whipping up some breakfast. Determined to adopt a sunnier frame of mind today, I breeze into the kitchen with a smile on my face. "Good morning." "Morning." He throws over his shoulder, all his attention on the bacon on the stove. Which gives me the chance to ogle him. He's looking particularly delicious this morning. His massive muscular back narrows down to a V. The sweat pants ripple across his mighty fine ass. God, even his feet are gorgeous. Without turning around, he says, "Like what you see?" "What?" My cheeks flame. How does he know I'm salivating over him.

"You're ogling my ass." Busted. "I am not." He drops the bacon on a couple of paper towels to drain, and turns off the stove. And then he swivels toward me. "Admit it. You lust after my body." "You're so . . ." "Hot? Ripped? Built?" With every word, he takes a step toward me. "Arrogant!" He smirks. "Yeah, that too." He continues walking until my back's flushed against the refrigerator. He's hard all over, including his cock that he grinds against my stomach. My skin flushes from the contact, and my breath shorts. Still, I find the breath to ask, "Shouldn't your shoulder be in that brace?" "I'll put it on after I dress." He leans over and kisses, suckles my neck. I get goosebumps all over. "Wh-what's wrong with your shoulder?" "A small tear in my rotator cuff." "So you can't play?" He stops nibbling on my neck and returns to the stove. "That's right." Ooh. Sore subject. Not a surprise. Football's everything to him. But who's taking his place? The curious reporter in me demands I find out more. "So who's playing quarterback?" "Pedro Santiago. It's temporary. I'll be back in three weeks." He bites out. There's a hint of worry in his voice. But not alarm. Still. "Of course you will. You're the best quarterback in the league." "Oh, and how do you know that?" He rests the tongs on the silicone pad on the counter and turns back to me. "Research, of course. You have a 94.5 quarterback rating, thrown twelve touchdowns and run one in, and passed for over 2,500 yards. And it's only the eighth game of the season." His lopsided grin makes an appearance. "Look at you." "What?" "Spitting out stats like a regular sports reporter." He curls an arm around my waist, pulls me against him and kisses me. Predictably, I melt. Once we come up for air, I nudge him out of the way. "I'll finish breakfast." "I'll set the table." He busies himself setting two plates on the kitchen island and pouring glasses of orange juice while I finish with the bacon. When I scramble a couple of eggs with cheese, he drops some bread in the toaster. "We make a great team." I have to agree. You'd think we'd been making breakfast forever. Once the bacon and eggs are done and plated, we sit on stools next to the kitchen island and wolf down the food, washing down everything with coffee and the OJ. I grin at him. "You'd think we were hungry or something." "Yeah," he says, mopping up the rest of his egg with a piece of toast. "Who was on the phone?"

"Oliver. He was calling about the car. It should be here soon." No sooner do I finish saying that than Ty's kitchen phone rings. He picks it up. "Hello?" "Uh huh." He covers the mouthpiece. "It's the guard from the front gate. Your car's here." "That's great." "Yes. I have a guest staying here. Let him through." A strange look rolls over his face. "What's wrong?" "The car's for a Ms. Peters?" Oliver didn't know I'd changed my name. "That's my real name. Perkins is my newspaper name." "Oh. Okay." After I sign for the car, I stroll back to the kitchen where Ty's loading the dishwasher. "Here. Let me do that." "I'm almost done." Drying his hands on a kitchen towel, he turns back to me. "Why do you write under a different name?" "My father insisted. He wasn't too keen on me using our family name." He folds and rehangs the towel on the stove door. "I noticed you don't have any pictures of them. Did you have a falling out?" I shrug. "Not a falling out exactly. More of a distancing. They're pretty conservative people. Very religious as well. They wanted me to stay in Iowa and marry a farmer, not run off to the big bad city to become a journalist. So, as a compromise, I chose a different professional name." This is the story I've handed out to anyone who needed to know, like Mr. Bartlett. The truth is quite different, of course. I'd changed my name so Tommy Hawkins could not find me. That hadn't worked out. He found me anyway. "They thought I was pretty wild." He snorts. "You wild? Do they even know you?" I smile. "You have to see it from their point of view. They thought me coming to Chicago to study journalism and work for a newspaper in a big city was wicked and immoral." He folds those massive arms of his against his chest and leans against the kitchen counter behind him. "Whatever would they think of you living with me?" That gets my hackles up. "I'm not living with you. I'm staying here temporarily." "MacKenna, you have nowhere to live. Apartments in Chicago are pretty pricey. Stay with me." He waves his good arm around the house. "You have to admit, these are pretty sweet digs. And you can save your money so you can afford a nice apartment in six months or so." "Sorry, but that's not going to happen. I plan to be out of your hair as soon as I can." He glances at the kitchen clock "We can talk more later. Right now, I gotta go to work." Before he leaves, he rummages in one of the kitchen drawers, pulls out a

remote and hands it to me. "Here." "What is it?" "The garage opener. You'll need it to open the door." He slides his key ring from the hook on the wall and removes a key. "And here's the front door key." "Thanks." "You're welcome." Turning on his heel, he heads toward his room before I have a chance to say anything else. Not that I want to. I can't argue about this any more. I'll do what I need to do, and, once I've found a new place to live, I'll tell him. I return to my room only long enough to grab my purse and my coat and head out in my new car. I hadn't noticed the make or model when I signed the papers. I was in too much of a hurry to do so. The darn thing's a Mercedes Benz C300 Sedan. Given my farm upbringing, I can drive anything from a tractor to a caterpillar, but I must admit I've never ridden, much less driven, a ride as luxurious as this. With its heated leather seats, GPS and satellite radio, it's a pretty sweet ride. A girl could get used to this. I back out of the driveway and head toward the gate. But before I can exit, the guard stops me. A different one than the night before. Same gray uniform though. As I roll down my window, he doffs his cap. "Ms. Peters, I presume." "Yes. Anything wrong?" "No. Just wanted to let you know if you're going to be staying in Mr. Mathews' house, you will need to register the car. We require it of all our residents." He hands me a sheet of paper and a booklet entitled "Windhaven Gated Community Regulations." "Oh, okay. I'll let Mr. Mathews know. Thank you." Glad to know they're so thorough with their security. I laugh at my change of heart. Barely a few days ago, I resented all the security. But now, that my apartment has been broken into, I'm sure glad they have such tight measures even if I won't be staying here this long. As it turns out, I beat everyone to work. Well, almost everyone. Following the scent of coffee, I head to the kitchen where I find Dotty pouring a cup of java. Her eyebrows climb as she spots me. "You're here early." "I thought I'd get an early start and beat the traffic." "No such thing in Chicago. Rush hour traffic starts before five in the morning." "Ain't that the truth?" "I heard about your apartment break in. I'm sorry." Wow. Word travels fast. "How did you find out?" "Mr. Bartlett called me last night. He needed the insurance information so he could put in a claim for a new laptop. In the meantime, we have an old one you can use. It doesn't have all the bells and whistles, but it will do until we get yours replaced." "Oh." Along with being the office receptionist, Dotty functions as our office manager. We'd be totally lost without her. She pours another cup of the life affirming beverage and hands it to me. "So,

how are you doing?" I pour cream and low cal sweetener into it and take a seat across the small table from her. "Okay, I guess." "Got a place to stay?" "I moved in with a friend." Even to my ears, my voice sounds tight. "Tight quarters?" "No. Just the opposite." "Bad neighborhood?" "It's an exclusive, gated community." She frowns, and then a light dawns in her eyes. "Oh. Ty Mathews?" "Uh-huh." My cheeks heat up. "Please don't tell Mr. Bartlett. He'd blow a gasket." "So why do you have a problem? Mr. Mathews isn't asking for something in return, is he?" Her brows thunder down. "Something in return?" For a second, I don't get her meaning. And then a light bulb goes off. "Oh, gosh. No. Nothing like that. He's a perfect gentleman." Well, except when we're in bed, and then he's a total animal. But then I love that side of him. "A total sweetheart." "Is he?" A crooked smile pops up on her lips. Shoot. "Forget I said that, will you?" Her brow scrunches. "Why?" "He doesn't want anyone to know that he's, umm." "Sweet." "Yes." She turns an imaginary key in her lips. "Don't worry. Mum's the word." "Thank you." She takes a sip of coffee. "So, if the place's great and he's a sweetheart, what's the problem?" "I'm writing an article about him, so I don't want things to get too cozy between us. Better we maintain a professional distance between us. You get that, don't you?" "Absolutely." She grabs a yogurt from the fridge. "Want one? I brought extras." "No thanks." I pat my stomach. "Ate a big breakfast." Sitting back down, she tears the lid off the container. "So what are you doing to do?" I shrug. "I don't know. I can't afford a good place to live. And I can't go back to my apartment." Just the thought of going back makes me shudder. "I'll never feel safe there again." She covers my restless hand with her own. "Maybe I can help." "You can?" "Yes. A friend of mine owns a unit in my building. Every year, she travels to Florida in the fall and returns in the spring. She usually sublets it, and had someone all lined up. But at the last minute, the arrangement fell through."

"You think she'd sublet it to me?" "Absolutely. Especially since I'll vouch for you. Nice neighborhood. Not too far from here. Secured building with a doorman and everything." "Yeah?" "She doesn't charge much for rent. Six hundred a month." My eyes widen. "Six hundred? That's less than half what I'm paying now." "She was married to a plastic surgeon with a very lucrative practice, so money's not an issue for her. She's more concerned about having someone there she can trust." "But if she's not concerned about money, why is she subletting it at all?" "She doesn't like to leave it vacant in case something happens to the unit. Frozen pipes, that kind of thing." She pauses for a moment. "And it does come with a dog." "A dog?" "Yeah. A Labrador Retriever. Her grandkids suffer from allergies so she can't take him to Florida when she visits her son. Have you ever owned one?" "Yes. I grew up with one." When I turned seven, I was given my own to raise—a female Collie who followed me everywhere I went. She'd gone missing a week before my sister had been kidnapped. Later on we'd found the Collie's body in a creek. She'd been strangled. Even though it couldn't be proved, I always suspected Tommy Hawkins of the crime. Months after it happened, my parents encouraged me to adopt another dog, but I didn't have the heart. "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 UESDAY MORNING as I head to the Outlaws' compound I'm in a great frame T 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 to 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, texmex 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 says, "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. "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 HURSDAY MORNING, I arrive at the newspaper office eager to work on Ty's T 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 WO WEEKS HAVE GONE BY since MacKenna left. Two weeks without her in T 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 ATURDAY NIGHT, I drive Rosco to the day care that also functions as a doggy S 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. "The door closed behind us so we won't be overheard. And there are no cameras down here." "Are there some upstairs?" "Oh, yes. And as you saw for yourself, the front door is not only locked but you need a code to enter. The code changes every semester." "Why the security?" "We get threats at times. The door's is pure steel, so unless you know the code, you can't get in. If anybody gets too belligerent and demands entrance, we have time to call security." It's not wonder they take so much precaution. In this day and age, you can't be

too careful. We've been wondering through a corridor lined with filing cabinets on the right. She stops in front of one labeled 2009, and slides out the file drawer. From its depths, she retrieves a closed box. "This is what I wanted you to see. Actually, what I wanted you to hear." It's a box of tapes and cassette ones at that. I thought those things had gone the way of the dinosaurs. "Okay." "Yes. Our student editor at the time was a female student. She didn't trust men as far as she could throw them. So when this story hit, she started taping the conversations of everybody she talked to about the sexual assault case. Of course, she didn't share she was doing, so the whole thing's illegal." "Who did she tape?" "Everyone, from Emily Suarez herself, to the frat boys who attended that party and swore up and down they hadn't seen or heard a thing. Yeah, fat chance of that. There's one in particular I want you to hear." Please don't let it be Ty. Anyone but him. I don't think I could face him if he'd witness the events leading to Emily Suarez's assault. I gulp back the bile that's suddenly risen in my throat. "Whose interview was it?" "Coach Gronowski." What? "The Outlaws' head coach?" "That's the one. He coached the Nebraska State football team for a number of years. The last team? He led all the way to a national championship. As far as the students were concerned, he could do no wrong. I think that's why our college advisor, Professor Leonard, gave in to his demands. He was afraid of the repercussions if he turned him down." "So what did Coach Gronowski ask the newspaper to do?" "You'll see." All this time, she's been going through the box of tapes, each one labeled with a name and a date. "Ah, here it is." The tape she holds out to me is labeled Gronowski discussion, "March 7, 2009." She injects the tape into a cassette player she brought down with her. "It's my own. Don't want anyone to know I retrieved the newspaper's unit from storage. I'd need to sign it out if I did." At first Coach Gronowski lays it on thick with praise about the great job the newspaper's doing. But then it turns nasty. "I understand you have a list of everyone who was questioned by the police." "Yes, we do. But we have no intention of publishing those names," Professor Leonard insists. "You expect me to believe that? If you reveal a couple of my players were interrogated, you'd cause quite a stir on campus. A football player involved in this type of scandal might seriously injure any chances he'd have at the NFL. And I have several who fit that bill." "You'll have to take my word for it, Coach." "I don't believe you. This is just too juicy a story to let go." Something that

sounds like the scraping of a chair comes through. "But if my players' names are mentioned in your piddly paper in connection with happened at that fraternity, I'll make sure that your rag gets shut down. Permanently." "You can't do that." Professor Leonard's voice wavers. "I can and I would. Not only that. You'd find your sorry ass out on the street." "But I have tenure." "So? That doesn't prevent the school from firing you for financial mismanagement or sexual misconduct." "I've never taken a dime or . . . the other thing." "You sure, Professor? You sure I couldn't find one instance of wrongdoing?" Dead silence greets him. "I thought so." Stephanie stops the tape. "That's it." "So Coach Gronowski threatened the professor with shutting down the paper and getting him fired in order to protect his players." "Yeah." "Did this discussion occur right after the party?" "About a week later. It was right at the beginning of the investigation. The police didn't even have the DNA results back. They were talking to everyone who attended the party, not just the football players." "Who was there from the team?" "Ryan Taylor and Ty Mathews." My heart plummets. "But Ty had nothing to do with it, did he?" "He was never charged, that's correct." "That's not an answer." "There's another tape you should listen to. It's the one of the victim, Emily Suarez." This time she'd been told they were recording the information so they ask for her name and age. "Emily Suarez, eighteen." "So young." "She was a freshman." The student interviewing offers a couple of softball questions, mainly to establish rapport. I've done that myself many a time, but then she gets to the hardball questions. "So Emily, were you invited to the party?" "No. Not really. I heard about it, and my boyfriend was there." "Your boyfriend?" "Well, the guy I've been dating." "Who's that?" "No. I can't." "You don't want to name him." "No. He wouldn't like it if I did. You see, Coach Gronowski would not approve. He doesn't want his players to have girlfriends. Says it takes away from their focus

of the game." "Oh?" "So, I wasn't surprised when he didn't invite me. But I though I'd drop by and say hi. You know, casual like." "Right." "But then I saw him talking to another girl. So I didn't feel comfortable going up to him." "And then what happened?" "This . . . I'm sorry can I have a glass of water." "Sure." A minute or so passes in silence. "Here." "Thanks." "So this guy came up to me. I didn't recognize him, and asked me if I wanted a drink. I should have said no. I know that. But I . . . Didn't. Next thing I know my head's spinning. And the guy takes my hand. "Here you need to lie down." "Yeah, I think I better." But the farther I walked the more I knew something was wrong. We passed my friend. I said hi or something like that. He asked me what I was doing. I said I was going to lie down. I wasn't feeling well. He looked at the guy who had given me the drink. "What are you doing with her?" "I'm going to show her a good time." Even sick as I was, I knew what that meant. I said "No. I don't want to." But my friend winked at the guy and said, Have a good time." And he turned right back to the girl he was talking to. I don't remember much after that, except fighting off a bunch of guys came into the room. And they hurt me. They pushed themselves inside of me and they hurt me. Sometime in the middle of the night. I got up. I couldn't find my panties, so I put on my pair of jeans and crawled out of the room. The guy who'd brought me to the room was passed out on the floor." "I'm so sorry, Emily." "Yeah, me too." "When I got to my dorm, my roommate was waiting up for me. She took one look at me and drove me to the hospital. The rest was kind of a nightmare. I got examined, probed, DNA kits were taken, photographs were taken. I had bruises on my arms my legs, my face, my neck. One of them tied me up. Another one almost choked me. After what seemed forever, the police showed up and I had to repeat the whole thing again. I didn't get back to my dorm room until mid morning. By then it was all over campus. They withheld my name to protect me." "But now you want to come forward." "Yes, I think it's important to put a face to the victim, don't you? Or so I've been told." "Are you sure, Emily? Are you sure you want to reveal your name?" "Yes, I'm sure."

"Very well. I'll write the article. It'll be on the front page of the school paper. I imagine you'll be interviewed by the press as well. Does your family know?" "No. I couldn't tell my mother. It would kill her." "Have you gone to counseling?" "Yes. They've been very kind." "I'll let you know when the article will appear in the paper. If I have more questions—" "Call me. I want to make sure you get the true story out." "Okay." "And that's it," Stephanie Colton says. "She wasn't interviewed again?" "There are no more records of her. Poor girl." Clearly, there was a connection between Emily Suarez and one of the football players. The dastardly coward seemed to have known or at least approved of what was going to be done to her. And yet, he did nothing. No wonder Coach Gronowski didn't want any of the football players mentioned. "And there were only two football players living in the fraternity house?" "Yes. Ty Mathews and Ryan Taylor. Buchinsky was a member but he had an apartment off campus. The only reason I know that is that his girlfriend was a friend of mine." "So much for Coach Gronowski's rules about no girlfriends." "Oh, believe me, Mad Dog didn't share that detail with his coach." "But one of the players witnessed Emily Suarez being taken to a room to be raped." "Yes." "And the choices are Ryan Taylor or Ty Mathews." I can't see Ty ignoring the girl taken anywhere to be raped, no wonder how drunk he might be. "My vote's on Ty Mathews." "Why?" "After the rape, he was seen coming in and out of her dorm. Turned out he knew her. They both came from the same town in Texas. Apparently, she had a crush on him." "It can't be him. He wouldn't have ignored his friend being taken to a room to be assaulted, much less encouraged it." "How do you know?" "I'm interviewing him. I know what he's like." "From what I understand, he's got quite a bad boy reputation in Chicago." "Yes. But deep down, he's not like that." "I only know what I've heard." I've got to clear Ty's name, even if he's never been charged with anything, I have to find out for myself. "Whatever happened to her? I hope she made it through okay." "Emily Suarez?"

I nod. "But I thought you knew?" "Knew what?" "She found out she was pregnant. Two months after the rape, Emily Suarez killed herself."

CHAPTER 23

MacKenna HANKSGIVING DAY, Marigold and I spend the morning at the food kitchen, T peeling about a billion potatoes, and boiling a zillion ears of corn. Once the

afternoon shift takes over, we head for my apartment, where we cook our humble feast. Turkey breast, mashed potatoes, and corn with pumpkin pie for dessert. The Chicago Outlaws are playing an away Thanksgiving Day game, so, thankfully, I don't have to face the agony of holding the celebration separate from Ty. He calls once a week, even though I've asked With dinner cooked and eaten, Mar and I park ourselves on the sumptuous couch in front of the wide screen HD television to enjoy our slices of pumpkin pie with home made whipped cream, and coffee made from a top notch espresso machine while Rosco settles himself in front of us on the rug, hoping a crumb or two will fall his way. "Ummm, great pie, MacKenna." "Thanks. It's my mother's recipe." She wipes her mouth with a napkin and looks around the living room. "Such a beautiful condo. You're going to miss this when the owner returns." "I'll find something else." "Another lousy apartment in another crappy part of town?" "Why are you doing this?" "You could be living in a much better place." Ever since the break in, she'd been gently bringing up the subject of my living situation. Since my stay here is only temporary, I'll have to find a new place to live come May. Seeing how that's months away, I haven't given it much thought. But it does seem to preying on Mar's mind. And I know where she's headed. "With Ty Mathews, you mean?" "Yes. You have this gorgeous man who's crazy about you. He calls you every week, but you barely talk to him. He cares for you, but you push him away. Why are you doing this? You can't tell me you're not attracted to him. The chemistry between you is undeniable. The day he helped you move, you couldn't keep your

eyes from him." I wipe my mouth with the napkin, sip some coffee, to give me time to think. True, I want him with every ounce of my being. But that's not enough to form a lasting relationship, not the kind that that I want. "It's just lust, nothing serious." "It may not be love, but maybe it can lead up to it. If you only give it a chance." "What good would it do, Mar? He's a playah. You said so yourself." She hitches up a brow. "He was. But not anymore." "And how do you know this?" "I've been spending time at the Outlaws compound on weekends. Setting up my office, getting to know the players, that kind of thing. Word has it that Ty has totally changed." "Changed how?" "He doesn't party any more. He comes to practice. Does what he has to do, and, at the end of the day, he goes home. Alone." "Well, he's supposed to be taking it easy, so he can't very well party." "Oh, come on, MacKenna. The man carried a bunch of boxes out of your place. How much was he taking it easy then?" "There weren't that many boxes," I say in my defense. "Apparently, the team physician told him he shouldn't exert himself in any way, shape or form which means he wasn't supposed to be lifting a thing." "How do you know that?" She shrugs as she forks another piece of pie. "I talked to one of the physical therapists. That shoulder was supposed to be immobile. And yet he risked harm to his arm and his career to move your things." "But he's okay, isn't he? I mean he's playing again. They wouldn't have approved his return to the game unless he'd healed." "Uh huh." I rest the pie fork on the edge of the plate. "So what would you like me to do?" "Give love a chance, MacKenna. After what happened to your sister, I get why you have an issue with men, but not everybody is like Tommy Hawkins. You're giving up an opportunity to date a man who cares for you, and maybe find something special with him. You're allowing the past to rule your life." "You're right. I have issues when it comes to men. But that's not the only reason I can't date him. I can't socialize with him while I'm working on his story. And I have Ryan Taylor's to do before his." "So what happens after the story's done. Will you date him then?" Avoiding Mar's gaze, I carefully fold the napkin, before rising to our dishes to the sink. "I don't think so." Mar follows me into the kitchen. "Why not?" Should have known she wouldn't leave things alone. I rinse our plates, put them in the dishwasher and set it to wash. Done avoiding her question, I turn back to her. "I can't say. Please don't push me on this." "Okay. I'll drop it. For now."

"Good." I dry my hands on a kitchen towel and hang it up on its hook. "Now can we change the subject?" "All right." "More coffee?" "Please." After I brew us some fresh java, I bring our cups to the coffee table in the living room. She dumps four teaspoons of sugar in the coffee and enough cream to make the brew a cafe au lait. "So, have the police gotten any leads on Tommy Hawkins?" "No. The detective called a couple of days ago. He didn't have much to share." "Surely, that lowlife didn't disappear into thin air." Before answering, I stir a teaspoon of honey and a dollop of cream into my coffee. "Maybe he left Chicago." "He travels all the way here to revenge himself on you and then leaves? I don't buy it." "You're not making me feel any better." "I don't want you to feel better. I want you to realize the danger you're in." "I take care. I do." "You may now live in a secured building. But your parking lot at work is not safe. It's out in the open." "At the end of the day, I walk out with somebody else to my car. Sometimes Dotty and I ride together. And I carry a baton in my purse and pepper spray on my key chain." "What about when you have to go on an assignment? Like the women's shelter? That place is not in the best place in town." "I took an Uber so I wouldn't have to park, got dropped right in front of their door. I did the same when I returned to the newspaper. I take care, Mar." She shudders. "I worry about you, MacKenna. Please let me talk to Oliver. I'm sure he'd arrange security for you." "And owe him more than I already do? No thanks." I click on the television. "Look, the game's about to start." She gives me a side glance, but doesn't say anything more. She's not the only one worried. So am I. Until Tommy Hawkins is caught, I live in fear of what may happen. But I've taken as many precautions as I can. They will have to be enough.

CHAPTER 24

Ty

"R EAD ALL ABOUT IT, LADIES!" Ryan Taylor struts into the Outlaws' locker

room, carrying an armful of newspapers. There must be thirty of them in his

hand. "What you talking about, man?" one of the linebackers asks. "My article in The Chicago Chronicle. It came out this morning. Grabbed a bunch of copies so you could read all about me." "Did that rookie reporter write the piece? The one who wrote about Ron and Mad Dog?" someone asks. After the articles of Todd and Mad Dog had given the Outlaws such great publicity and shed such positive light on the players, some of the Outlaws had clamored to be interviewed by MacKenna. But she'd only signed up to interview the four of us—Ron, Mad Dog, Ryan and me. Until next season. Maybe then she would interview more players. "The very same one." A defensive back grabs a copy. "Wish she'd write about me." 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 FOR CHRISTMAS. I am happy to see my folks. But the saying is true. You H OME 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. "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 ITH THE FIRST GAME OF THE PLAYOFFS WON, we turn our sights to the next W 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 immobilized 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. "You sure?" She bites her bottom lip, and glances down. "It was tough going home for Christmas." Oh, God, she's hurting. And she needs me. That's why she called. Unable to stop myself, I curl my hand around the nape of her neck, not in a sensual way, but to

show my support. Whatever she needs, I'm there for her. "You want to talk about it, sweetheart?" With a soft sigh, she gazes up at me. "Yeah. I guess I do." I've missed this vulnerability of hers. This need for a shoulder to lean on while she's going through a tough time. God knows I have two strong shoulders. She can have either one. Besides, I know next to nothing about her. So this will give me a chance to get to know her better. "Come in, please." She offers opening the door wider. "Okay," I say, stepping through. "I brought wine." "The stew's almost done. I made fresh bread too." Her smile's not the smile of old, but a new sad one. What on earth happened to her back home? Right here and now, I make it my goal to make her feel good. Whatever it takes. "Smells great. And here I thought I was the cook." She takes my coat and hangs it in the foyer closet before leading the way to the kitchen. Rosco and I follow along. Truth is, I'd follow her anywhere. "Why don't you decant the wine while I ladle the stew?" "Great idea." Once she's done plating the bowls, she walks into the dining room. "Bit too much, isn't it?" The space reminds me of one I saw in Texas when I worked as a caddy at an exclusive golf club. Embroidered chairs and an extension table, crafted in a rich, red oak, blood red paint on the walls, and a black-iron chandelier to shine over it all. Everything in the room matches the opulent decor, from the embroidered place mats, to the exotic china and crystal and the ornate silver flatware. "Not my style, but I appreciate its beauty," I say, setting down the other plate. "I'll grab the wine." "And I'll get the water." As before, we seem to have a perfect rhythm during a meal. And that's not the only place where we pair up well. She returns to the table with a pitcher of ice water and the fragrant bread and butter, and I pour the wine. Soon, we're sitting down in the gorgeous dining room to enjoy our meal. "It adds a certain cache, though, don't you think?" she asks, looking around. "I do." Don't have any idea what cache means, but if she thinks so, I'll agree with her. As if she's reading my mind, she says, "Elegance. The room adds elegance to my simple meal.” "Nothing simple about it." I slather the bread with butter and bite into it. "Ummm." "You like it?" "Like it? I fucking love it." I tear off another piece, slather more butter on it, and pop it into my mouth. She props her elbow on the table and her head on her hand. "I love watching you

eat. You do it with so much gusto." "I enjoy food, that's for sure." "Well, you are a big guy." "Well, the big part is true, as well you know." I wink at her. Predictably, she blushes. "I walked right into that one, didn't I?" "Yeah, you did." I point at her plate. "Eat." She dips her spoon in the stew. Pretty soon she's cleaning up her bowl with a piece of bread. After a second bowl, I fold my napkin. "It was very good. Your stew." "Yeah, if I do say so myself." "Since you cooked, I'll do the dishes." "We both will." Within ten minute, we're done. After she puts the leftovers in some plastic containers to take to the office. She offers me some, but I turn her down. "We'll be eating at the compound all week. Part of the playoffs schedule." "Even dinner?" "Yes. Even dinner. They only allow us to go home to sleep. That way, we can't get into trouble." She folds up the kitchen towel and hangs it on its hook. "Platinum trouble, you mean?" "Something like that. Not that I've been there lately." "You haven't?" "Nope." "How about we have coffee and pie in the living room?" "What kind of pie?" "Pecan." "Be still my beating heart." "You're silly." She grins. I take a towel and snap her butt, and she snaps me right back. Somehow she slips, but I catch her before she falls. "MacKenna. God, I've missed you." "Me too." "Why are you staying away?" "You know why. Because of the article." "When are you going to finish that damn thing. I want you back in my bed." "Ty.” She pushes away. “I found out some things." "What things?" "Let's take the coffee and pie to living room, and I'll tell you." She tells me about her trip to Nebraska State and what she found there. About Emily Suarez and the night of the assault. About Coach Gronowski strong arming the newspaper. About Ryan and me being at the party. "You knew her." "Emily? Yes, I knew her. She followed me to Nebraska State." "Why?"

"She had a crush on me. But I only saw her as a friend." "You never dated her?" "No. I was too busy with football and school. I was one of those rarities in college. A player who studied and attended classes." "You were?" "Yes. Sure football was important, but I knew enough about the sport to know that one day, I'd need more than that. I make a lot of money, MacKenna. An investment firm manages it for me. By the time I'm thirty, I should be set for life." "Is that when you plan to retire?" "If I don't get injured before then. Or if my arm gives out." "The night of the party—" "I never saw her. I swear to you I'm telling the truth." "Where were you?" I take a deep breath, let it out. "Upstairs in my room with two girls." "Girls?" "Women. Two women. A junior and a senior, definitely older than me." "I guess I don't have to ask you what you were doing." "Getting drunk and having sex. They both vouched for me when the police questioned my whereabouts." "How old were you?" "Eighteen." "Did you know Emily was coming to the party." "No. If I had, I would have told her to stay away." "Why?" "We came from a very small town in Texas. She was pretty naive. So was I for that matter. I learned fast. She . . . didn't. When I found out the next morning, I felt responsible. Even though I had no idea she was coming, I should have known." "Why?" "She was dating somebody in the frat house. She kept mentioning it. But when I asked her his name, she wouldn't tell me. I thought it was just Emily trying to make me jealous or something." "Did you ever find out?" "No. I never did. Whenever I tried to talk to her about that night, she’d end up crying. She went to counseling for a while, but her grades suffered that semester, and then she stopped going to classes altogether." "Did you know she was pregnant?" "God, no. If I had, I would have—I don't know, done something." "Like what?" "I don't know. Told her I'd be there for her. If she needed me. But she never gave me the chance." "I'm flying to Texas to talk to her mom. Once I do that, I'll write your story." "Good. Mrs. Suarez is a nice sort. You can count on her to tell you the truth." "What is the truth, Ty?"

"That I liked her daughter as a friend, that Emily followed me to Nebraska State because she had a crush on me, that she came to the party and was raped. And that I had nothing to do with it. I swear on my mother's grave. You believe me, don't you?"

CHAPTER 27

MacKenna O I BELIEVE TY? Yes, I do. Everything in me tells me he's telling the truth. I D can't see him ignoring his friend at the party, especially a young woman he'd

known from back home. Today's interview with Emily Suarez's mother should affirm that belief. As the plane touches down in Longview, Texas, I take a long breath. The entire trip has taken almost five hours from Chicago O'Hare, with a stopover in Dallas-Ft. Worth, and I still have an hour's drive to Ty's small town. But after leaving the frozen tundra that is Chicago, the fifties temperatures of Texas seems almost balmy. The terrain varies from undulating to rolling, and the mostly farmland is broken now and then by a forest. Much of it reminds me of Iowa. The small town literally is a one stop sign place. If you blink you missed it. It takes me no time at all to find Mrs. Suarez's house. Dressed all in black, she welcomes me with a sad smile. But it's a welcome, nonetheless. She serves me strong coffee and sweet pasteles that she learned to cook from her mother. Emily was her only child and now she faces the rest of her years alone. Her sister who lives in California has encouraged her to move there. And every year, she loses one more reason not to go. Once we get past the pleasantries, I start the interview. "Do you mind if I record our conversation?" "No, of course not." "Tell me about Emily." "She was young and beautiful and smart. Did you know, she earned a scholarship at the University of Texas?" "No, I didn't." "She could have stayed home. Well, in Texas, anyhow." "But she didn't? Why?" Even though I know the answer to this question, I have to ask. "Because of Ty Mathews." His name emerges in a soft whisper, like a memory

you wish to forget. "During high school, she developed a huge crush on him." I can see that. I can only imagine what Ty must have been like back then. Maybe not as fit as he is now, but probably as gorgeous as ever. How could she not fallen for the stunning quarterback with the killer smile? "So she followed him to Nebraska State?" "Yes. They were just friends. Or at least that's the way he saw her. He never led her on. But my Emily? Hope sprung eternal in her. She thought if she could make him notice her as a woman, he would fall in love with her." "But he didn't?" "No. He never did. He remained friends with her, but that was it." "How do you know?" "Well, she told me. We talked every week. She'd share her comings and goings with me. Her classes. Her friends. Ty always figured in them prominently. But then she met someone else." "Who was it?" "She never told me. A boy she met in one of her classes. He needed help with a paper and she helped him with it. From what she said, I think she did much of the writing." A rictus of pain rolls across her face. "And then one week in the spring, she didn't call. So I dialed her number. Even over the phone, I could tell something was wrong." "When was that?" "The first week in March." Had to have been after the assault. "She didn't tell you what happened to her?" "No. She couldn't bear to tell me." She wipes a tear from her face. "I wish she had. I would have flown there and brought her home." A shudder runs through her body. "In the end, I did." But not the way she wanted. She'd brought her daughter home in a casket to lay her to her final rest. "I'm so sorry, Mrs. Suarez." Reaching over, I squeeze her hand. I close my notebook and shut off the recorder. I've pried and poked into this woman's pain enough. Even though she hasn't revealed anything new about her daughter's assault, I've confirmed Ty acted honorably. "Well, I better go. Thank you for your time." "You will write . . . kindly about Emily." "Of course. Don't you worry about that." "I wonder . . ." Her hesitation floats in the air between us, like a living, breathing thing. "You wonder what, Mrs. Suarez?" "Emily kept a journal." For a second, my heart stops. "Did she?" "Yes. I read part of it. The happy times when she first arrived in college. She was so full of hope and dreams then." Looking off into the distance, she heaves a laborious sigh. Her daughter had been much like my sister. Jeanie had hopes and dreams of her

own. She wanted to sing and dance on Broadway. That's how she first caught the attention of Tommy Hawkins. At a high school performance of Oklahoma. After he'd seen her act, he'd applied for a job in our farm as a laborer. And then he'd raped and beaten her, killing off her chances of a happy future, never mind the stage. I need Mrs. Suarez to know she's not alone in her pain. Maybe that will comfort her, even in some small way. "I have a sister, Mrs. Suarez, who was abused, as well. Much like Emily, she had hopes and dreams. But they were taken from her. So I understand." I squeeze her hand. "Truly, I do." Her eyes shimmer with tears, even as she struggles to bring forth a smile "Thank you, Ms. Perkins. I really believe you do." "So you do not know what's in the rest of the journal?" "No. And neither does anyone else." "How can that be? Wouldn't the police have looked at it?" She shakes her head. "Emily had a very nosy roommate who loved to pry into her things. So she glued a book cover around her journal so her roommate wouldn't know what it was. The police must have thought it was a book, as well. I only realized it was her diary two years ago, when I donated some books to our local library, and the librarian pointed out the writing inside." For a couple of seconds, she's silent. And then she firms her shoulders and stares right at me. "I think you should read it, Ms. Perkins." God knows I want to, but I have to be honest. "What if I find . . . something unpleasant about Emily?" "You won't. My Emily was true blue. I trust you, Ms. Perkins. Publish the truth. Maybe then I can lay my guilt to rest." I understand what she means. She's probably blaming herself for her daughter's death. Somehow, she should have known what her daughter was going through even though she was thousands of miles away. She's suffering the same guilt I've felt since that monster raped my sister. Maybe it's the price we pay for surviving. "Thank you, Mrs. Suarez. I won't betray your trust." After a short goodbye, I head to the Longview airport for the long trip back. During the two-hour layover in Dallas-Ft. Worth, I read the relevant sections of Emily's journal which reveals the great, big ugly truth of what happened that night, including the identity of the person who could have stopped Emily from getting raped. That truth brings me no joy.

CHAPTER 28

MacKenna INTO THE NEWSPAPER OFFICE the next day to discover all hell's broken I WALK loose. Mr. Bartlett's holed up in his office yelling into his phone. No one seems

to be working. They're either running from one cubicle to another or confabbing in clumps. "What's going on?" I ask Dotty. But before she has a chance to say anything, Mr. Bartlett sticks his head out of his office. "Perkins. Get in here." "Heads up." Dotty nods toward Randy Brennan's cubicle. "It's about the worm." I don't have much time to interpret that cryptic remark before I find myself in Mr. Bartlett's office with the door slammed behind me. He's been upset many a time, but nothing like this. Steam's practically coming out of his ears. He's so angry, he can't say a word, taking out his frustration on the cigar torn to shreds in his mouth. "You wanted to see me?" I squeak out. "You." He points to me. "Him." He points to Randy's cubicle, his hands shaped into claws as if he wants to choke somebody. "Randy? What about him." "This." He taps his desktop computer's screen. "What did he do?" "He wrote your article on Ty Mathews." My stomach twists. "What do you mean my article?" "He has all the details, everything you discussed with me." Before I left for Texas I had to come clean with Mr. Bartlett. I needed his approval for the trip after all. I'd shared with him what I'd discovered and my conclusions regarding Ty. My editor pulls out his chair and invites me to sit before tapping the screen again. "Read this. This." God, how bad could it be if he can't even describe it? I hunker into his executive seat and read the article on the screen. Published by a gossip rag that pays by the word, the piece is not long. But the ten paragraphs or so

brand Ty Mathews as a seducer of a young, innocent girl, claiming he passed her around his friends like store-bought candy. I recognize most of the details in the story because it's the stuff I learned from my trip to Nebraska State. How could Randy have written such lies? "I never gave that information to him." "I know you didn't." "So how did he get it?" "He must have downloaded the information from your recorder." "But I've had it with me the whole time." I fish it out of my purse and show him. "He probably stole it out of your purse when you weren't looking. It wouldn't take long. A trip to the bathroom would give him the time to do it. He could download it to his computer and return the recorder before you missed it." "That worm." Not hard to see why he did it. He was getting nowhere at The Windy City Chronicle, mainly because he can't write worth a damn. I spotted three typos in this piece of filth article, and his use of the English language is poor at best. So he'd written a scandalous piece sure to get the attention of the media, not giving a damn about the damage he'd do to Ty or the Outlaws. "It's a lie, you know. It wasn't Ty that turned his back on Emily." "So you found out the truth?" I dig into my purse and bring out Emily's journal. "Yes. Emily had a diary and she wrote in it exactly what happened that night." "How fast can you write that article?" "It's half done. I worked on it on the plane ride back." "Finish the story and turn it in as soon as you can. It'll be in Sunday's edition. We'll fight lies with the truth." "Yes, Mr. Bartlett." I'll pour blood, sweat and tears into that article, if I have to, even though the damage's done. People love scandals. Although my article will reveal the truth, some people will prefer to believe the lies in Randy's article. Even though I didn't intend to, I may have damaged Ty's career beyond repair. 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 HE PRESS CONFERENCE before the AFC Championship Game against the T 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, did 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

"M ACKENNA. 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." Oliver hugs me tight. "Thank you." I have no idea what he's thanking me for. "You're welcome." He rakes a hand through his hair. "I have to get down to the field." Oliver exclaims, his eyes dancing like a kid's on Christmas Day. "Yeah, you do." He's got to be there to accept the Lombardi trophy. Mar and I stay in the owner's box, with our arms around each other and watch the joy play out on the field. I search for Ty, but I can't see him. He's lost in the maelstrom of confetti and balloons raining down from the dome's ceiling. The waiter walks around with trays of champagne glasses. Both Mar and I grab flutes and clink. We've been through a lot during the last several months, but somehow our friendship has withstood the test of good times and bad. "Who knew four months ago we'd be standing here today drinking champagne and celebrating a Super Bowl win?" I laugh. "Not me. That's for sure." "So, about you and Ty?" Another laugh escapes me. "You never give up, do you?" "What else are friends for?" "I have no idea, Mar. And that's the truth. All I know is I want to be with Ty. I'm ready to take a chance on him." "Look at the tv." She gestures to the big screen in the corner of the room. A stand has been erected in the middle of the field for the owner to receive the Lombardi trophy which is winding its way through the throng of players in the hands of a Hall of Famer. Oliver must have made it down there in record time, for he's standing there next to an officious looking man and Coach Gronowski. Ty's in the background, not quite taking center stage. After the trophy finally makes its way to the stand, the Commissioner of Football makes a short speech and hands Oliver the trophy. Both he and Coach Gronowski thank the players and the fans. And then Ty's called up front. He's been named the game's Most Valuable Player. As well he should. He does his bit thanking the fans, Coach Gronowski, and Oliver for keeping faith with him, even when he got hurt. "And a particular thanks goes to MacKenna Perkins, for believing in me." He does the fist to his heart thing and gestures to the owner's box. Even though I know there's a camera pointed in my direction, I can't help the tears from flowing down my cheeks. With the celebration winding down, we make our way out of the box to the elevator and fight the crowds to the exclusive parking lot for the VIP guests. They'll celebrate in the locker room, shower and dress to get ready to celebrate some more at the party Oliver organized for them. But it will be a couple of hours before they get there which gives me enough time to change into the sexy dress Ty picked out

for me. The one I found in my room when I arrived. For what seems like hours, I wait until the knock on my door. With my heart pounding, I open it. It's him. I fly into his arms and he catches me. We kiss. A long, slow kiss that winds its way down my body and ends at the tips of my curling toes. "I love you." His husky voice sets me trembling. "I love you too." "Yeah?" His smile almost blinds me with its brilliance. "Yeah." "So now that your article's done and published, will you finally move in with me?" "I'll need to bring Rosco. He can't stay in that doggie spa forever." "No problem. I have a great, big back yard for him to romp in. He'll love it. How's your collarbone?" "Almost healed." "Good, because there are some things I want to try with you once you're healthy." "Like what?" “Sweetheart, you’ll just have to wait to find out.” “I’ll heal fast.” “You’d better. Now. Much as I’d rather spend the time here making love to you —“ A tremble runs through me. “—we must attend the celebration that’s being held downstairs in the ballroom. But afterwards—” “Yes.” “Afterwards, I’ll make love to you on that bed.” His kiss is long and sweet and filled with a promise I know he’ll keep. “Can’t wait.” “In the meantime, I have a present.” He dangles a key ring in front of me. “What is it?” “Turns out the Most Valuable Player award comes with a car.” “But that’s yours.” “What’s mine is yours. Forever and ever.” He hauls me into that hard body of his and kisses me again. “Will you marry me, MacKenna, and make an honest man out of me?” I don’t even think about saying no.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

To the Reader, Thank you so much for reading DIRTY FILTHY BOY. I hope you enjoyed it. If you like reading my work as much as I like writing my stories, you might want to: 1) Sign up for my newsletter. If you do, you will be notified about the publication date of the next book in the CHICAGO OUTLAW SERIES, as well as my other books. Here’s the link: http://www.magdaalexander.com/mailing-list/ 2) Connect on Facebook, Twitter and my website. I post excerpts of upcoming releases on my website and my Facebook page as well as announce contests and giveaways. Visit Magda Alexander website at: http://magdaalexander.com Follow Magda on Twitter at: http://www.twitter.com/magdaalexander Like Magda on Facebook at: http://www.facebook.com/MagdaAlexanderRomanceAuthor 3) Leave a Review. Please consider writing a review for this book on Amazon. Reviews are very important to authors. They not only help us improve our craft but guide other readers to our books. So, if you’re so inclined, I would love for you to leave one. 4) Send me feedback. If you have a question or a comment, feel free to send me an email at [email protected]. I love to hear from readers and try to answer every email. Kind regards, Magda Alexander