Page 48 of Dirty Filthy Boy
Done rinsing the dish, he perches back on the stool and faces me. "I was serious about teaching you about football. The positions, the players, the strategies and tactics. It would help you interview the other Chicago Outlaws. I can see a whole series of articles."
Exactly the same thing I thought. But his comment doesn't sit right with me. Maybe because that's not the journalistic future I envisioned for me. "I did not plan a sports journalism career. I want to report on social issues, women's issues."
He waves a hand, dismissing my argument. "The Windy City Chronicleis small enough you could do both."
"Joe Johnson is the newspaper's sports reporter." And he's already pissed off at me. One or two sports interviews are okay. But I can't dedicate all my time to football. And yet? Somehow Ron's interview whetted my appetite for more. I'm so confused.
"Joe is great at the game, but he can't get things out of the players like you can. They respond differently to you. I could help ease your way with them. Tell you what to ask. What to look out for." His brow scrunches. "Everyone except Ryan Taylor. Stay away from him."
That's the second time he's warned me away from Ryan Taylor which only makes me more eager to interview him. But wait. He said something that doesn't track. "How do you know what I can get out of the players?"
"I read the piece you did on Ron."
"When?" I ask breathless.
"It's in today's paper. Come on, let's go to the living room. It's more comfortable there." He grabs my plate, soda and his beer and heads to the coffee table where he promptly drops everything. "Come sit." He pats the couch next to him.
Like a puppy dog, I do as I'm told. "How did you know the article was in the paper?"
"How else? I looked, MacKenna. It's good. Very good," he says, toasting me with the beer.
Pleased with the compliment, I smile. "I didn't know you read theChronicle."
"I didn't. Until I met you."
"Oh." I grab the sub and take another bite, to give me time to think. He's never read the paper before me. What's that supposed to mean? That he's interested in me? Or that he wants to make sure I can write a decent piece on him? Probably the latter.
His gaze narrows. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing." I can't believe how easily he picks up on my moods. He's very good with women, maybe that's all it is. Except, that something tells me it's not the only reason. But I refuse to think about that right now. That's a dangerous path I don't want to travel. The important thing is to focus on my career. "I wish I could talk to Mar about the article. We always shared our college victories."
His brow scrunches. "You haven't heard from her yet?"
"No. I'm beginning to worry."
"You want me to call Oliver?"
I bop my forehead. How stupid can I be? "Why didn't I think of that? I have his personal cell number."
"Oh, you do, do you?" His gaze narrows.
Oops. Why, oh, why, didn't I keep my mouth shut? I could have made a beeline for the bathroom and called him. Too late now. The only thing I can do is explain. "He gave it to me at the Outlaws' facility when he asked me to attend the charity affair."
The explanation doesn't help one whit. If anything, his eyes darken to a stormy green as fire breathes out of his nostrils.
My phone trills. Grateful for the interruption, I pick it up. It's the number of some hotel I've never heard of before. Even though I have no idea who it might be, I answer it. Anything to give me time to figure out a way to deal with Ty. "Hello."
"MacKenna."
A wave of relief rolls over me. "Mar! I'm so happy you called. Where are you? Did you go home last night?"
"No. I'm at the"—she clears her throat—"I'm at the Golden Nugget."
"The Golden Nugget? Sounds like a gambling casino."
"It is."
"Step on it, sunshine, breakfast is here." The male voice in her background sounds an awful lot like . . .
