Page 1 of Dirty Filthy Boy
Chapter 1
Chicago
Early October
Ty
THE SECOND I STEPON THE PRACTICE FIELD, I'm besieged by fans. Young, 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.
