Loving Him Off the Field

by Jeanette Murray

  “And yet you invited me. A dirty reporter.”

  “You’re not dirty.” He let go of her arm as they started at a leisurely pace. Or what was leisurely for him, as she was struggling to keep up with his long-legged stride. “I confirmed with Mrs. Reynolds you weren’t bothering her. I’m sorry I accused you.”

  The apology went farther than a coffee would have to jolt her system. “I . . . that’s okay. I understand.”

  “I just don’t like people prying into my life.” He rubbed a hand over his neck, side-stepping a large branch that had fallen in the path. She scooted around it the other way. “I’m private. That’s how I am, that’s how I’ll always be.”

  “I understand that. But I wasn’t looking to dig up your fourth grade report card.” She glanced at him from under her eyelashes. “Unless you want to provide those for my entertainment.”

  “I hated art,” he muttered.

  She blinked. “Oh. Let me guess, you were more of a gym-and-recess sort of guy?”

  “Let’s drop the elementary school talk. I was thinking something more recent.”

  Her heart picked up an extra beat. “How recent are we talking about?”

  “Right now. As in, I give you an interview, now, and you drop the hunt.”

  The hunt? She started to answer, but he grabbed her hand and tugged her with him to walk around another large branch. After they’d cleared the obstacle, he didn’t let go. She counted to five, then slowly pulled her hand from his. The friction of his callouses against her palm sent shivers running down her spine. “That’s not quite how it works.”

  He frowned, then ducked his head as another walker passed them headed the opposite direction. She smiled easily at the fellow early bird. “How what works?”

  “My style. For something silly, like the Hidden Talents bit, sure. It’s a quick one-minute segment. But this is more than that. Or, I mean, I want it to be.” She glanced up at him, saw his eyes burning brightly. Though she wasn’t sure if it was anger, frustration or . . .

  No. She was making things up. Definitely not lust. There was no way any normal male could lust after her looking like this. Her beauty was one that improved greatly with additional sleep and makeup and . . . dark rooms.

  “I want sound bytes with past coaches, teammates, current coaches, that sort of thing. Friends from growing up. All that good stuff.” She stepped over a rock, nearly stumbled, and caught herself. Smooth, Rogers. Real smooth. “I want to ease away from the fluff stuff, like the Hidden Talents. I’m being pigeonholed, and I don’t appreciate it. So it’s up to me to get meatier stuff.”

  “Why don’t you go after something else? Someone else? I’m nobody. I’m a kicker, for God’s sake.”

  She watched his expression for signs of false modesty, and saw none. “You’re still important. It’s a very overlooked position as far as importance goes. Frankly, maybe this will kick off—pun intended—a series. Maybe I’ll get to all the NFL kickers. Could be something.”

  “So start with someone else.”

  “No.”

  He growled. She smiled sweetly.

  “You said you were thinking of giving me an interview. So how hard could it be? Just sit down with me and do the thing so it’s over. Let me follow you around for a few days.”

  “A few days,” he echoed.

  “Maybe a week,” she amended.

  He grunted.

  “Okay, a month. Ish. A month-ish,” she amended, and had the pleasure of watching his jaw and neck tighten. “It’s not like I’ll get a month’s worth of usable footage. You know how this stuff works. I end up with seven hours of footage and information that gets boiled down into a six-minute piece. Just suffer the indignity and get it over with. If I cover this, then it will be done. And nobody else is going to rehash my work. So you’ll be free of other reporters doing the same. Since you’re a self-professed lone wolf with no scandalous past. . . . What?”

  Killian froze, though she didn’t realize he’d stopped walking until she’d passed him by several steps. She turned to watch his fists clench at his sides. “Is there a problem?”

  His head moved side to side stiffly. “So if I say yes, you’ll get it done and move on.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “No more bugging me.”

  “None.”

  “And you’ll respect the limits I put on what I share.”

  “I . . .” She considered that. “What kind of limits? I’m not going be snooping through your trash or anything, Killian. But I do need access to you and your friends and teammates. But I’m not going to hide in bushes and try to trip you up.”

  “If I say no, that means no.”

  She shrugged. She could always try to encourage him to open up as time went on. “Sure.”

  “Thirty days, and that’s it. If you don’t have everything you need, you deal with what you’ve got.”

  “You know,” she said idly, walking back to him, “this is only making me more curious, not less. And a curious reporter is—”

  He gripped her shoulders and pushed her two feet off the trail, until her back hit a tree. Then his mouth lowered to hers, capturing her lips in a fierce kiss. His hands pressed against the tree, bracketing around her shoulders so she was surrounded by him.

  Aileen made a sound . . . and she couldn’t have told God himself if it was a sound of shock or one of true, immediate relief. Her fingers plunged through his hair, so long and soft, and tugged him closer against her. One of his hands snaked down her body, pausing a moment to caress the side of her breast before reaching her thigh and pulling her leg up to hook around his hip. His erection, covered only by boxers and those thin mesh athletic shorts, pressed hard against her now-open core.

  She wanted to rub up against him, all over him. Turn him around, press him to the tree, and have her own way with him.

  His tongue caressed hers, and he bit lightly on her bottom lip as his hand squeezed her leg. She fought against the urge to pulse her hips into his, mostly because she would have lost her balance and she could only handle so much humiliation for one lifetime.

  The sound of two women chatting about how many calories were in their blueberry breakfast muffins snapped her out of the moment. She pushed away, the bark of the tree scraping against the exposed skin of her back as she did.

  They both stared at each other, breathing heavily, while the women passed. In mutual agreement, they were silent until the feminine voices evaporated.

  “Are you doing this to distract me from the interview?”

  His lust-glazed eyes sharpened in an instant. “Fuck that.” He spun around and stalked back to the trail. She hurried after him quickly. He was heading in the direction of their cars.

  “Don’t blame me,” she said, panting a little as she fought to keep up. “You were just as skeptical of my motives when I showed up at your door.”

  “That was different,” he snapped.

  She sucked in a winded breath. God, she had to start taking the stairs, or walking in place while watching Orange Is the New Black, or something. Cardiovascular whatever. “How?”

  “Because.” He glanced down, and some of the anger seemed to smooth out. “You’re going to pass out if you keep breathing like that.”

  “So slow down,” she wheezed. She ran into him as he did just that, her nose smacking into his shoulder blade. “Uncalled for.”

  “Sorry.” The last of his anger seemed to fade as he bent down and tilted her chin up toward him. “You okay?”

  The way he held her face in his hand so tenderly made her blink in surprise. “Fine.” She meant it, but it still came out a little breathlessly.

  His hand slipped away, but not before she would have sworn his thumb caressed the underside of her jaw. Or maybe she was delirious from lack of oxygen. “We’re treading a fine line here.”

  “No line. We just have to keep it professional. I have promised to respect your boundaries, and you can promise not to toss me up against any furniture or trees
to kiss me senseless.”

  His lips quirked in amusement. “Senseless, huh?”

  She waved that off and started walking. He fell into step without any trouble. “Why do you have to be so tall?”

  He huffed out a laugh. “Lady, I’m short.”

  “Not to me, you’re not.” She glanced up at him. “Is that weird, being the smallest person on the team?”

  “Is this the start of our month?”

  She sighed and rolled her eyes. “I was just passing the time. Trying to forget about the fact that my legs will never forgive me for all this exercise I put them through. I am so going to regret this tomorrow morning when I try to get out of bed.”

  “You should work out every day.” He analyzed her soberly. “It’s good for your heart.”

  “I’ll remember that while I’m rubbing Icy Hot all over my lower extremities tonight.” When he laughed, she flipped him off. He reached for her finger but she danced out of the way. “No, smartass. It’s not the start of the month. I was making conversation. You know, what friends do.”

  “Are we friends?”

  “We’re friendly.” She shrugged. “Close enough. We don’t have to be adversarial to make this work. I’m friendly with a lot of the guys I interview.”

  “But you’re asking them about how many marshmallows they can stuff in their mouth. That’s hardly probing and hard-hitting journalism.”

  “It pays the bills,” she said, feeling defensive suddenly. Normally, she didn’t care who made fun of her job. She knew the plan, and she knew she wouldn’t be doing it forever. But when he said it . . . it felt ridiculous. Like she was the broadcast journalist version of a bimbo trophy wife who thought tanning was an Olympic sport.

  “Hey.” He caught her elbow and slowed her down. “I’m not making fun. Just making that thing you talked about. Conversation?”

  She searched his face for any sign of sarcasm and found none. “Fine.” She let him keep holding her elbow, curious how long he would keep the contact. “So, is it?”

  “Is it what?” He looked at her strangely.

  “Weird, being the smallest guy on the team? I’d struggle with it.” She glanced down ruefully, then back up. “When you’re as short as I am, it’s bad enough being around normal-sized people.”

  “Those guys whose size keeps me safe,” he pointed out. He seemed to think about that for a moment, then added darkly, “Most of the time. But it’s not that weird. I’m the average-sized one . . . or maybe a little shorter than average. They’re the curve-breakers. It’s all about the perspective.”

  “Hmm.” She hummed, then breathed in for a moment as they walked quietly back toward their cars. It was peaceful in the morning. Nice. Though there was no way she would have woken up this early by choice, she could appreciate the serenity now that she was experiencing it.

  “How’d you choose journalism?”

  The question snapped her out of the appreciative moment. “I’m the one with questions.”

  He raised a brow. “So you get to ask questions, but I don’t.”

  “I’m the one doing the interview,” she reminded him. The thought of being interviewed herself made her shiver. No, thank you. She preferred to present the news, not be a part of it.

  “We’re conversing, not interviewing. Seems hypocritical you pull the interview card once the tables are turned.” They broke from the trail and walked across the small wooden bridge to the parking lot. Walking to the car, he paused by the driver’s side door. “New rule.”

  She sighed and crossed her arms, waiting.

  “You get a day for questions, then I get a day.”

  She stared at him, not following.

  “For questions,” he clarified. “We’ll call it the give-and-take arrangement.”

  Aileen’s mouth dropped open. “You can’t do that. You already agreed to a month. You can’t just go back and slap new rules on the deal.”

  He lifted one shoulder unapologetically. “I don’t see a legally binding document anywhere, do you? If you get to probe into me and my life, then I should get the chance to do the same.”

  She closed her eyes and forced herself to count to ten. A ten-count in which she heard him open his car door and get in. “You’re doing this on purpose.”

  “Doing what?” She cracked one eye to see him putting on the worst who, me? face she’d ever seen.

  She narrowed her eyes and slapped one hand on his door before he could close it. “I’m getting my interview. I get a month.”

  “Divided by two, so really it’s more like fifteen days.”

  “Fine,” she said through clenched teeth, and reveled in the momentary satisfaction of his surprise. “I get fifteen days. You won’t fight me, you won’t argue, you won’t disappear off the face of the planet. I get my fifteen days, without any trouble from you. Got it?”

  He watched her a moment, and she had the feeling he was looking for any sort of weakness. Any chip in the armor to gouge at and make a break for it. When he evidently saw none, he sighed. “Fine.”

  She let the door go and watched him close it. Then, when he didn’t turn his car on, she held up her hands in question. He pointed toward her own car, several spaces away.

  “Go to your car,” he said, though she could only tell from reading his lips. His very delicious, excellent-kissing lips.

  She raised one brow. “Why?”

  His head dropped back in exasperation, lips moving in what she could only assume was a prayer for serenity. She fought back the twitch of a smile. Annoying him was just too much fun. He started his car, then rolled the window down. “Go to your car.”

  “Why?” she repeated.

  “Because I can’t leave until you do. And I’ve got stuff to do. Go.”

  The reluctant chivalry made her grin. “When should our month start?”

  He rolled his eyes at that. “Whenever. Might as well get it over with.”

  She bounced on the balls of her feet, then winced when her calves shouted in protest. “Tomorrow.”

  He nodded, then pointed at her car in the most autocratic manner she could imagine someone could point. With a wave, she trotted off to get her car started. After a moment’s hesitation, the engine caught and she did a quiet fist pump of gratitude.

  She debated sitting there for another several minutes, playing on her phone or doing something else just to mess with him. But she wouldn’t. Her month started tomorrow. There’d be more than enough time to mess with him then.

  She was counting on it.

  * * *

  It was equal parts brilliant and horrifying, this new plan of his.

  Killian waited for the little freckled fairy to pull her junk heap of a car out of the parking lot, then followed and turned the opposite direction. He needed a shower before he went in to review practice footage with the special teams coaches.

  He was insane. Why the hell had he agreed to an entire month of interviews? No, not a month, he corrected with a grim smile, fifteen days now. That last little bit had been a last-minute add-on stroke of brilliance. Mainly, it would cut down on the number of days she could follow him around, interrogate him, and make his ears bleed with questions.

  The second, and more important reason was that he hoped to annoy the hell out of her so that she’d quit. She’d immediately rejected him asking a simple question about her private life. Maybe an entire day of questions would make her take off. And good riddance, if so.

  Was that honestly true, though? Clearly, his mind and his body were thinking two very different things. Otherwise, how the hell did he explain his sudden and intense need to push her up against a frigging tree and kiss her like he was ready to rip off their clothes and go all Man of the Jungle on her?

  Temporary insanity. That’s all. That’s all it could be. He wouldn’t let it go further than that. She sounded sincere—even hurt—when he’d hinted he worried about her writing anything personal in a column about him. But that didn’t mean he could trust her to keep tha
t attitude all the way through.

  His phone beeped with an incoming text, so he waited until he got to the next stoplight and glanced quickly at it. It was a text from Emma, showing Charlie’s spelling test. Nineteen out of twenty. Not bad.

  He made a mental note to call after practice to congratulate him. It was too early now; he’d either be wolfing down breakfast or already on the bus. A call from him would disrupt the morning routine, making Emma’s job harder and Charlie’s concentration for school shot to hell.

  But oh, God, he wished he could just lean over and give him a hug. Wrap his arms around his son and hold him for a few minutes every morning. Did parents who lived with their kids know the gift they had? Did they fully understand what a treasure it was to wake up with their kids under the same roof every day? Probably not, he thought as he headed for his apartment complex. Why should they?

  He needed to head back into his apartment and temporarily stash any signs of Charlie’s existence, in case the nosy reporter wanted to come back and look around. There was no way she’d seen any pictures of him in the entryway. But farther in, he had them everywhere. So he’d erase the signs that he had a son for a month, so she wouldn’t ask questions and keep digging in that area.

  His heart clenched at the thought of hiding his child’s existence. But he did it every day, for his own good. So a few weeks fooling a cute pixie of a reporter wouldn’t make a difference.

  Chapter Seven

  Aileen hated waiting for no good reason. And apparently, that’s what she’d done. Waited for Killian to walk out of practice for no good reason, since he wasn’t even coming out.

  “Did he forward his mail to the locker room?” she muttered as she leaned against the rough brick and propped one foot up flat against the wall. Her muscles were sore. Every movement had become a chore, thanks to the unplanned—and unwanted—hike from that morning. She was so out of shape, it was embarrassing. But athletics and working out had never really been her thing. She would rather watch other people do the work and then report on it, instead of going out there and doing it herself.

  Which, okay, was a total lie. She’d always wished she could be athletic. Naturally gifted in the art of throwing a ball, swinging a racket, running, whatever. Any sport. But no matter what she tried, she was only good at one thing . . .