Page 67 of Dirty Filthy Boy
That first year at Nebraska State, I'd been a wet-behind-the-ears eighteen-year old hick from the east end of Texas. Hadn't known which end was up. So when Kappa Delta Psi had asked me to join, I thought I'd finally made it, especially when some of my teammates had been inducted as well. Once football season was over, we partied every chance we got. Pussy, liquor, drugs, you name it. I'd stayed away from the drugs, but not the booze and the girls. Whatever we wanted, we got. Everything and everyone was made available to us.
One spring night, the fraternity threw a kegger. I'd taken a couple of girls and a bottle of hooch to my room in the fraternity house to enjoy a threesome. We'd all passed out on my bed. It wasn't until the following morning that I found out what had happened. A bunch of my fraternity brothers had gang raped a girl. Even though I had nothing to do with it, my name had been on the list of members present. But after the girls vouched for me, I'd been cleared of any wrongdoing. Those responsible had been hauled away by the police and charged with aggravated sexual assault. And the fraternity had been closed for good.
But that hadn't been the worst of it.
The girl who got raped had been a friend of mine, Emily Suarez, who followed me to college from back home. She'd had a crush on me since high school. Even though she would've been better off attending college in Texas where she would've gotten in-state tuition, she applied to Nebraska State. We'd remained friends that first year. I'd welcomed a friendly face in a strange college. But when my football star started to rise, I'd seen less and less of her. By the time she'd been assaulted, I hadn't talked to her for over a month. Even though I had no part in her assault, I felt the guilt. I believed she'd come to the party looking for me. She hadn't found me. I'd been too busy screwing and getting good and drunk in my room.
During the days leading up to the trial, she'd been hounded by the press. Social media had been brutal, dragging her name through the mud. I tried to talk her through it, and visited her in her dorm as often as I could, even though Coach warned me against it. Unable to deal with the slurs on her name, she'd committed suicide. The autopsy revealed she'd been pregnant. Unable to live with the shame and unwilling to tell her family, she'd chosen a solution where she could be at peace.
To this day, I blame myself for her death.
I should have done more to help her. If she'd told me she was pregnant, I would have gone with her back home, supported her while she talked to her family. But she'd never breathed a word about the baby she carried. And now the whole sordid story may come to light because Coach's right. MacKenna will never stop digging.
"—you shook it off your second year." Coach's words sink into my consciousness. Has he been talking the whole time? "If this comes out, this will ruin your future with the Outlaws."
"I did not assault Emily."
"Do you think that will matter to Oliver Lyons? If any scandal attaches to your name, he'll trade you so fast it will make your head spin."
He's right about Oliver Lyons. That's why management insists that the players stay in the hotel where any team celebrations are held and why we're constantly lectured about drugs and other risky behavior. Unlike other teams, the Outlaws have never been tarred with even a whiff of scandal, and Oliver Lyons means to keep it that way.
He'd never learned what happened at Nebraska State. Coach Gronowski made sure that my name had been expunged from any record of that night. So even though the story got national attention, my name not once appeared in any college newspaper account. If it had, I doubt Oliver Lyons would have hired me. He allows his players their fun and games as long as they don't cross the line which means no drugs and no doing anything under the influence. But were that information to surface, I'd be kicked off the team. He doesn't allow for any bad seeds.
"And you're not the only player affected by that scandal. Mad Dog and Ryan Taylor belonged to that fraternity as well. So, I'd not only lose you, but them as well. Whatever the fuck you have to do, you're going to stop MacKenna Perkins from snooping into your life. Are we clear on that?"
"Crystal." Coach Gronowski did not keep his players' names out of the college newspaper solely out of the goodness of his heart. Taylor, Mad Dog, and I were his ticket to the NFL. If we'd gotten caught in the scandal, Nebraska State would have been investigated by the NCAA. And they might have nixed our participation in any of the bowls that year. So everyone's fortune was riding on keeping that secret—Coach, Mad Dog, Ryan Taylor, and me.
The ruse had worked. By the end of that season, we'd been ranked number four in the nation and made it to the Sugar Bowl where we'd won a decisive victory. We'd ended up number two that year, right behind Alabama. My senior year, we'd won the national title out right. And afterward, Coach Gronowski made sure we all ended up with the Chicago Outlaws. The rest, as they say, is history. Last year, we'd made the playoffs, and this year, I intend to lead the team to the Super Bowl. So that college scandal can't come to life.
I arrive home before her. During the week, I usually don't bother to cook, but either eat at the Outlaws' compound or pick up something on the way home. But tonight I feel like making something with the flavor of home—chicken fajitas, tex-mex style.
Around six, she blows in through the front door, a frigid gust of wind at her back. The forecasters are calling for snow. No surprise. It's typical early November weather.
"You should have parked in the garage, rather than the driveway. I made room for you in there."
"Couldn't. The remote didn't work." She holds the unit I gave her earlier out to me.
"Probably dead batteries. Should have checked it out. Sorry." I haul open the kitchen drawer that contains fresh batteries among other things, pop out the dead ones, and insert fresh juice into it. "I'll go check it out. Give me your keys and I'll park it in the garage."
"You don't have to, Ty," she says, handing me the keys.
"Of course I do. Back in a sec." I head to the garage and push the remote button. The garage glides open. A Mercedes Benz sits in the driveway. After climbing behind the wheel, I drive it right next to my cherry SUV. It feels right to have her car sitting next to mine. It's like they belong together. I spot a piece of paper with an address on it. Curious, I fire up the car's GPS and click on its history. Sure enough, she drove the car to that address. I switch the GPS to street mode. It's a condo building in a pretty upscale part of town. Did she go there to interview someone? She is a reporter after all. Or was it something else?
With questions swirling in my hand, I turn off the ignition and head back inside.
"Did it work?"
"Yes." After I hand the car keys back to her, I slip on the silicone gloves and pull out the food I'd had warming in the oven. "Hope you like fajitas."
"I do." She seems reserved, not her usual self.
I get a sick feeling in my stomach. "Why don't you set the table while I put the finishing touches on the food?"
"Okay."
But when we settle down to eat, she picks at her food as if she's not that hungry.
I gesture with my fork. "You're not eating. Did you have a big lunch?"
