Page 16 of Dirty Filthy Boy
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.
