So she was the one who stepped back first. “You should get that. Whoever it is must really need to talk to you.”
He hesitated only a moment, then let her go. “Yeah. You’re right.” He rubbed a hand over his shoulder, then started to speak. He stopped before the first syllable was out.
Her heart squeezed a little at having to say it. “It’s okay. This isn’t going in any story. It’d look bad for me, after all.” She gave him a cocky smile, though it might have tilted just a little. “Can’t have potential future employers know I’m easily swayed by a pretty face.”
“That’s not what I—”
“It is,” she broke in, finding her last shoe. “But I’m not upset about it.” Not much. “It’s a natural thing to ask yourself. But like I said, it’d do me just as much damage as it would do for the story. I’m in this business for the long game. I want a career, and I’m not using my gender to get there, one way or another.”
He sighed, then pulled on his jeans without bothering with boxers. “So you’re saying we can’t look forward to you on the sidelines, flashing a lot of cleavage. Damn shame.”
She laughed at that, mostly because he’d just seen everything she had to offer in the cleavage department . . . which was none. “You’ll survive. There are plenty of other hotties out there doing the reporting. One non-babe shouldn’t dent your eye candy too much.”
His eyes softened. “Non-babe my ass.” He pressed a kiss to her temple and walked her to the door. “I’ll see you on the plane.”
“Yup.” Forcing an easy tone, she added, “I’ll be back to bugging you tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow’s my turn,” he reminded her.
She blinked. He was keeping track. She’d assumed he would eventually lose track and just stop fighting her on the interview. “Right. Um, okay. Well, see you on the plane.”
“I already said that.” When he cursed and grabbed a shirt and a pair of running shoes, she paused.
“What are you doing?”
“Walking you to your room,” he muttered. “I forgot you’re not just across the hall. You’re four floors up.”
“Don’t,” she said quickly. “I’d rather you didn’t. That would look suspicious.”
A dark look crossed his face. “What’s that supposed to mean? Ashamed you only scored with the kicker? Hate to tell you, but our quarterback’s taken these days, if rumor is to be believed.”
“That’s not what I meant and you know it.” Oh, the male ego was an ugly thing sometimes. “I meant I don’t want you walking me to my room unless you’d be doing it for a male reporter as well. Would you?” He stared at her blankly. “Exactly. If anyone asks, I was here on business, interviewing you or setting up . . . something.” She waved a hand at his blink. “Whatever. Nobody’s going to ask for details. Just let me get back to my room by myself and we’ll talk later.”
He started to put his shirt on, which she took for a sign he was ignoring her request. So when his pants buzzed and he grabbed his phone to check again, she darted out the door and closed it behind her. He could have followed, but she knew he wouldn’t. Him chasing her in the middle of a hotel hallway would cause at least one person to look through the peephole.
But as she rode back through the elevator, in her own mini-walk of shame, she wondered what it would have felt like to not care if anyone saw them.
* * *
Killian immediately dialed Emma’s phone number. Charlie had been texting him repeatedly for the last hour. The hour he spent in bed with a woman. A reporter, for Christ’s sake. God, what was his problem?
“Dad!” His son’s high-pitched, excited yell made him smile. “Dad, Dad, you won the game!”
Killian laughed, the weight lifting off his chest like a barbell. “I wouldn’t say I won the game,” he hedged. “We used teamwork. What’s that mean?”
“Teamwork is . . .” He trailed off, and Killian struggled to imagine his son with his face scrunched up in thought. God, he missed Charlie. “Teamwork is working together.”
“Great job, bud.” He was growing up too fast. “Pretty soon you’ll be smarter than me.”
Charlie laughed at that, then handed the phone to Emma. “Congratulations, Killian.”
“Thanks, Emma.” He sat down on the bed and closed his eyes. “Sorry about this weekend.”
She gave a sigh. “You can’t control the media. I know. But Killian, it’s only going to get harder. He’s already begging to tell his friends about you. I’ve been able to put him off so far, telling him it would look like bragging, and nobody likes a bragger. But he’s five. That excuse isn’t going to last much longer. Eventually, he’ll slip.”
“And when he does, I’ll likely be out of the league and doing something else with my life. It won’t be news, and people won’t go digging.” Not every reporter was as tenacious as the freckled pixie currently dogging his heels. “I can’t kick a football forever.”
“Maybe I’m ready to move on. Maybe I’m tired of the secretive stuff, too. I want to be able to drop him over there for two weeks instead of hosting you here.”
Something in her tone warned her she was a rapidly fraying rope. “It’s not forever, Emma. Just hold on.”
“It’s not worth it.” Sounding as firm as he’d ever heard her, Emma’s voice took on that I know better because I’m older, wiser, and female tone. “You broke his heart this weekend, and I had to pay the price of watching it crumble. It’s not worth doing this over and over to him. If it comes out, we deal with it. If it doesn’t, then we’ve given Charlie time with both his parents, and without worry and secrets.”
Killian thought once more to the freckled body that had sprawled with him in the sheets a mere hour ago. “I . . . can’t. I love him, Emma. I love him and you know I love you for being a good mom. But I can’t. Not yet.”
She hung up without another word.
Chapter Twelve
Aileen spent the flight home ignoring Killian studiously. She spoke to a few other players, and even nodded in acknowledgement to him. He seemed hell-bent on doing the same, which was just fine with her. But she knew he watched her, followed her with his eyes. When Michael pulled her down to sit with him for a while—mostly to show her the newest game on his iPhone that had replaced his embarrassing Candy Crush addiction—she could see Killian scowl and look annoyed, though he tried to hide it by pretending to settle down for some sleep. When she got up to head back to her own seat in the media section just before take off, she risked brushing her hand over his shoulder and neck. She didn’t look back to see his reaction¸ but felt his stare all the way to her seat.
Part of her wondered if there was a scarlet Hoe stamped on her back. But since nobody mentioned it . . .
Back on firmer ground—both literal and metaphorical—she unlocked her studio apartment and headed in. With a brush of a kiss over the picture frame holding her family, she flopped into bed and groaned into the pillow. Her entire sleep schedule was thrown off whack now. And God knew, she needed sleep more than she needed to breathe. When her cell phone sounded with Bobby’s ringtone, she debated pushing it off the bed and onto the floor. But just her luck, it would break and she’d be forced to buy a new one since she was too broke to pay for the protection plan when she first got the thing for free with her upgrade. With reluctance, she answered.
“Hi, Bobby.”
“How goes the whale hunt?” he answered in lieu of greeting.
“Just call me Captain Ahab.” She rolled her eyes at the cheesy line. Bobby, however, had an appreciation for the cheesy, and he laughed.
“Got the footage from the weekend?”
“Yeah.” She’d spent half the night last night editing it in her hotel room. Too amped to sleep. Too close to running back down four flights of stairs and pounding on Killian’s door to have another round of amazeballs sex. “There are a few spots the tech guys will have to clean up. I couldn’t get it to completely isolate my voice, and it was so damn loud. But it was a fun one. Ta
ilgating is never a hard assignment. Fun people.”
“Good, good,” he said distractedly. “Look, I need you to use what connections you have to worm your way in to another story.”
“I’m already using all my worm-skills right now with Killian,” she reminded him. Staring at the ceiling, she stretched her back. Airline seats were murder on the muscles. At least the flight back had been a smooth one. “I’m not really in a position to take on anything too involved.”
“Uh-huh.” The tone said I don’t care loud and clear. “Anyway, you’re gonna use whatever girlie skills you’ve got to get an in with Coach Jordan’s daughter.”
She sat up straight, sore muscles forgotten. “You scheduled an interview for me with Cassie Wainwright? Seriously?”
He made a disbelieving sound. “Don’t be stupid. They’re not giving any interviews right now. Not Jordan, not Owens, not Wainwright. They’re a tight-lipped ship. And since nobody can find Stephen Harrison, it’s pretty much a non-starter. But you . . .” He sounded positively gleeful. “You’ve got tits on your side.”
She stared down at her chest. “Not really.”
“Don’t be stupid,” he repeated. “You’re friendly with the guys, they like you. They see you as their little sister.”
All but one . . . There was nothing sisterly about the way Killian had treated her the night before.
“She’ll have seen you around. You’re about as non-threatening as possible. So use it. Take her out for a few cocktails. Play the ‘men suck’ card. Compare your most recent breakups. Paint her nails. Whatever. Girl shit. Get the story.”
She blinked. “I’m sorry, at what point did we get bought out by The National Enquirer? Because absolutely none of that sounds like my job description, or anything remotely close to what I would consider doing for a story.”
“Your job description is ‘get the damn story.’ That’s all. So, get the damn story. I don’t care how you do it. Everyone else has struck out, big time. But you haven’t even tried. If you use the sneak-attack approach, real sly-like, she won’t even see it coming.”
Aileen rolled her eyes now and settled back down. Worm-like, indeed. “To quote the great Bobby Mundane, ‘Don’t be stupid.’ She’ll have had media training by now, and she’s likely going through another crash course of it this minute. She’ll know I’m a reporter. And she doesn’t look like an idiot. In fact, she sounded pretty darn smart in that one interview they did when she came out into the light with Coach Jordan. Sorry, but she’s not going to fall for it.” And I’m not even going to try it.
She was persistent, and could be a little naggy if it helped. But deliberate misleading of a subject was something she wasn’t interested in. Nor was digging through trash or stalking from the bushes. There was no way she’d get any respect if she resulted to such low standards.
Bobby sighed. “Rogers, I’ve been trying to help you. We’re losing clicks. Piss ant–sized blogs are popping up all over the place. Every Tom, Dick and Harry thinks if they can afford to buy a domain, they can run a sports blog. Shit’s gotta be more impactful than how many marshmallows can Michael Lambert stuff in his big mouth.”
“Hey, people loved that video.”
“If you don’t come up with a Cassie Wainwright or Killian Reeves–size story, you’re done.”
The finality, the absolute calm with which he said it, froze her blood. “Bobby, what the hell? I do my job, I’m good at it. Those other guys are just rehashing anything people can see on ESPN. People are at the website because of what I do.”
“Sorry, kid.” As if the half-hearted apology was enough, he hung up without a good-bye.
Aileen seriously debated throwing the phone against the wall . . . but that damn the protection plan. Instead she placed it with deliberate care on the nightstand, then threw the pillow instead. It hit with a soft thump and fell harmlessly to the ground. Not half as satisfying.
Walking to her desk, where her laptop sat, she plopped down in the chair. “Mom? What the hell do I do now?”
Her mother didn’t answer, of course. Just smiled back from the safe confines of her picture frame. Still vibrant, young, and blessedly alive. At least in memory. She looked like Aileen, aged another ten years or so, but had carried a ruthless pit bull mentality for journalism. Even her father had been in awe of her mother’s tenacity. It’s why he’d married her, or so they said.
“Your job was easier, you know that, right? Without the Internet competing for people’s attention, you journalists had it easy. There were reporters, and there were news anchors. End of story. How the hell did I manage to get trapped somewhere between the two, and yet not at all close to either? And does this job suck as bad as I think it does?”
The photo provided zero wisdom.
“Well, I’m talking to a picture again, so my sanity is once more up for debate.” She settled back in the chair and booted up her computer. “Not to mention, I slept with the subject of my current story. Yeah, sorry Mom.” Even as she added the apology, her mouth curved in a hint of a smile. Apologizing to her mother’s memory for having sex was just this side of giggle-worthy.
Her phone rang again. A quick glance at the screen told her it was Killian. She debated answering, then let it go to voicemail. She had to get her head screwed on straight to deal with him, and she was nowhere near that place yet.
Sleeping with a subject. She’d say it was a rookie mistake, but even a rookie wouldn’t be so stupid. And worse than that—sadly, there was a worse—she was starting to care for him. Having sex was one thing. If they were both adults about it, they could laugh it off as a stress-reliever, agree it was good and move on. She could do her job and be objective, despite having slept with him.
But the feelings . . . there was no changing that.
She forced back the rising panic when her phone rang once more, and once more Killian’s name flashed. This was so not the time for drama queen theatrics. Swallow it down, get the job done, and move on. It’s what a professional would do.
With a calm she was still struggling to feel, she answered with a cool, “Hello, Killian.”
* * *
Killian paced the parking lot beside the trails, doing one more rotation around his car, then turning to stare off into the scenery as someone—clearly not Aileen—pulled into the parking lot. With his shades and shorter-than-expected stature of an NFLer, he got off easier on playing the disguise card. People didn’t seem to recognize him often in public. A fact for which he was eternally grateful.
The car pulled up, but didn’t turn off its engine. He wasn’t about to look and tempt fate, though. When it pulled away again without ever cutting the engine, he assumed it must have been someone who pulled over to check directions. But the tap on his shoulder made him jolt.
Aileen sucked in a surprised breath and hopped back. “Sorry, sorry.” She grinned sheepishly. “I didn’t realize you were so into contemplating the universe. Thought you heard the car pull up.”
“I did.” He looked around, didn’t see her horrifying beater anywhere. “And heard it leave. Did you walk here or something?”
“Cab.” She lifted one shoulder. “Car decided to roll over and play dead . . . except not playing. So it’s public transportation for me for a while.”
He would have ran out to get her in an instant if she’d just called him. Instead, she wasted what were clearly precious resources on a cab. He wasn’t sure if he should be glad she was independent, or offended she never considered asking him for help.
“I’ll take you home.”
She hesitated, only a second, but he saw it. “Okay.”
He despised that second. That one moment of hesitation told him everything he needed to know. She wasn’t fine with what had happened in his hotel room, but was doing her best to pretend like she was. Damn it, this awkwardness wasn’t okay.
“Come on.” He took off on a low-paced jog, checking to make sure she followed.
She was rooted to the spot in the parkin
g lot, arms folded.
“What?”
Her freckled face screwed up in an adorable, stern line. “I’m not jogging.”
“You wore sweats,” he pointed out helpfully.
“These are yoga pants, not sweats. There’s a difference. And I told you before, bowling is as active as I get.”
The moment the words left her mouth, her ears flushed and she looked ready for the world to crack open and swallow her whole. He grinned, enjoying her discomfort. Walking toward her—stalking, really—he watched her eyes widen in surprise. As he gripped her arms gently and pulled her close, he leaned in and whispered, “I’d say we were pretty active last night.”
“Look at me, I can jog!” She took off on a sprint toward the trail.
With a chuckle, he followed easily, enjoying the chase.
* * *
She made it an entire ninety seconds before the stitch in her side forced her to slow from the bear’s after me sprint into the I do this all the time jog, which quickly morphed into the I’m an out-of-shape slob shuffle. Killian’s light footsteps approached from behind. She fought the urge to throw out an arm and attempt a quick judo chop to the throat.
“Done running already? The Surgeon General recommends sixty minutes of—”
“Bite me.”
His smile told her more than she needed to about where that suggestion sent his mind.
“Stop it,” she hissed.
He shrugged, holding his hands up in an I’m not doing anything bullshit gesture.
He taunted her. He taunted her by merely existing. She ignored him and kept walking, as if it had been her idea the entire time to go for some exercise, and he was the one horning in on her workout hour. He kept pace with her, slowing down as she did, speeding up when she felt a burst of energy . . . which was rarely.
After what she estimated to be about twenty minutes, she halted and leaned forward with her hands on her knees. She gasped a few breaths, then tried to speak. But her lungs weren’t in the chatting mood, and so she focused on sucking in more air.
Loving Him Off the Field Page 12
