Page 27 of Dirty Filthy Boy
Chapter 11
MacKenna
ON WEDNESDAY, I dress in my most conservative outfit—a buttoned up blouse and a two-piece business suit whose skirt comes to my knees—and drive to the Outlaws' practice facility. I've requested a private room to interview Ron. This time nothing's going to stand in my way.
He arrives in a pair of jeans and a Chicago Outlaws t-shirt, which I find a tad weird. Doesn't he have practice today? "Why aren't you wearing your uniform?"
"Street clothes are more comfortable. Hope you don't mind." He cocks his head to one side as a tenuous smile rolls across his lips.
Why, he's uncertain about me, about the interview. And that's the last thing I want. I need his cooperation to get the information I need. "Of course not." I clear my throat. Maybe I should apologize again. "Sorry about what happened before."
The next grin he offers is sweetness itself. "That's okay. Ty explained it to me. Those three linesmen. They like to play jokes on every one. I should have known. You don't look like a loose woman."
"I'm not. I come from a very conservative background." If he only knew how conservative.
He raises a brow as if he doubts my statement.
"Honest." I flash him the scout's honor sign.
He laughs and waves me back. "I'm just joshing with you."
A great big weight is lifted off my shoulders. He knows I'm nervous and is trying to makemefeel comfortable. How sweet is this guy? "Great."
I start with the easy questions before I tackle the meat of the interview. What school did he go to? Did he play ball as a kid? I tried my best to pump Mar for information, but she refused to discuss Ron, other than to say he's very bright, which doesn't help a whole bunch. I know there's a story in him somewhere. I just have to get it out.
He keeps looking at the football primer I brought with me.
I smile. "Pretty basic, right? But I know very little about the game. So anything's a huge help."
"Whatever you need to know, just ask." Another big grin.
Call it a hunch, call it intuition, but an idea blooms in my mind. I get them now and then. And they usually prove true. "Thanks butFootball for Moronshas got me covered, I think."
He glances at the book. His lips move as if he's trying to sound out the words. "Yeah." He laughs again.
"It'sFootball for Dummies, Ron."
His face turns bright red as his gaze drops to the floor.
Darn it. I've totally embarrassed him which is not my goal. Reaching out, I brush my hand against his. But then I remember he doesn't like to be touched. "It's okay. It's okay, Ron."
"No, it's not." Still red-faced, he rises and walks toward the door.
He's getting away. Again. But I can't allow it. Not this time. "Please don't leave. I'm not trying to make fun of you. Just trying to understand. Please sit." I push the chair toward him.
For a couple of seconds, his breaths bellow, before he turns and walks back to the seat.
"Tell me, please." I beg him.
His shoulders bunch, and his face closes in. "Why? So you'll write about it in your paper?"
"You've hidden this your whole life." I hadn't picked up one hint of his reading disability, and I'd spend hours researching him.
When he doesn't say anything, I go on. "You can't read?"
He shakes his head. "I don't understand the letters. They're all jumbled to me."
"Didn't you get help in school?"
