Page 2 of Dirty Filthy Boy
"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 aboutyou."
I jerk a thumb backwards. "Them, then. You're absolutely right. They are low-class worms."
"I was talking aboutme. 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 meanallover. "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."
