Loving Him Off the Field Page 4

  He absorbed that for a minute. It was true that he’d spent more time talking to the guys since she showed up. But that wasn’t what he wanted. He needed the anonymity. Wanted to stay under the radar as long as he could.

  Killian tapped out a staccato on the bench beside Josiah’s gear. “You know kickers. We’re the redheaded stepchildren of the league.”

  “Yeah. Ugly, too.” Josiah grinned. “Come hang out with us after practice.”

  Something he’d thought long-buried clawed up his throat and begged him to say yes. The part that was tired of going home to an empty apartment and nothing but the six o’clock news for company. Something that reminded him that he, too, had been social and friendly . . . once upon a time.

  “Can’t.” He swallowed down the urge and stood quickly. “Thanks, but no. See ya out there.”

  He walked away from the offer and hardened himself for the future.

  For Charlie.

  Chapter Four

  One week—and a win against the Rams—after her amusing confrontation with Killian, Aileen went fishing. She already printed out the measly information she had on him, most of which was on his skimpy bio on the Bobcats website.

  Killian Reeves, number seven. Five foot ten, a hundred and eighty pounds of delicious muscle. Kicker, drafted at the age of twenty-three. Currently twenty-nine years old, and originally from northern California.

  Google produced nothing for family. No parents—single dad, now deceased, mom not in the picture—no siblings. A call to his college coach had gone unanswered, and she wasn’t about to spend next month’s rent money flying out to California. The few teammates she’d managed to track down on social media had zero help to give, claiming Killian had been quiet and a loner, adding nothing to her research.

  She couldn’t find any mention of friends he hung out with, no haunts around town he liked to frequent. And a quick search of the Bobcat blogs was a total waste of time. Not only was there no mention of him off the field, but the entire thing was like a Cassie Wainwright explosion. She spared a moment of pity for the girl—woman, actually—who never stood a chance against the ever-opinionated huddled masses, then shut the laptop with a gentle snap. The thing was ready to fall apart. She had to baby it until she could afford a new one.

  So apparently, there was no getting around the fact that, if she wanted a Killian Reeves story . . . she’d have to get it from Killian Reeves.

  The guy was a freaking vault. Locked down and seemingly impenetrable.

  Suiting up for battle, in her favorite black Converse and a hoodie, she drove to the practice arena and waited. And waited. And waited. Finally, she sank down onto the concrete outside the main hallway and pulled out her phone. Thank you, Candy Crush, for the company.

  Finally, a few guys trickled out. She ignored them, except to give a silent wave to one as he said hello. Then a few more. Then a rush of guys leaving at once. If she wasn’t immune to it, the sight of all those fresh-from-the-shower hard bodies would have given her palpitations.

  At this point, Candy Crush was more important.

  Sometime later, she felt a nudge against her knee. She glanced up, saw Killian, then ducked her head again.

  “Who are you waiting for now?”

  She didn’t respond.

  “Hey. Freckles.”

  Her nose wrinkled at the name. Rubbing a finger self-consciously over her nose and the dozen or so freckles that graced it, she kept playing.

  “So what, you’re ignoring me now?”

  “I’ve been on this level for two freaking weeks. Hold your horses.” She felt him sit down beside her, but she didn’t look over. She was almost . . . yes, yes, yes . . .

  No.

  “Damn it.”

  He chuckled, then took her phone from her. “Level sixty-four, huh? That’s a lot of levels.”

  “It’s addictive.” She glanced at him finally and batted her eyelashes. “I don’t suppose you have any lives you’d be willing to pass over?”

  “I don’t even play this. I’m not much of a gamer.” He passed her the phone back. “So who is your intended victim today?”

  “No victim.” She slid her phone in her tote and settled back against the cool concrete wall. “You did well on Sunday.”

  “Not like my job’s all that difficult.”

  She considered that a moment. “Why do you do that?”

  “Do what?”

  She turned and watched him. He stared off into the distance, looking at nothing. His hair was damp from his shower, curling a little behind his ears in little dark brown Cs. His eyes looked glazed over. “Make your job sound worthless. I’ve heard you do it before.”

  “I don’t do that.” He blinked, eyes focusing as he turned to look at her.

  Their faces were inches apart. She breathed in the scent of his body wash. Unconsciously, of course. A girl had to breathe, didn’t she? “Yeah. You do. You make it sound like any four year old could run out there and do it. I know kickers get a little flack—”

  He snorted.

  “Okay, a lot of flack. But don’t you believe in your own position? Don’t you think you’re worthwhile to the team?”

  “I earn my paycheck.”

  “That’s not what I . . . never mind.” She sighed. He was being deliberately obtuse, which was quite obvious by the grin on his face. “You live to annoy me.”

  “Hardly.”

  “You know what I think?” She didn’t bother waiting for what she was sure would be a sarcastic response. “I think you like me bugging you. You thrive on it. You look forward to these little sparring matches.”

  He hesitated only a half second before rolling his eyes. “Whatever, Freckles.”

  “Aw, I have a pet name already, honey buns?”

  He glared at her.

  She shrugged and stood. “If you don’t have any Candy Crush lives to lend, then I guess we’re done for the day.”

  “That’s it?” He stood as well, brushing off his very fine ass from the dust on the floor. Dust that was likely coating her not-as-fine ass. Not that she cared. “You have the worst approach ever.”

  “You said you weren’t giving me an interview.”

  “So you just abandoned it?”

  “Have you changed your mind?”

  “No.”

  She squinted. “Then why’d you come sit with me?”

  He looked off for a moment, then grabbed her elbow. “I’m walking you to your car.”

  “Mkay.” She let him guide her toward the parking lot, to her embarrassment of a car. She wasn’t into cars. It was a simple mode of transportation, in her mind. But the moment she had a decent paycheck . . . one word.

  Upgrade.

  “Is this thing even safe for the highway?” He watched the car skeptically, like it might reach out and bite him, while she unlocked the car and tossed her tote bag in the back seat.

  “Don’t talk about Sybil like that.” She rubbed one hand over the rear door, where the silver paint was still pretty much in tact. “I stay in the right lane, mostly. I’m not going to win any drag races, but it’s paid for and it gets surprisingly decent gas mileage.” She grinned. “Josiah said he’d lend me a bike. But I live too far away from the stadium to make it here.”

  Killian’s jaw clenched at the mention of his teammate. “So are we through? Have you decided to drop the story?”

  She shook her head, somewhat sadly. “I’m on a mission, I’m afraid. You know, you might be the least Google-able person in the NFL? No social media sites, no major blog hits, no interviews. Your college teammates all say there’s nothing to talk about, since you were a lone wolf. And unfortunately, your college coach hasn’t returned my calls.”

  His brows lowered. “Digging into my past?”

  “What little of it there is.” She held up her hands. “Killian, I’m a reporter. I might not have a portfolio that indicates I’m any good at actual journalism, but it’s what I want. It’s what I was meant for. I’m pushing hard to ge
t real stories, real assignments. I’m not giving up. So you can cooperate, or you can just wait until I finally dig up something worth talking about.”

  He growled and crowded her against the car. With another man, she might have felt intimidated. With Killian, she saw it for what it was . . . a distraction. An act. Nothing more.

  She lowered her voice, and her eyes. “I’m doing you the courtesy of telling you in advance. You can head me off at the pass, if you want. Just cooperate.”

  He leaned down, one arm reaching around her back. His breath was on her cheek, his eyes so intensely focused on hers, she almost lost her balance and tipped over from the force.

  Oh, God. Was he going to kiss her?

  Please, no.

  Please . . . yes.

  She heard a click, and then he opened her car door and gestured with a sweep of the arm. “Good-bye, Freckles.”

  Well, that was embarrassing. Thank God he wasn’t a mind reader. She stiffened her spine and climbed into the car. He shut the door with restraint—for which she and Sybil’s rusty frame thanked him—and crossed his arms. Apparently, he was going to stand there and make sure she actually left the premise. She rolled her window down instead and thrust out an arm.

  He scowled at the piece of paper she held out. “What’s that?”

  “A map to Treasure Island. Just take it.”

  He did. “A phone number. Yours?”

  She just grinned and started her car. As it coughed to life, she watched Killian’s face take on a look of horror. Yup. Sybil wasn’t pretty, but she ran. Most days. “In case you decide to be cooperative, for a change of pace.”

  He stood there until she was out of the parking lot and on the main road.

  But she didn’t take a full breath until he was fully out of sight.

  * * *

  Killian walked in the door of his apartment and tossed his bag down by the door. His keys dropped in a bowl on the kitchen counter. In his pocket, his fingers brushed against the slip of paper Aileen had written her phone number on.

  Just toss it into the trash. Hell, burn it. No reason to keep it.

  He placed it in the bowl he threw his spare change in instead. Just in case.

  His phone buzzed with a text. He glanced down to see Emma’s number. As he opened the text, he smiled.

  Charlie had texted him his list of spelling words for the week.

  Typing back a quick word of encouragement, he shut the phone’s screen off. Thank God Emma was so free with the communication. The ball was truly in her court, as far as how much he got access to Charlie. They’d kept as much of the custody case out of court as possible, avoiding public records for privacy. With no divorce to worry about, it had been a simple shell game to keep things quiet. But she had every legal right to block him from things like a text message about spelling words, or a quick Skype call about math homework or his soccer game.

  But she didn’t. Because, despite her past, Emma was a decent person.

  The reminder of Charlie was enough to have him walking back to the bowl and staring at Aileen’s phone number.

  Just burn it.

  But as he reached out to grab the paper and do just that . . . he dropped his hand back to his side. Couldn’t.

  Something told him he’d regret doing that. So he’d play it by ear for a while and see how that worked.

  It wasn’t like she was going anywhere. The woman had been at practice every day for two weeks now. She’d be around if he needed to get ahold of her.

  * * *

  Aileen finished up the edits on her Hidden Talents story and watched it through one more time. The fact that she had to do her own editing annoyed her, but she appreciated the additional chance to tweak things. And knowing how the editing process worked gave her that much more info for when she hit it big.

  And she would hit it big. There was no option otherwise.

  She glanced up at her framed family photo, mentally blew a kiss to her parents, then buckled down and kept hunting online for signs of Killian having a life outside the football field. She knew where he lived—in a simple apartment complex not too far from the stadium, nothing fancy—but resisted the urge to go and knock on neighbors’ doors. It was a step in the wrong direction. She didn’t want a tabloid story, she wanted the real deal. A respectful piece, done well, to silence potential critics and make a good impression.

  Her phone rang, and she glanced at the screen. Bobby. She winced, then pushed the phone to the side. The ringing stopped. She kept searching online—okay fine, Facebooking—for another minute while her phone buzzed repeatedly with text messages, then rang again. Twice.

  “Jesus, Bobby . . .” she muttered, and answered on the fourth call. “What?”

  “Get your ass to the hospital!”

  She started, sitting back in her chair. “Am I gonna make it?”

  “Something’s going down with a few of the players. Some fight, or something. Cassie Wainwright is involved, along with Stephen Harrison and Trey Owens. Looks like it could be a love triangle gone wrong. Get over there now.”

  She was shaking her head before he finished the command. “No way. You know I don’t do that crap.”

  “I’m not asking what you do, I’m telling you. Get over there and grab some footage. Try an interview. Rattle the cages, see what snaps at you.”

  “Right. So I just wait until the injured parties are limping out into the parking lot and catch them at their most vulnerable?”

  “There ya go.” Bobby’s voice was smug. “You’re catching on.”

  “Sure, right. Let me see what I can do.” She hung up, rolling her eyes as she did. Glancing at her watch, she yawned. Oh, dear. And so close to my bedtime. Guess I’ll just have to skip this one.

  It was still light outside, but who was counting?

  She went back to her online search—fine! Candy Crush—for a few minutes, then gave up. Killian was being stubborn. He was a man, so it was a genetic predisposition regardless. She could respect that. But the man was harder than any other subject she’d come in contact with before.

  Which was why he was the white whale, naturally. Did she really think it would be easy?

  There wasn’t an option B.

  She glanced once more at the photo of her parents, then to the last article her mother published. It sat, framed, next to the picture.

  “I’ve got this, guys.”

  * * *

  Killian took longer dressing after practice than usual, hoping the largest swarm of parasites—ahem, reporters—would be gone by the time he left the locker room. The media had finally relented—slightly—since Owens and Harrison’s supposed bar fight, and subsequent hospital trip. Harrison hadn’t returned . . . and the team all knew where he was now. Rehab. Good luck to the guy.

  Owens had returned, however, because they had a game on Sunday. Business as usual for the quarterback.

  Business as usual. Killian scoffed. Anyone could see the guy was the walking wounded. It had to hurt, having to put his friend into treatment. Killian didn’t doubt that one bit, and sympathized with him for it. But there was more going on there. He didn’t buy the ugly love triangle gone wrong story the press and blogs ran with. If the media thought for one damn minute instead of running with the first rumor that sounded good in a headline, they’d realize the kind of girl each guy wanted was so vastly different from the other, it wouldn’t make a lick of sense that they’d aim for the same one, let alone get in a fist fight for her.

  But when had anyone accused the media of having sense?

  “You’re still here.”

  He jumped, then turned to see Josiah Walker and Michael Lambert lounging against a few lockers behind him.

  “So?”

  “Waiting for something?” Michael asked.

  He shook his head. “Just taking my time.”

  “Cool.” Josiah nodded his head toward the front of the locker room. “Trey’s still getting dressed. Wanna walk out with us?”

  He automati
cally shook his head. “No, I’m almost done.”

  Michael straightened and slung an arm around his shoulder. “Let me rephrase. Walk out with us.”

  “I’ve gotta get home.”

  “You’re just walking to the parking lot with company instead of solo. Don’t be a bitch about it.” Josiah turned and headed for Trey, who was the only athlete left in the room.

  “He needs some support. You’re still here, and you’re ready to leave.” Michael’s voice was low, as if not wanting Trey to hear.

  Killian shrugged one shoulder, dislodging Michael’s arm. “Fine. Whatever.”

  As they left the locker room, he immediately regretted saying yes. They were swarmed by reporters asking questions. Josiah easily maneuvered to keep Trey inside their little triangle as they walked quickly toward the exit of their respective cars. Security did their best, but he realized without their added protection it wouldn’t have been enough. He asked Josiah, “Don’t you leave your bike over there usually?”

  “Drove today. Have been for the last week.” Josiah’s answer was grim, and Killian knew immediately the reason was because he wanted to protect his friend on the way to the parking lot.

  They were good guys.

  As he settled in his car, he breathed a sigh of relief. He wouldn’t trade his salary for half of Trey’s, if that’s what the guy had to go through every other week. Hell, no.

  Reporters. Leeches, more like it. He let his head fall back against the seat in relief. His mind replayed the swarm of reporters, and realized one freckled-faced pixie was missing from the bunch.

  She could have been in the back . . . but he doubted it. She wasn’t a “wait in the back” kind of woman.

  He hadn’t seen her for nearly a week. When the Prodigal Daughter Love Triangle story broke, he thought for sure she’d be around, asking annoying questions or trying to trip people up with interviews. But she’d been absent. Completely missing.

  He missed her. How the hell could he miss her?

  Obviously his brain was on vacation. Suffering from the same damage that had him agreeing to play bodyguard for Owens this afternoon. He needed to see someone about that.