Loving Him Off the Field

by Jeanette Murray

  He raked his hand through his hair, pulling it away from his brow, then thought back to the reporter’s auburn hair. That perfect mix of red and brown, where it couldn’t be just one or the other, but a true blend of both. She’d had freckles, too, covering her face and forearms. He’d bet money she was covered in them all over. He wouldn’t have minded going on a little freckle-hunt, finding each and every one.

  Killian was a sucker for freckles.

  The cute, freckled one just had to be a reporter.

  Not that being a groupie would have been much of a better option. He’d been wary of groupies since his sophomore year with the Bobcats. For damn good reason. He’d been burned by a woman before.

  He should have known she wasn’t one. She’d been dressed to blend in, not stand out. No cleavage, no Bobcats shirt or jersey stretched tight over paid-for tits, no groping or touching or trying to hop on his back and convince him he’d wanted to give her a piggyback ride.

  Though thankfully, that shit had ceased several years ago, when he’d made it clear he didn’t do the groupie-touching thing. Ever. At least, ever again. After awhile, they stopped bothering. Between that, and the well-known fact that the kicker was the most underpaid guy on the team, he rarely suffered having to beat them off with sticks anymore.

  How the fuck did Owens deal with it for months at a time?

  And yet the tiny freckled reporter had made him consider, just for a moment. . . . Some tiny spark of hope had bloomed in him, without any reason. Probably a sign he needed to get out and get laid.

  After checking behind him, Killian reversed and pulled out of the parking spot. When he reached the side road that led into the parking garage, he hit a button on his steering wheel. “Call Charlie.”

  Ringing filled the car, and after two quick seconds, a voice answered. “Are you okay?”

  He smiled at the anxiety. “Yeah, I’m good. Can’t keep me down for long.”

  “He’s okay!” Charlie yelled. A feminine voice said something Killian couldn’t make out, then Charlie laughed. “She says your head is hard.”

  “She’s not wrong.” Killian felt his entire body relax now, his forehead smooth out. Tension evaporated into the hot September New Mexico air like steam. “Don’t let anyone give you crap about it tomorrow.”

  “I won’t.” Another moment of feminine murmuring in the background. “I gotta go. Talk to you tomorrow?”

  “You bet.”

  A pause, and then, “I love you, Dad.”

  “Love you, too, bud.” Killian smiled as his son hung up. He was reaching the age where he was too cool to say it regularly. Which only made the times he said so unprompted that much more special.

  God, he missed Charlie with a bone-deep ache. Worse than the physical pain of being hit by a guy the size of a trailer. But they’d agreed—he and Emma—it was best for them to stay in Vegas. Keep some distance between them, for Charlie’s sake.

  Didn’t make it hurt any less.

  As he drove home, his mind rotated through a litany of regrets. The fumble, not seeing Charlie every day, and the missed opportunity with Freckles.

  Chapter Two

  Aileen fought hard not to yawn as she listened to one of her co-workers drone on about his fantastic interview with some up-and-coming golfer. She shuffled her feet in her cat slippers, wondering when the last time she’d dusted her apartment floors was. Swiffer time, maybe? Glancing down, she saw the bottom of one cat was coated in gray.

  Yup. Swiffer time.

  “Rogers!”

  She jolted, nearly falling out of her seat. Straightening her one business jacket, she sat up straight and nodded to the camera on her laptop. “Yes?”

  “Done daydreaming over there?” Her editor, Bobby, looked amused. The other male reporters—all of whom were on the Skype call—looked annoyed.

  “No. I mean yes. No! I wasn’t daydreaming.” She closed her eyes for a moment. “I’m sorry. What did you say?”

  Bobby looked down at his notes, then back up. “Your groupie video played out pretty well. Women thought it was interesting without being catty, men thought it was hot.”

  “Oh, goodie,” she muttered behind her hand, covering a slight cough. One of the male reporters didn’t bother covering his chuckle. Not that she was shocked. To them, she was completely irrelevant.

  “Next assignment is . . .” Bobby shuffled. “Tattoos.”

  She blinked. “Just tattoos?”

  “Tattoos on the wives. What wives have tattoos supporting their husbands. Jersey numbers, quotes, names, team logos, whatever. I have a few leads I’ll be emailing you with, and we’ll go from there.”

  She held back a groan, making sure to keep her clenched fists out of sight of the camera. “Sure thing, Bobby.”

  “Okay, gang, that about wraps it up today. If you’ve got anything else, now’s the—”

  “Bobby,” she broke in, feeling flushed when everyone froze. Man, she hated that bug-under-a-microscope feeling. “If we could stay a moment after to talk?”

  He nodded, then dismissed the rest of the crew. After everyone else logged off, and it was only her and Bobby on the screen, she breathed a little easier. “This story . . .”

  “Pretty hot.” He nodded. “I have a feeling you’ll have to be careful with camera angles on some of these chicks. I know one of these women has a tattoo of her husband’s hockey jersey right on her—”

  “Nope. No way.” She slapped her hands over her ears. “Full stop.”

  Laughing, he shook his head. “You’re such a prude. When are you going to give up the crazy cat lady persona and kick it up a notch?”

  She didn’t actually own a cat . . . but knew what he meant. Because only the hot Amazon women were considered for major network broadcasting. The ones who weren’t dwarfed standing next to a basketball star. Who commanded the eye. Who made men drool and women green with envy.

  Her cat slippers shuffled on the floor. “I don’t have a crazy cat lady persona.”

  “Then try showing a little cleavage in this next video. The male viewers love that shit.”

  She squeezed her eyes shut a moment. Pays the rent. Pays the rent. Pays the rent. “Bobby, I need something more. Something more important than this. You know nobody’s going to take me seriously if tattoos and groupies are the extent of my portfolio.” She glared at him. “When I got hired, you promised I’d be working on the stories that mattered. That would catch the big networks’ attention. You said you looked forward to giving me my first step up.”

  “You’re working up to it.” He shrugged. “Look, the fact is, viewers have a harder time taking you seriously when it comes to the actual sports stuff. They think you’re cute, like their little sister. The women like you because you’re softer, and the guys don’t mind watching because you know the right angles to push even on the bullshit stories.”

  “So you admit you’ve been giving me bullshit stories?”

  “I give you the stories that are challenging,” he amended with a toothy grin. “The ones only a true professional, such as yourself, can make shine.”

  “Talk about bullshit,” she muttered.

  He raised a brow, indicating he heard her.

  “Bobby, give me something. Anything. I can’t keep doing this forever. I can’t be Off Season’s fluff reporter. You knew I had bigger dreams when I took this gig.”

  He steepled his hands, watching her for a moment. His steel-gray eyes made her want to shiver with their coldness. Bobby Mundane had a way of staring at you that made you not sure if he was checking you out, or about to verbally skin you alive. “Okay, Rogers. You want something bigger? Go get it.”

  She blinked. “Go get . . . what?”

  “A bigger story. You get me a damn good story, a good five-minute run of unique content that would make any big network proud, and I’ll personally hand it over to my buddy at NBC.”

  Her mouth dried up a little. “Seriously?”

  “Hell yeah, I’m serious. Though
to be honest, I don’t have high hopes.”

  She fought back a scowl.

  “Reminder,” he added, looking like he was one second away from busting out laughing. “You couldn’t score the goods with the Prodigal Daughter.”

  “Nobody could score the goods with her. Cassie Wainwright didn’t want to be interviewed by any media after her initial opening. What was I supposed to do, duct tape her to a chair until she talked?”

  Bobby brightened. “That’s the spirit. More of that talk and we could have a real go at this.”

  She snorted in disgust.

  “Rogers, you want attention from the big wigs? You need a white whale.” He tapped a finger on his goatee-covered chin. “Okay, how about this? Another elusive public figure. One nobody has any interview tape with. Not the big networks, not the small timers, nobody.”

  A skitter of warning traveled up her spine. “Uh, Bobby . . .”

  Warming to the idea, he ignored her. “You get an interview like that, and our view count would skyrocket.”

  “Okay, but really—”

  “There’s no way the networks could ignore that. You’d have what they couldn’t get.”

  “Right, but—”

  “Killian Reeves.”

  Aileen disconnected the Skype chat without a word and let her head fall to the rickety desk. Of course. Sure, here’s your ticket into the big game, Aileen. And you only have to land on the moon to get it.

  Feeling defeated, she stood and closed her laptop carefully. The desk, she could live without. The laptop, no way. And she couldn’t afford to replace it. Luckily, Bobby was the kind of boss who didn’t take offense when you hung up on him. He assumed all his reporters came with odd temperaments and adjusted his expectations accordingly.

  She shuffled over to stand at the mirror of her bureau. One look at her reflection made her snort at the entire situation. From the waist up, she was the polished professional in a camisole and her one suit jacket. Her hair was twisted up into a simple bun, though she’d skipped makeup this morning. Nobody would have noticed that detail from the grainy quality the built-in camera in her laptop produced.

  From the waist down, she was a joke. Just like her career. The flannel pajama bottoms and cat slippers almost mocked her.

  Crazy cat lady persona.

  Just because a woman wore cat slippers didn’t make her crazy. Or a cat lady. You had to have actual cats to classify for that.

  Didn’t you?

  She hung up the jacket and camisole, keeping them as neat as possible. She couldn’t afford dry cleaning, so taking care of what she had was her main defense. Luckily, she dressed casually for interviews. Casual was the tone Off Season aimed for. With each video they shot, they wanted to reach as many audiences as possible. Too stiff, and you lose the young crowd. Too loose, and you lose the older generations.

  Grabbing the nearest notebook and pen—they were scattered all over her shoebox apartment—she started jotting down ideas to turn the tattoo story into something less skanky and more legitimate. Or, rather, as legitimate as a story about body ink could get.

  But before she could stop herself, she’d written down talking points for, Killian Reeves. She groaned and ripped out the paper, tossing it at the wastebasket and missing by six inches.

  Waste of time.

  But wasn’t that what she was doing anyway? Wasting her time with Off Season? With each fluff piece she took on, each big moment she was passed by for a man, or a hotter woman, she wasted her time.

  Crawling off the bed, she grabbed the paper she’d tossed away. She smoothed it out on her bed, reading over the few notes she’d made.

  Was she doing this? Was she really going to badger a reluctant interview subject? And there was no doubt about it, Killian was reluctant. He personified the word.

  She’d never made a nuisance of herself before in the name of a story. Which might explain why she was still at ground zero with her career.

  Aileen walked over to the photo of her parents and let one fingertip glide over the edge of the frame. For courage, she told herself.

  Time to take action. Time to at least try.

  * * *

  Killian toweled off and walked to his locker to change into street clothes. Around him, guys joked and messed around. Some talked about making plans for later, or made comments about what had happened the night before.

  Nobody approached him, asking to hang out. Nobody ever did. He’d used to get invitations to barbeques, get-togethers, dinners out.

  After he’d said no enough times, the offers stopped coming in.

  He told himself that was fine. He didn’t need friendships. Didn’t need the hassle of connections, while trying to keep his life private.

  The ache in his chest knew better.

  “Hey, Killian.” Josiah Walker, Bobcat running back, self-professed eco-loving country boy, walked over. He was already dressed in a windbreaker, jeans, and running shoes, with a backpack slung over his shoulders. “There’s a cutie standing out there, waiting for you.”

  He glanced up from pulling on his boxers. “Come again?”

  Josiah laughed. “Yeah, I was pretty damn shocked, too. Tried to convince her she wanted me instead, but she insisted she wanted you, and only you.”

  “Groupie?” he asked hesitantly.

  “Nah.” Josiah sank down to the bench, settling in. His back leaned against the locker next to Killian’s open one. “Small thing, tiny really. Auburn hair, pulled back into some bun thing on the top of her head. And she’s got these . . .” He ran one finger over his nose.

  A sense of foreboding hit him in the chest. “Let me guess. Freckles.”

  Josiah nodded and smiled. “You know her?”

  “We’ve met.” He finished dressing and shut his locker.

  Josiah stood, then looked at him for a minute. “Want me to get rid of her?”

  The offer, so simply given, when they’d barely spoken two words to each other during the season, was like a balm to his lonely soul. “No. Thanks, though. I’ll see what she wants.”

  Josiah shrugged and headed out with a wave.

  The moment was probably nothing to Josiah. He was a friendly guy. But to Killian, who had barely had contact with anyone besides his coaches and his son in the last few years, it felt like a hell of a lot more.

  He slung his bag over one shoulder and weaved his way through the lockers and players in various states of undress to the tunnel that would lead him to the parking lot. There, leaning against one wall, was Freckles.

  She smiled slowly as the door to the locker room closed behind him. “That was fast.”

  “Why wait?” He started walking, keeping a pace he knew she struggled to keep up with.

  But she did anyway. Practically jogging in her Converse, she shuffled sideways to look at him. “Don’t you hang out with anyone after practices?”

  “No.”

  “After games?”

  “No.”

  “At all?”

  “No. Look, what do you want?” He stopped so suddenly, she nearly fell as she fought to halt her side shuffle. He reached out and grabbed her upper arm. Even to him, considered scrawny in the NFL at five foot ten, she was shockingly small. He could toss her over his shoulder with ease. Carry her around with him for an hour and not notice the weight.

  Weird thought.

  “Maybe I just wanted to see you.” She straightened, then looked pointedly at his hand. He was still holding her arm, despite having her balance. He let go quickly. “Maybe I have a thing for stubborn guys with sulky attitudes.”

  He scowled. “I don’t sulk.” What a stupid thing to say.

  One corner of her full mouth tilted up. “You kinda do sulk.”

  “No, I—” He shook his head. This was the kind of argument his five year old would love. “Look, just ask for the interview you clearly want, so I can say no, then you can go away.”

  She seemed to think about that for a moment. “No.”

  “No . .
. what? No, you’re not asking for an interview?”

  “No.”

  He resisted the urge to rip out his hair. “No. What.”

  “No, I’m not going away.” She smiled angelically at him. Who knew angels could be so evil? “I have plans. Big plans. And you are a very small—but important—part of those very big plans. My lynchpin, if you will. So you see, Killian Reeves, I can’t just go away.”

  “I’m not giving you an interview.”

  “Probably not today,” she agreed easily.

  “Probably not ever,” he corrected.

  Her smile brightened. “You said probably, which isn’t the same thing as never. So see? Already we’re making progress.”

  He gaped at her, then kept walking. Not shockingly, she caught up quickly. “You’re an infuriating woman.”

  “I’ve heard that before.”

  “Your husband must be a saint.”

  “No husband.” She took a few running steps, then planted herself in front of him so he had to stop, or run her over. He seriously debated the latter. “No boyfriend. No real commitments other than work. Which means I can be as tenacious as I want to be. I know what I want, and it’s you.”

  The words sparked a heat deep in his gut, but he battled it back. She was a reporter. She wanted to pry straight into his private life. Taking two steps to the left, he walked around her. She did a little hop-step to catch up.

  “Go away.”

  Suddenly, she stopped and smiled calmly. “Okay.”

  Okay? Her sudden, suspicious face into amenable territory had him freezing. “That’s it? Just, okay?”

  She shrugged one shoulder, rocking back on her heels. “You said ‘go away.’ So, okay.” She took a few steps to the left, halted, then turned around. “I’m parked that way,” she mumbled with a blush, and ducked her head as she passed him going the opposite direction.

  “You can’t just quit like that.”

  She waved a hand over her head but didn’t turn around.

  He followed. Why the hell was he following her? “What kind of reporter are you?”

  She spun to walk backward a few paces. “I’m a nobody, for now.”