Page 61 of Dirty Filthy Boy
"A small tear in my rotator cuff."
"So you can't play?"
He stops nibbling on my neck and returns to the stove. "That's right."
Ooh. Sore subject. Not a surprise. Football's everything to him. But who's taking his place? The curious reporter in me demands I find out more. "So who's playing quarterback?"
"Pedro Santiago. It's temporary. I'll be back in three weeks." He bites out.
There's a hint of worry in his voice. But not alarm. Still. "Of course you will. You're the best quarterback in the league."
"Oh, and how do you know that?" He rests the tongs on the silicone pad on the counter and turns back to me.
"Research, of course. You have a 94.5 quarterback rating, thrown twelve touchdowns and run one in, and passed for over 2,500 yards. And it's only the eighth game of the season."
His lopsided grin makes an appearance. "Look at you."
"What?"
"Spitting out stats like a regular sports reporter." He curls an arm around my waist, pulls me against him and kisses me. Predictably, I melt.
Once we come up for air, I nudge him out of the way. "I'll finish breakfast."
"I'll set the table." He busies himself setting two plates on the kitchen island and pouring glasses of orange juice while I finish with the bacon. When I scramble a couple of eggs with cheese, he drops some bread in the toaster.
"We make a great team."
I have to agree. You'd think we'd been making breakfast forever. Once the bacon and eggs are done and plated, we sit on stools next to the kitchen island and wolf down the food, washing down everything with coffee and the OJ.
I grin at him. "You'd think we were hungry or something."
"Yeah," he says, mopping up the rest of his egg with a piece of toast. "Who was on the phone?"
"Oliver. He was calling about the car. It should be here soon."
No sooner do I finish saying that than Ty's kitchen phone rings. He picks it up. "Hello?"
"Uh huh." He covers the mouthpiece. "It's the guard from the front gate. Your car's here."
"That's great."
"Yes. I have a guest staying here. Let him through." A strange look rolls over his face.
"What's wrong?"
"The car's for a Ms. Peters?"
Oliver didn't know I'd changed my name. "That's my real name. Perkins is my newspaper name."
"Oh. Okay."
After I sign for the car, I stroll back to the kitchen where Ty's loading the dishwasher. "Here. Let me do that."
"I'm almost done." Drying his hands on a kitchen towel, he turns back to me. "Why do you write under a different name?"
"My father insisted. He wasn't too keen on me using our family name."
He folds and rehangs the towel on the stove door. "I noticed you don't have any pictures of them. Did you have a falling out?"
