“That your boyfriend?”
She didn’t look over her shoulder. “Just a guy. Don’t worry about him.”
Duty bound to ignore the request, Ernie looked over her shoulder and waved at Killian. Aileen groaned and picked up her ball. Al and Carol were still discussing—fighting—her last missed opportunity in the previous frame and didn’t even notice they had been joined by someone else. They probably wouldn’t, as they were typically more concerned with each other than anyone else around them. But Ernie . . .
“Okay, look, he’s the subject of a piece I’m doing. It’s for work. Please don’t make it awkward?”
Ernie shook his head. “Someone for work is showing up to cheer you on at league? Doesn’t seem all that professional.”
“He’s not . . . I mean, he is, but . . . it’s complicated,” she finished. “Now scoot so I can take my turn.” She waited for Ernie to slide over so she could pick up her bowling ball. The custom-made ball fit her fingers like a glove, and the design she’d asked for always made her smile, even on her crappiest days.
As she took her spot on the line, she breathed in once, closed her eyes, and let the breath out in a slow, controlled motion. When her eyes opened again, the world had narrowed to ten white pins, and the long alley to get there. Knees bent, she took her approach and took the shot, doing a mental fist pump when she saw all ten pins crash down. Doing the actual fist pump would be more her style . . . but Killian was watching and she’d be damned if she made this an even dorkier experience than it had to be.
Ernie gave her a quick nod of approval and a pat on the back, and both Carol and Al pulled their heads up long enough to give her some acknowledgement. She lifted one shoulder in a no big deal gesture, then walked back to Killian. Except it was a big deal for her. She was okay, but she wasn’t amazing. Every strike was a reason to celebrate.
“Nice shootin’, Freckles.” He moved over an inch so she could sit beside him. Their thighs brushed on the plastic chairs that gave no room and even less comfort. “When you said bowling league, I thought you were kidding, to be honest. This is serious stuff.”
“It can be. The league ranges in people who are in it more for the beer and the companionship than the game, and those who are ready to sign up for their pro card and start grabbing sponsors.”
“And where do you fall?”
“I’m more toward the beer-and-companionship side.” He stretched and laid his long arm across the back of her chair, forearm brushing her neck. It wasn’t a move, she knew. The sitting area was just too small for comfort. They were bound to touch. Which of course, didn’t explain why the hairs on the back of her neck stood up and said yes, please, more of that. “I do like the social aspect. It’s why I started in the first place. It was something to do that would force me to not be thinking about work all the time. But then . . .” She held up her hands, let them fall back into her lap, and grinned. “It became about the game. My parents and I played a lot when I was a kid. Then they died, and I stopped.”
He was quiet for a moment. The sound of pins clattering and jovial conversation surrounded them, but in their tiny corner of the building, it was as if the world around them had been muffled. “I’m sorry.”
“Thanks. It’s been a while, but thanks. Anyway, I stopped playing for a bit, and got tied up in work and things. Then one day I was sitting around with nothing to do, feeling sorry for myself that my career wasn’t going the way I’d hoped, and I was looking at this photo of my parents and . . .” She shook her head. “This is a silly story.”
“Not silly. Keep going,” he encouraged easily, sounding sincere.
“Okay. Um . . .” She focused on picking the rhythm of the story back up, instead of staring into his eyes, watching her every motion. “I grabbed an old photo album, and started flipping through. And I kept coming up with pictures of us at a bowling alley, having so much fun we could hardly breathe. My dad used to have this gag,” she said, smiling at the memory, “where he’d pretend the ball was too heavy to pick up, so he’d move on to a lighter one, and it’d make him fly back because it was too light. Silly,” she added, knowing it was hard to explain. “You had to see it.”
“He was a funny guy? Your dad?”
“Hilarious. Which embarrassed me to no end in my sullen, black-humored teenage years, of course. Which is when we stopped bowling as much. They joined a league themselves—with Ernie, actually—but I just stopped. I regret it was my fault we didn’t keep going together.”
“I’m sure that’s not the only reason. Teenagers are busy. Your parents were probably busy with work, too.”
She liked him even more for trying to shield her feelings. “Maybe. But I’m guessing my attitude didn’t help. Anyway, so I kept remembering all the fun times we had while bowling, and before I knew it, I’d signed myself up for the local league. I found Ernie from my mom’s old contact book,” she said, pointing to the wiry old man. “He took me under his wing, brought me into the team. He’s a good friend.”
“Sounds like it.” Was it her imagination or did his fingertips brush down her shoulder? “So now you bowl in a league, and wear a shirt with your name on it.”
She glanced down at the neon blue and green polo shirt. “Our team colors. Carol picked.”
“Could be worse.”
“How?”
“They could be Green Bay colors,” he said with total honesty.
She laughed. Laughed and folded in on herself until she could barely breathe. “Oh. Oh, that was good. Nicely played.”
“Aileen!” Al waved at her. “You’re up.”
“Coming!” She patted his knee. “I’ll be back. Don’t move.”
Chapter Nine
He couldn’t move even if he wanted to. He was sporting a boner the size of Texas that would be obvious the moment he stood up. What kind of an asshole was he that the story about her dead parents had made him pop wood?
Of course, the story hadn’t really been so much about her parents as it had been about finding her joy again. That part, he liked. A lot. When she talked about looking through the photos, her face had been a soft happiness. When she spoke of her father’s bowling ball jokes, her eyes sparkled with laughter. And her self-deprecating humor about the ugly shirt she wore tucked into those jeans that cupped her ass had made him bite back a smile himself.
He wasn’t here to flirt, for Christ sake. He was here to annoy the hell out of her so she stopped hassling him for an interview.
She finished her frame—another strike—and walked back after a quick high five with the man she’d called Ernie. He reminded him a little of his own Mrs. Reynolds. Older, probably in his seventies, and clearly nuts over Aileen, in a paternal sort of way. He’d shot Killian a single look while Aileen had bowled her first frame that said I’m watching you, buddy.
Killian didn’t mind. The guy was watching out for her. As he now knew her parents were gone, he was glad she had someone stepping into the role.
She bounced back to sit. The crappy chairs made it impossible for them to not touch with every shift or slight change of position. “You came on a good night. I’m actually not half-bad.”
“Two strikes out of two? What’s your half-bad look like?”
She laughed. “Not that. Sometimes I’m in the game, sometimes I’m worse than a toddler who needs the inflatable bumpers put in her lane. Just depends on how things are going, I guess.”
Something annoying, something annoying, something annoying . . . “Why journalism?”
She blinked. “Why journalism?”
He nodded. Get her talking. Make her feel uncomfortable. “Yeah. What is it about a profession that requires you to dig into other people’s lives that interests you so much?”
She turned back to watch her teammates bowl, as if dismissing the mocking insult. “It’s not just digging into people’s lives. I’m not a tabloid reporter rifling through people’s trash or using a zoom lens to get pictures through a bedroom window. I want to write abo
ut the athletes who do a job I admire and find entertaining.” She shrugged. “I guess like someone who was fascinated by politics, they’d want to cover DC life, you know?”
“But why journalism?”
“My parents were both journalists.” Her smile wasn’t sad this time, but sweet. “I always admired them. She was with newspapers, and dad did the photojournalism thing. I’d rather be in front of the camera, if I can. More impact, more of a rush. More spontaneous.”
Sounded like hell to him. But she’d invoked the dead parents again, which meant it was off limits, as far as he was concerned. “Other hobbies?”
“Nothing much. Reading, I guess, though some might say that’s as much for work as it is for pleasure. Bowling is kind of it.” She grinned and bumped his shoulder with hers. “You guys take up a lot of my time. In fact, I’m going with you this weekend to San Francisco.”
His heart stopped for just a moment, then picked back up again. “Any particular reason?”
“My boss gave the okay, and I didn’t want to lose any extra days interviewing you.” Her smile faded a little. “Problem? I’m not going to stalk you or anything. I’ll stay with the media. No knocking on your door at three in the morning,” she promised, holding up her hand like a Boy Scout.
For one insane moment, he had the urge to ask her to take that promise back. You can knock on my door any time of the night you want. He was insane. She could not go on this trip. Emma was bringing Charlie to watch him. He’d planned to spend most of his time off with his son. “How about instead of traveling, I just bump the days back a few, so you aren’t missing any?”
“Oh, no.” She shook her head, then held up a finger when Ernie called her up again. “I wanna see what life on the road is like for Killian Reeves. You promised access on the days that were mine. So I’m taking them.” She stood and hurried to get her ball out of the round thing that held them . . . whatever it was called.
Damn it. Damn it. Emma and Charlie had been planning to meet him in San Francisco for the weekend. Now he had to call Emma and tell her to not come over. And she was going to rip him a new one . . . rightly so. Which was to say nothing about the disappointment he’d see in Charlie’s face during their weekly FaceTime date later that night.
Fuck.
This little freckled reporter was screwing with his mind, and his life, in too many ways to count.
* * *
He dreaded picking up the phone. Almost talked himself out of it. Delay it another day. But the reminder that Charlie would be in bed soon, and Emma needed to know sooner rather than later about the change in plans, had him nutting up and making the FaceTime call on his iPhone to Emma right at eight on the dot. After a few seconds of ringing, Charlie’s face appeared.
“Daddy!”
“Hey, how’s my favorite son?”
“Only son!” Charlie said with a giggle. His cherubic smile, all cheeks, hid a lot of mischief. “I made a panda out of clay in art class.”
That damn panda. He couldn’t help smiling. “Some things never change. I made a panda when I was in school, too.”
“The teacher is burning them, and then we get to paint it tomorrow.”
Burning them? “You mean firing them? Like in a kiln?”
“Yeah, yeah. That. And I’m gonna make mine blue, like your jersey.” His eyes were wide with the hope his dad would be impressed.
Killian’s heart clenched in his chest. “Sounds like the best-looking panda I’ve ever heard of. Can’t wait to see it.”
“I’ll bring it this weekend!” Charlie bounced, and the screen bounced with him, making Killian close his eyes a moment or risk getting motion sick. “And Mom says we can walk around and do stuffs in San Francisquo!”
“San Francisco,” he corrected automatically. “Bud, can I talk to your mom a minute? I’ll say goodnight when we’re through, ’kay?”
“Okay.” Not sensing the brewing trouble, he happily called for his mom, then handed her the phone with a quick, “Dad wants you,” before racing off to do who knew what.
Emma’s face appeared, looking tired but happy. “Hey, you. Good timing, he was seconds away from putting on his pajamas. You’ve delayed bedtime for a few minutes.”
He grimaced. “Sorry.”
“No problem.” Her easygoing nature made him send up another prayer to the gods she’d made the co-parenting thing so easy. “He’s thrilled about seeing you this weekend.”
“Yeah, about that.” He closed his eyes a moment, savoring the last few seconds of peace. “You guys can’t come.”
The silence was thick, and he lifted his eyelids to see Emma looking over the phone, staring off into the distance. Her voice was hollow when she asked, “Why?”
He sighed and rubbed at his temples. “I’ve got a reporter dogging my heels.” He looked up and saw Emma’s face had blanched, the pallor fading her natural Vegas tan. “Not about Charlie, or you,” he added hastily. Christ, he hadn’t meant to scare her. “She wants to do some human interest piece. Thinks she’ll get a good return on the investment since there isn’t much about me out there in the media.”
“For a reason,” Emma snapped off. “Why the hell did you agree to this?”
“I didn’t,” he shot back, then closed his eyes and counted to five. Yelling at Charlie’s mom was never his first choice. “I didn’t,” he tried again, more calmly. “She kept bugging me, following me around, showing up where I didn’t expect her. Then she started digging. I was worried what she’d find on her own. So I made a deal with her that she could interview me if she kept to topics I was good with. Sports, hobbies, that sort of junk.”
Emma watched him quietly.
“It was the best I could do on the fly. You know I would never do anything to hurt Charlie. Ever.”
“I know that,” she said, her face softening. “I do. You just scared me.”
They were both silent a moment. Killian’s lips twitched as he huffed out a laugh. “We’re quite the pair, aren’t we? Keeping secrets like the CIA.”
“It’s for Charlie.”
“I know.” He breathed heavily. “I can stay an extra few days over Christmas, if that’s okay. Maybe take him somewhere. I’ll make a few extra trips out in the off season, too.”
“You’re always welcome to come and stay as long as you and Charlie want.” She tapped a finger to her lips. “I’ve been thinking about moving back to the area.”
“Emma, no.” He was definitely putting his foot down here. This would be the one downside in their arrangement . . . Emma’s tendency to follow random harebrained ideas without thinking them through. “People don’t recognize you there. They don’t know your name, and they can’t place you. That’s why you’re there.”
“But it’s been almost seven years. So much has gone on since then. You honestly think if I was in, say, Albuquerque, they would put two and two together faster than someone here?” She lowered her voice. “Charlie misses you like crazy. Every day. I know you miss him, too. I can sell houses wherever. I’m good.”
“You are,” he said numbly. “But Emma . . .”
“It was just a thought.” She sighed, resigned. “I should have known you would say no.”
“For Charlie.”
“For Charlie,” she repeated, but the look on her face was one that said she wasn’t happy about it. “I’ll get him so you can say goodnight.”
“Emma?”
She looked down as she stood up.
“For you, too.”
She scrunched up her face in the way he knew meant she was fighting back tears. “I’ll get him. Hold on.”
He waited while she summoned their son from the all-important task of putting on his pajamas. Killian said goodnight, grinning as Charlie recited the vowels for him as a stall tactic for bedtime. And when Emma hung up, he tossed the phone down on the coffee table, scrubbed a hand over his face, and felt like kicking something.
* * *
“So you don’t go on TV,” the man next to A
ileen said slowly.
“Nope, just the website.” She’d explained Off Season to him now—twice—but he wasn’t seeming to get it.
“And you’re just . . . reporting on funny stuff?” The older man, with a potbelly that hung well over his seat’s lap belt, held up his hands. “Why wouldn’t you want something like a network job?”
“I would love one,” she said simply. “But I’m working my way up.”
The man shook his head in disbelief and turned to talk to the man on his left. Maybe that man had a more respectable job.
She’d scored a media pass on the team’s plane, much to her shock. Part of her wondered if Killian had had anything to do with that, but she doubted it. She was traveling with the team. Hello, dream come true. She’d ask the man next to her to pinch her, if she didn’t think he’d find offense in that. But along with the dream came the reminder she was still a small fish in a very big pond. Or rather, not even a fish. More like a tadpole, still fighting to make it to the juvenile stage.
So she’d just keep fighting, and when big, fat catfish like him became complacent, they’d get fished out and she’d have the pond to herself.
She turned back to her laptop and the notes she was making on the trip. Killian had seen her as he’d boarded the plane, that much she knew. His eyes had swept over her, as if she were a part of the scenery, then did a comical double-take and focused more intently. She’d waved, given him a cheeky grin, and he’d rolled his eyes and kept walking.
Par for the course, it seemed.
She also got a room at the same hotel as the team, though it hadn’t mattered if she did or not. She would have slept on the floor outside Killian’s room if she had to. Something about his attitude gave her the feeling he’d dodge and weave to avoid spending much time with her. Which, if he used the team as an excuse, she could hardly argue with. But it wasn’t in keeping with the spirit of their agreement.
She’d let him come to freaking bowling league, hadn’t she? She’d opened up to him about why she’d become a journalist, about why she bowled. Wasn’t that keeping her end of the bargain?
Loving Him Off the Field Page 9
