THE SECOND I STEP ON THE PRACTICE FIELD, I’m besieged by fans. Young, old, women, men.
A gap-toothed, tow-headed boy wearing my number 10 jersey stands at the front of the line, Sharpie in hand. “Ty, sign my shirt. Pleeeease.” Gotta give the kid credit, he came prepared.
“Sure.” I write Ty Mathews with my trademark flourish at the end. Even though I’ve signed thousands of autographs, I still get a kick out of seeing the excitement in a child’s eyes. Of course, some of them aren’t kids. And some of them have asked me to sign something other than shirts. Tits, asses. I draw the line at pussies. Yeah, I’ve been asked. After I sign a few more shirts and photos, a staff member waves off the fans, promising I’ll sign more after practice.
If my arm holds out.
My shoulder throbs from yesterday’s grueling session. I’ve iced it, had it massaged, but it still hurts like hell. At twenty eight years old, I shouldn’t hurt so damned much. The smart thing would be to give it a rest, but we’re facing San Francisco this week, and there are some mean sons of bitches on that team who’d just as soon tear my head off. So I better be ready to get rid of the ball. Besides, I’ll be damned before I ask for a light workout from Coach ‘No Pain, No Gain’ Gronowski who played with a broken foot at a clutch match during his NFL days. I can’t fault his attitude. Last year, we went all the way to the AFC playoffs, only to lose the championship game to our conference nemesis, the Dallas Roughriders. I don’t intend to fail my team. This year I’m taking the Chicago Outlaws all the way to the Super Bowl.
As I’m tying my shoulder pads, I notice three of my teammates gesturing at something, laughing hard enough to split a gut. Curious, I throw on my practice jersey, and stride up to them. “What’s so funny?”
One of the linebackers points toward the sideline where a redhead with hair down to one luscious ass is interviewing our number one wideout, Ron Moss. The breath whooshes out of me. She’s wearing a micro skirt, short enough for me to almost see the promised land. Her blouse, unbuttoned down to there, displays a truly impressive cleavage.
My cock, which hasn’t gotten any action for two days, swells painfully against my cup. I tug to give it room. Where has she been hiding out? I haven’t seen her before. And believe me, I would have noticed.
The woman keeps touching Ron, his arm, his hand. Problem is the more she does it, the more stone-faced he becomes. No wonder the linebackers think it’s funny. Ron doesn’t drink, doesn’t smoke and he certainly doesn’t like aggressive females which the reporter appears to be. I, on the other hand, like all kinds of women, especially those built like brickhouses.
When Ron twitches away from her, she glances toward the three amigos with a questioning look on her face. Before I have a chance to wonder what that’s all about, one of the three makes a squeezing motion. Fuck. I know what’s coming. Sure enough. One of her dainty hands slides over Ron’s ass and squeezes it for all she’s worth.
Predictably, Ron says, “Excuse me,” and walks away.
“Where are you going? We’re not finished,” Red protests.
The wideout turns back to her. “Ma’am. I don’t want to be rude, but I don’t care for women who grab my buttocks.” That’s Ron. Polite to the end.
“But they said.” She points to the three chuckleheads next to me who are laughing their heads off. But it’s too late. Ron’s already stalked off.
Lips tight, cheeks flushed angry red, she stomps to where we stand. “You set me up.” Smoke’s practically streaming from her ears.
They’re guffawing so hard they can’t get a word out. But I can. “What’s going on?”
“They told me that if I wanted to get a great interview from Mr. Moss, I should ‘flaunt what my Mama gave me and grab his ass.’ So I freed a couple of buttons, hitched up my skirt. And I . . . touched his heiney.” As she talks, she wiggles her skirt down, rebuttons her blouse, slips into the jacket she’d slung over one arm.
My cock doesn’t know whether to toss confetti at the erotic dance or bemoan the covering up. I, on the other hand, know an explanation is in order. “Ron Moss’s a born-again Christian. He doesn’t care for, err, bold women.”
“I’m not bold!” She shoots me a scathing glance, hot enough to leave a burn.
“Sorry. It certainly appeared that way.”
Giving her skirt one last tug, she turns to the linesmen. “You guys are big, fat jerks. I needed that interview for my job. Hope you all fry in hell.”
“Sorry?” One of the three big, fat jerks says without an ounce of remorse in his voice.
“Go stuff yourself.” That’s the best she can come up with? In the world of curses, that’s about as mild as it gets. Obviously, the hard-core ones are not in her vocabulary. She storms past Larry, Moe and Curly toward the gate that opens to the parking lot. You have to get through security to get into the Chicago Outlaws’ complex, but inside, everything is pretty accessible. Only a waist-high link fence separates the field from the parking lot.
“What did you guys do?” I ask.
“Man, you should have seen her,” the outside linebacker says. “She showed up all buttoned tight in a skirt down to her knees. You know, the schoolmarm look. We told her Ron liked his women a bit more lively.” He cover up his mouth with a ham-sized paw and snickers again.
The sad thing is Ron would have gone for the schoolmarm look, but now . . . My gaze follows her as she reaches a junker. That thing’s gotta be at least ten years old. She drops her notebook, wipes something off her face as she picks it up. Is she crying? I curse and go running, jumping the fence in my rush to get to her. When I catch up, she’s juggling her car keys and talking to herself. “Stupid, stupid, stupid.” Her notebook hits the ground again.
She stabs me with a glance. No tears, though. “Don’t you have some braying to do with those jackasses?”
Her eyes are the color of crushed bluebells. I should know bluebells. They grew all around the run-down shack I lived in back in east Texas. The only spot of color in a dreary landscape. “I’m not with them.”
“Oh?” Her eyes scrunch as she gives me the once over. “You’re wearing the same uniform.”
“I’m on the same team, yes, but I didn’t play this prank on you.”
“Prank?” She kicks the notebook with her high heeled, open toe shoe. If she keeps that up, she’s going to hurt herself. “You call that a prank? I got handed this assignment at the last minute, and this was my chance to impress my boss.” Her face crumbles.
Is she about to turn on the waterworks? “Hey, hey.” I pat her shoulder. “Don’t cry.”
She swats off my hand and hiccups. “I don’t”—hiccup—”cry. I never cry.” She takes a breath, holds it in. “Idiot.” She mumbles out.
Smiling, I cross my arms against my chest. “Been called worse.”
Her eyes flash blue fire. “What are you talking about?”
“You just called me an idiot.”
“I wasn’t talking about you.”
I jerk a thumb backwards. “Them, then. You’re absolutely right. They are low-class worms.”
“I was talking about me. Idiot.”
Okay. I’m confused. Is it me or her she’s talking about now? Her expression hasn’t changed. Gotta be her. “Why would you call yourself that?”
“I knew it was wrong. Knew it. But I did it anyway. First week on the job, and I wanted to impress my boss, so when they suggested I lose a few buttons, show some leg, I did it. Stupid, stupid, stupid.” With each ‘stupid’, she nails the notebook. With its spine loose, guts spilling out, the damn thing’s on life support.
“Where do you work?”
“The Windy City Chronicle.”
Never heard of the rag. Poor kid. Probably her first job too. I scratch the back of my head. Maybe I had nothing to do with the nasty trick the three stooges back there played, but I feel bad for her. “Does it have to be him?”
“What do you mean?”
“Does it have to be Ron Moss or can you interview somebody else on the team?”
“Guess it could be anyone.” She looks back toward the practice field. “What does it matter? No one else will give me an interview. Not after I allowed those jerks to make a fool out of me in front of everyone.”
Don’t have to turn around to know we’re probably drawing attention from the players. You think women gossip? Got nothing on professional football players. Busybodies, every last one of them. “Well, there’s one person who’d be glad to talk to you.”
“Me. Ty Mathews.” I stick out my hand.
“MacKenna Perkins.” Her dainty hand disappears in my oversized one. What can I say? I’m big all over. And I mean all over. “Would our readers be interested in reading about you?” She gazes hopefully up at me.
“You might say so. I’m the quarterback.” I lean forward, hoping to impress upon her the importance of my position. “The starting quarterback.”
“The starting one, huh? That sounds important. Is it? Important?”
I fight back the urge to laugh. Given her recent experience, I don’t think she would take it well. “You really don’t know much about football, do you?”
“No. Sorry. I’m interested in social issues. Poverty, women’s topics, politics. The important matters of the day. Sports do not seem that . . . important.”
Did she just insult me and my profession? Man, she’s got a lot to learn about kissing up. Given that she’s new at this, though, I decide to cut her some slack. “Sports were all that mattered where I came from.”
“Where are you from?”
“Texas.” Before I can explain further, someone bellows my name.
“Hey, Mathews, you planning on joining us sometime today?”
I thumb back toward the field. “Umm, gotta go. Practice for that non-important job.” I grin, and add a wink for good measure.
She gives me a sheepish smile. “Okay.”
“I can meet you another day, and we can talk.”
This time I can’t hold back the laugh. “No, tomorrow is Sunday. Game day? How about Monday?”
She pauses a second and then narrows her gaze. “You’re not being nice to me just to get in my pants, are you?”
Good to see she has some protective instincts. “Would you believe me if I said no?”
“Not really. You look like the type.”
She’s got a point. I do want to get in her pants. But then, what red-blooded American male wouldn’t? She has masses of auburn hair, world-class tits, and legs that go all the way up. A man’s dick would rise from the grave to ride that rodeo. But the truth is she got the shaft from the three amigos, and that doesn’t sit right by me. “We can meet in a public place, if you like.” Why am I almost begging here? I never have to work this hard to get a woman.
“No.” For personal reasons, I never give out private interviews. So I don’t want our press office to find out about this before the article appears in her paper. If somebody asks afterward, I’ll say I did it to avert a public relations disaster. Not that any one’s going to question my motives after I explain what those three did to her. “There’s a diner down the street from where I live. We could meet there.” I run into that place at least once a week and am pretty sure she can conduct her interview without us being interrupted too much.
“Okay.” When she bends down to pick up the hapless notebook, I almost swallow my tongue. My cock twitches at the thought of clutching those hips and pounding her all the way to . . .
“Where is it?”
Where is what? Oh, the diner. “The Honey Bee’s on Beach Drive. Let’s say ten Monday morning?” I fight the need to tug my damn cup which seems to have shrunk two sizes. Last thing I want is to make her uncomfortable.
“See you then.” All smiles now, she gives me a little wave before she slides into her piece-of-shit car. When she turns on the ignition, the damn thing knocks for a couple of seconds.
Like a prize idiot, I stand there and watch her drive off before I give my dick some breathing room. It’s only when she’s out of sight that I jog back to practice where the quarterback coach waits for me.
“Five more minutes and you would have been late for practice. An automatic $10,000 fine.”
“Sorry coach. Won’t happen again.” $10,000 is a lot of money, but honestly, if I had to pay? MacKenna Perkins would have been worth it.Return to Dirty Filthy Boy