Page 25 of Dirty Filthy Boy
Chapter 10
Ty
AFTER A GRUELING WORKOUT ON TUESDAY, I can barely lift my arm. I want 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."
