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Dirty Filthy Boy

Corn-fed reporter MacKenna Perkins is about as sweet as they come. Hired by a small Chicago newspaper, she wants nothing but to cover important social issues. But when half the staff comes down with the flu, she’s drafted to interview a rookie wide receiver. Since she knows next to nothing about football, she predictably fails at it. Until she captures the attention of Ty Mathews, the cocky, bad boy quarterback of the Chicago Outlaws.

On the field, Ty Mathews vanquishes defenses with his legendary golden arm. Off the field, other parts of his anatomy get all the fame and glory. He barely has to crook a finger to have women running to him. Until he meets MacKenna. The ingenuous, barely-touched, still wet-behind-the ears reporter wants nothing to do with him after he fumbles a meet-up. And that sets his warrior’s heart racing. Because other than winning a Super Bowl, the thing he wants most is MacKenna.

Chapter 2


“PERKINS? GET IN HERE!” Horace Bartlett, my boss and the editor of our small newspaper yells as soon as I walk in the door of the Windy City Chronicle. A grizzled veteran from the old newspaper days, he calls everyone by their last name. Thanks to his hard work and business savvy, he’s kept the newspaper afloat in today’s fast-paced, social-media crazed world.

“How did it go?” He barks as soon as I step into his office, while chomping down on a cigar he uses more to express his feelings than anything else.

I’m not about to ‘fess up that I made a fool of myself, so I fudge things a little. “He was not available to interview.” It’s the truth, isn’t it? Ron Moss walked out on me.

“Knew you’d mess it up.” Randy Brennan, nephew of the newspaper’s owner and all around pain in the ass, yells from his cubbyhole which sits right outside Mr. Bartlett’s office.

Mr. Bartlett’s bushy brows thunder down. “How can that be? That interview was confirmed a week ago.”

“Some miscommunication with the press office, maybe?” God, I’m going to hell for this. “But the good news is I got another interview lined up for Monday morning.”

“With Ron Moss?”

“No. Ty Mathews.”

Randy’s head pops over the partition of his cubicle, like one of those whack-a-mole games at a carnival. “The God Almighty quarterback of the Chicago Outlaws? That Ty Mathews? No fucking way.”

Happy that Ty Mathews was telling the truth about his fame, I calmly turn to Randy, and give him my most brilliant smile. “Way.”

The word barely makes it out of my lips before Mr. Bartlett slams shut the door. “Damn eavesdropper.”

Yeah, pretty much what I’m thinking.

“How did you manage that? Ty Mathews doesn’t give out private interviews.” He pins his famous Bartlett inquisitorial stare on me, the one known to make seasoned reporters squirm.

I’m not immune to it, what with me being a wet-behind-the ears rookie reporter, so I fidget about a bit. “He doesn’t?”

“No. Which makes me wonder what you had to do, or promise to do, to get it.”

One thing about Mr. Bartlett, he’s a straight arrow. He doesn’t cotton to reporters providing favors to anyone in exchange for access. “He noticed my disappointment, and he volunteered his services.”

“Just like that, huh?”

“Yes, sir.” I’m not lying. Ty Mathews did. I didn’t do anything wrong, at least not with him. Ron Moss, however, is another story. If he complains about my behavior, I’m toast. I make a mental note to contact him and explain what happened so things don’t spin out of control.

“Perkins, I hired you on the strength of your academics and the expose you wrote for your school paper on the women’s shelter. You might be a natural for the social issues, but Ty Mathews is another kettle of fish entirely. He’s brash, cocky, and a hard nut to crack. Nobody knows his real story. That’s not by accident. The only information he and the Outlaws have ever divulged is that he came from Texas, graduated from Nebraska State, and took his college team to the national championship. The rest is one great big dark hole.”

“How is that possible in this day and age?” Nowadays you can find out anything on the internet.

He jerks the smelly cigar from his mouth and waggles it at me. “You get the answer to that question and every media organization in the country will be pounding on your door wanting to hire you.”

“I’m not looking for another job, Mr. Bartlett.” It’s true. I like working for a small paper where I can hone my journalistic skills without the pressure of a big conglomerate.

He holds up a hand in the universal stop sign. “I know you just started working here, but you’d be a fool not to set your sights higher. And an interview with a quarterback whose past is shrouded in mystery would get you there. But things may be demanded you may not want to give. Ty Mathews plays hard both on and off the field. You get my drift?”  Another down boom of his bushy eyebrows. Those things take up enough real estate to have their own zip code.

I cross my arms against my chest and give him a steady stare of my own. “He likes women. I get it.” I would have been blind not to notice the way Ty Mathews looked at me. Like I was a great big ole turkey sandwich and he couldn’t wait to gobble me up. Thing is I’ve been ogled my whole life. Been fighting off boys since I turned fourteen and I grew into a pair of 36C cups with the hips to match. Granted none of those boys had been a famous football player with the charm and body to melt the panties off any living, breathing female, but Ty Mathews does not strike me as the kind who won’t take no for an answer. And, believe me, I won’t be saying yes. No matter how much he flexes his muscles at me. “Don’t worry, Mr. Bartlett, I can handle him.”

He must be reassured by what he sees because the cigar chomping slows down a bit. “So when and where does this interview take place?”

“Monday, at a diner close to where he lives.”

“A public setting. That’s good. Have your rough draft on my desk no later than Wednesday. If it passes muster, I’ll include it in the Sunday edition.”

“Yes, sir.” I smile, thrilled about the possible inclusion of my first piece in the Sunday edition.

Once he dismisses me, I float toward my cubbyhole on a cloud of glory only to get the stink eye from Randy when I pass him by. I don’t know what he’s got against me. He reports on the street beat scene; I cover the social issues. Maybe he’s upset about the football interview. He shouldn’t be. Mr. Bartlett asked me to talk to Ron Moss because the sports reporter and his backup both came down with the flu. I was the only journalist in the office when that call came in. If Randy had gotten to work on time, maybe Mr. Bartlett would have handed the assignment to him. So he’s got no one to blame but himself.

By now it’s late afternoon so after writing a quick summary of my visit to the Outlaws camp, leaving out the embarrassing parts, I head home to my minuscule studio-sized apartment in the Avondale section of the city. Not the best of neighborhoods, but it’s all I can afford.

As soon as I walk in the door, my cell rings with the special peal I’ve programmed for Marigold Thompson, my best friend and ex-college roommate. She’s a school teacher who, just like me, is working her first job. We’ve been so busy, she teaching second graders, me at the newspaper, we haven’t gotten together for two weeks. But it’s Saturday night and she’s decided we need to cut loose.

An hour later, she shows up, wearing a tight, micro skirt, a see thru white blouse with a black bra underneath and a pair of long, sparkling earrings. Not exactly the schoolmarm look she sports during school hours, but it’s pure Marigold. Since I live only a short distance from one of the most popular clubs in town, we decide to hoof it, rather than take a cab. On the way, I fill her in on today’s fiasco.

“Can’t believe you did that. Of all people.” She’s not being judgmental. After four years in college, she knows me only too well. I never wear anything low cut or high rise, so yeah, today was out of character for me.

“I know. I was an idiot.”

“Give yourself a break, MacKenna. You fell for a practical joke, that’s all.” She curls her arm through my elbow in a show of support. “So who were they?”

“I don’t know. They didn’t bother to introduce themselves.” Probably so I couldn’t complain about them. Afterward, I’d been too embarrassed to ask their names. But I’ll find out from Ty Mathews next time I see him. And figure out a way to get even with those clowns if it’s the last thing I do.

“So what did your boss say? Are you in trouble?” Clearly, she expects the worst.

“Well, another player volunteered to be interviewed so I think I’m going to be okay.” I wrap my shawl tighter around me. It might be early September, but with the breeze blowing off Lake Michigan, the air’s turned cool.


“Ty Mathews.”

She comes to a dead stop in the middle of the sidewalk. “Shut-up!” Her screech almost deafens me. “The star quarterback of the Chicago Outlaws?” Marigold is what you might call a football fanatic, something she became while tutoring a bunch of football players. She was in high demand in college. If she could fit you into her schedule, it’d be a guaranteed C. So it stands to reason she knows exactly who Ty Mathews is.


She clamps her hands on my shoulders and shakes me. “Girl, you just won the lottery. He never gives private interviews.”

“So I heard.” I squirm beneath the pressure of her hands. For a five-foot nothing, the girl’s got a mighty grip. “Mar, let go.” Once she frees me, I push the walk light button. The night club’s across the way. As busy as this intersection is, we’d be risking life and limbs if we mad dashed it across the street.

“He talks to the press at the end of each game, but he doesn’t do one on ones. So this is like huge. Bigger than huge. It’s like . . .  What’s wrong?” She must have noticed me chewing my lip. One thing about Mar, she’s tuned in to the universe. Comes from being raised by new age parents and living in a commune.

The ‘Walk’ light comes on, but I’m a safety kind of gal. So, not trusting Chicago drivers, I look both ways before crossing the street. “Do you think he offered because . . . you know?”

“He wants to do the nasty with you? I think there’s a big chance, yeah. That boy’s a playah.” She dances more than walks across the street.

We come to a brief stop on the island in the middle of the intersection. “You’re supposed to make me feel better about doing this interview, Mar. Not worse.”

She tugs at me. “Come on. We gotta get across.” On the other side, she dismisses my objection with a wave of her hand. “Trust me. You got nothing to worry about. He’s got women lined up all over town begging him to screw them. He doesn’t need a dewy-eyed virgin from the middle of nowhere Iowa.”

“I’m not a virgin!” Granted, I’ve only done it three times, but once is all it takes to lose your V-card. Right?

“Guarantee he doesn’t think so. Not with that purer-than-driven-snow vibe you put out. Honestly, MacKenna, you gotta get some and pronto.”

Tired of being thought of as a goody-two-shoes, I blurt out. “I touched Ron Moss’s ass.” I’d left out that tiny detail out of the litany of sins I’d confessed.

“You did? No wonder he walked out on the interview. That wide receiver is about as straight as they come.”

“And Ty Mathews called me a bold woman,” I say with a note of pride in my voice.

“Woot!” She high fives me. “MacKenna Perkins, there might be some hope for you after all.”

Her ebullient spirits make me feel better until we turn the corner and run into the block-long line in front of Platinum. We’re not getting in. No way. No how.

Starting today, I will post a chapter of my new book, Dirty Filthy Boy (A Bad Boy Sports Romance) every Wednesday. Here’s a short description of the book:

Corn-fed journalist MacKenna Perkins is about as sweet and honorable as they come. Hired by a local newspaper, she wants nothing but to cover important social issues. But when half the newspaper staff comes down with the flu, she’s drafted to interview a rookie wide receiver. Knowing next to nothing about football, predictably she fails at it. Until she snags the attention of Ty Mathews, the cocky bad boy quarterback of the Chicago Outlaws.

On the field, Ty Mathews vanquishes defenses with his legendary golden arm. Off the field, he conquers women in bed. All he has to do is crook a finger, and they come running to him. Until he meets MacKenna. After he fumbled a meet-up, the ingenuous, barely-touched reporter wants nothing to do with him. And that sets his blood boiling.

Because other than a Super Bowl ring, the thing he wants most is MacKenna.


football player

Chapter 1


Early October


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, Matthews, 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.

“Not here?”

“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.

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