Page 18 of Dirty Filthy Boy
"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.
