The plane dipped, and she gripped the armrest tightly. Flying was so not her favorite thing to do.
“Freckles.”
She jolted at her name—wait, that wasn’t her name, so why did she respond when he called her that?—and looked up to see Killian standing there. “Hey.”
“Reeves,” the man to her left said. He held out a hand, which Killian seemed to take only out of politeness. “Great game last weekend. I was wondering—”
“Freckles. I need to talk to you.” He turned and walked back down the aisle.
She blinked. When her seat companion turned to look at her, she shrugged. “I’ve been summoned.” She unbuckled her seatbelt and maneuvered her way around the older man—not an easy task . . . which he could have made easier by simply being a gentleman and getting up—and followed Killian back to the players’ area of the plane. He’d taken a row by himself, sitting propped up against the window. She started to turn in to sit next to him as the plane made another dip. She almost fell on her face, but he grabbed her arm and pulled her down against him.
For one ridiculous moment, she wanted to turn her face into his shoulder and breathe.
He coughed and let her go. “You okay?”
Bubble broken. “Yeah, I’m just not a huge fan of flying.” She put on a brave smile and buckled up quickly. “It’s okay.”
“If you’re not a fan of flying, why’d you come on this trip?” He watched her intently. “I told you I’d extend the days to make up for the ones lost during travel.”
She lifted one shoulder in a careless shrug. “Traveling on the company dime. Who can resist?”
The truth was, she hated the thought of missing an opportunity to see him. She’d become so used to hearing his disgruntled voice every day, used to seeing him scowl at her persistence, even used to that stupid nickname he insisted on using. She rubbed one finger over her nose. Her freckles weren’t that noticeable . . . were they?
“So what did you need me for, your highness?”
He raised a brow, but ignored the joke. “I wanted to talk about what you can expect when we get to San Francisco. You can’t dog my heels every second of the day. It’s distracting and I can’t afford to be distracted right now.”
As opposed to any other weekend? She let that one go. “I wasn’t planning on following you into the locker room and beyond. I’m not going to be clinging to your back, begging you to slow down so I can keep making notes. I know what I’m doing. I’m here to be an unobtrusive observer. Just think of me as the fly on the wall. Ignore me.”
He mumbled something that she thought sounded vaguely like, “Yeah right,” but she wasn’t sure if that was just the cabin pressure playing tricks on her.
“I’ve got another story I’m going to squeeze in while I’m here, anyway.” He looked out the window. “Wanna hear what it’s about?”
He glanced at her, then back out the window. She took that as a yes.
“I’m going to interview some of the tailgaters and try out all their different foods pre-game. I’ll probably be sick as a dog,” she added with a grin. “But it’ll be worth it. Tailgating food is the best. Don’t you think?”
“I’ve never tailgated,” he said to the window. “I’m always inside the stadium.”
“Good point. What’s your favorite food?”
“Cheese,” he said automatically, then looked up, surprised he’d answered.
“Cheese,” she said slowly. “Just . . . cheese?”
He nodded. “I like cheese. On my pizza, nachos, sandwiches, queso dip, whatever. It’s hard to find a food you can’t add cheese to and make it more delicious.” He glanced behind him. “I’m probably supposed to give you some sort of health food for that answer. Or like, protein power. Just raw protein powder.”
Aileen laughed at that image. “Gross.”
Killian’s voice dropped a few octaves. “Raw meat. Keeps Killian strong. Ug.”
Reveling in the playful side of Killian, she bumped shoulders with him. “Raw meat make Killian’s stomach sad.”
“Good point.” He settled back, a little more at ease. She wondered if this was her cue to give him some space and go back to her designated media area. But he didn’t seem inclined to kick her out, so she tested the waters and settled back in her seat. When the plane hit another pocket of air, she grabbed for the armrests. Only his forearm was covering the one to her right, and she grabbed that instead.
“Sorry!” She snatched it away as if she’d been burned. All she needed was him thinking she was making a move on him on the plane, for God’s sake.
She folded her hands in her lap and closed her eyes as the plane continued to shudder.
Chapter Ten
Killian mentally cursed for making her so uncomfortable. He had to, as his main purpose was to get her to quit following him around and doing the story. But one look at her bone-white knuckles clutched in her lap, the way her freckles stood out in stark relief against her milky complexion, how her throat kept swallowing with every little shake of the plane made his heart clutch.
He reached over without thought and unfolded her hands from her lap. Taking one in his bigger hands, he rubbed until the color returned. “It’s just some turbulence. No biggie.”
“We are thousands of feet above the ground in a flying piece of metal and you want me to think that’s no biggie?” Her voice was tight, forced through her teeth. “Pardon me for calling you crazy.”
“I’ve heard it before.” He rubbed again. “Have you always hated flying?”
Her head drooped a little and she shook it, but didn’t answer.
“Haven’t done much as an adult?”
She nodded this time. Then, so quietly he thought at first he’d imagined it, she whispered, “My parents died in a plane crash.”
His hands tightened instinctively around her fingers, his instant reaction to protect and preserve. “Aileen . . . I’m sorry.”
“I thought doing this for work would keep me preoccupied enough I wouldn’t freak out. I tried once before, on a vacation.” She looked up now, her eyes a little glassy, but somehow still holding a bit of humor. “I hyperventilated. I think the air marshal on that flight was seconds away from putting me in a headlock.”
“You’re not hyperventilating now,” he pointed out. “So you’re doing better.”
“I can’t hyperventilate while you’re talking to me.” Her eyes narrowed. “Oh.”
He smiled momentarily. “I’m brilliant, I know.” He rubbed the back of her hand again. “Tell me something else about you. It’s your day,” he reminded her.
She looked uncomfortable, but didn’t back down. “I’m allergic to everything under the sun.”
“Really.” He waited a beat. “Even me?”
She laughed at that. “No. But nature in general has it out for me. I pop allergy meds like candy in the spring and summer. You should see me, though, trying to report during a baseball game. I’m a red-eyed mess. It’s probably a good thing I haven’t gotten a network job. They’d take one look at me on camera during spring training and fire me. Between that and my freckles . . .” She rubbed at her nose again, like she was trying to wipe them off. “I really picked a stupid career, didn’t I?”
She was gorgeous. How could she not see that? “No more stupid than mine. Remember, I’m the guy who kicks things for a living.”
That seemed to make her smile. “That’s true. What a weird pair we make.”
A pair. Was that what she saw them as? He glanced down and realized, though she’d stopped trembling and seemed to relax a little more with the smoother travel, he still held her hand. And she hadn’t taken it back.
He dropped it so fast her wrist hit the armrest with a thunk. Damn it.
“Sorry.” He rubbed her wrist where it had made contact. “Didn’t mean to do that.”
Her grin told him she wasn’t offended. “Do I have cooties?”
He ignored that and turned to look out the window again. Why did she
get to him like this? What was it about this tiny, auburn-haired woman who crawled under his skin, into his heart and just sat there without moving?
It couldn’t happen. He loved Charlie too much—respected Emma too much—to lead danger right to their doorstep.
* * *
They’d won. Holy shit, they’d won.
Killian jostled back into the locker room with the rest of the team, riding high on the excitement of the last-minute field goal the team had miraculously set up for him to nail to take the game twenty-one to twenty. Someone jumped on his back and his knees nearly buckled under the weight, but he grinned anyway. The mood was infectious. Someone else kissed him on the mouth, and he prayed it was one of the female athletic trainers and not someone who stood to pee . . .
“Have I mentioned how much I love you lately?” Michael asked, draping an arm over his shoulder.
“Not lately,” Killian said, still a little dazed. “That wasn’t you who kissed me, was it?”
“No, but I love you, man,” Michael said in a comically emotional voice. Then he cracked up, slapped him hard on the back, and went to bump chests with a few teammates.
“Cavemen. Every one of them.” Quarterback Trey Owens wandered over at a more sedate pace and held out a hand. “But God love ’em for it. Nice work, Reeves.”
Killian shook his head and smiled. “Same to you.”
Trey nodded and stood for a moment, as if he wasn’t quite ready to roam back into the mosh pit that was the rest of their locker room. “They make it easy on me, when I’m safe in the pocket. Every second counts. Come out with us tonight.”
“Us?” He asked the question, rather than giving his typical Sorry, can’t bullshit excuse. Killian started pulling off his jersey as the coaches settled them down. And then, the reporters and cameras started trickling in.
“Me, Josiah, Michael, and a few others grabbing a bite to eat. We might wuss out and just do pizza in the room, actually. Depends on how fast we can get out of here.” Trey’s eyes tracked the first few reporters and saw them heading their way. He sighed the weary sigh of a man who had done this song and dance one too many times. “Damn it,” he groaned, then pasted on a bright, camera-ready smile. “Off to do the other half of my job. Think about it. Call one of our rooms if you decide.” He met the first reporter with a handshake and an easy greeting that held none of the frustration and weariness he’d shown Killian.
The man was damn good at that. And it was a little bit of relief to see someone whom he thought was so at ease with his on-camera personality actually struggling with it. Made his own feelings of Get away from me seem more normal. Natural.
He gave a few quick interviews, keeping his answers short and non-leading. But he wasn’t the big star, and for that he was eternally grateful. His time on camera was short-lived and he finished changing alone. While he walked by, he heard Trey answering in clipped tones that he wasn’t going to discuss his private life, Cassie Wainwright, or Stephen Harrison with anyone. Killian sent him a sympathetic wince and walked to the bus that would take them to their hotel.
As he settled down in his seat, he contemplated hanging out with the guys. Pizza in a hotel room wasn’t complicated. A good jumping-off point to start the re-introduction to social groups.
He could do pizza.
* * *
Where the hell was he?
Aileen paced her hotel room and cursed the day she decided to come on this infernal trip. Sure, she’d gotten a few great shots earlier with the tailgating San Francisco crew, and she’d seen the Golden Gate Bridge on her own time. The game itself had been an intense nail-biter, and every time Killian stepped out onto the field, she’d held her breath until the ball had flown between the uprights . . . which it did. All three times. It had been a good day.
So why was she so disappointed now? He wasn’t technically under any obligation to keep her updated on his whereabouts. She wasn’t his mommy, wasn’t his keeper. So why did she feel such disappointment that, as the team had come back to the hotel, he’d ducked into his room without saying hello to her? And after dumping most of her equipment in her room and racing back to his to say congratulations, why had she felt a hint of anger when he hadn’t answered his door?
Because she was letting it get too personal. Even a blind man could see that. It was getting to be too intense. She was too attached to the subject. Too dependent on his cooperation. Wanted his hands on her more than she should, his lips on her skin in a way that would shock her if she’d said it out loud.
Oh, sweet gutter ball . . . she was lusting after the kicker.
Damn it.
Aileen fussed in the room for a few more minutes, then forced herself to sit down and write a few paragraphs on her voiceover script for the tailgate piece.
Crap. It was absolute crap. A third grader could write better dialogue than this. She groaned and erased everything she’d just typed. Then standing, she paced a few more times.
They were heading back early tomorrow morning. Like, illegally early, in her opinion. What was with athletes and this obsession to be up before the sun? Tonight was her last chance to get some information from Killian in a less pressured environment. He’d be riding high on the win—even he couldn’t fake indifference with a nail-biter like that—and his emotions would be up. It’d be perfect, the right chance to get him talking and just let him go. Really get a good feel of the guy under the number seven jersey.
Wait, not feel, she scolded herself, even as her fingers tingled to touch smooth male skin. No, no. Not feel. Witness. Experience the man under the jersey.
Damn it, why did everything suddenly sound perverted?
Before she could think twice, she grabbed her key card and walked out the door. Now or never. She’d just knock on his door and ask him to join her downstairs at the bar for a simple drink and some conversation. A little more investigative work, laying the groundwork for her on-camera interviews. She would absolutely not invite him back to her room. That was the wrong thing. She wouldn’t ask him to come sit with her on her bed while she went over interview possibilities. Their bodies would not be molded together while they perused the lists on her laptop . . .
As Aileen knocked on Killian’s door, she wasn’t even sure anymore what she wanted. For her subject to be there? For temptation to be absent?
The answer came three minutes and two extra knocks later when it was obvious Killian wasn’t going to answer the door. Or maybe he wasn’t in there at all. He could already be at the bar, maybe. Or out with teammates.
No, he didn’t go out with teammates. He was a self-professed loner. So he could just be asleep—she checked her watch—at nine o’clock on a game day.
Yeah, right.
So then he was likely ignoring her. Might even now be watching her through the peephole, waiting for her to walk away so he could get back to . . . whatever it was he did alone in his hotel room.
Though it was childish, she flipped off the door, just in case.
She grumbled all the way back to the elevator and stabbed the up button hard enough to make her finger twinge. That, too, she could lay at the feet of Killian Reeves. He’d hurt her pride, her work, and now her finger.
And had her mind five kinds of twisted up. So it was probably a good thing she wasn’t seeing him tonight after all. She’d go back to her room, have a cold shower, and then screw her head on straight for the flight home in the morning.
The elevator dinged and she turned in time to see a car full of Bobcats, with one Killian Reeves at the front. The group was laughing in that masculine way that echoed off the small confines of the elevator and spilled out into the hallway. Michael Lambert noticed her first and grinned.
“Hey, Aileen.”
“Hey.” She gave a short wave as Killian stepped forward. He was the only one. The rest must be on the next floor up.
Killian walked toward her and halted a foot away, just staring. His eyes were focused, not blurry. But his expression was oddly blank. Like
he wasn’t looking at her, or at anything at all, but lost somewhere in his own mind.
She nodded at Killian. “Nice game today.”
He didn’t acknowledge she spoke.
The elevator buzzed, an indication someone had been holding the door open too long.
“Going up, Aileen?” Michael asked, his shoulder blocking the door.
She took one step to the left to maneuver around Killian when his hand shot out and gripped her upper arm. It wasn’t a harsh grip, she could have shaken him off if she’d wanted to. But she wouldn’t. It’d be embarrassing in front of the others. And also, some tiny part of her mind admitted, she loved the feel of his hands on her skin. “No, sorry. Meant to press down and I hit up instead. Go on.”
Michael looked doubtful, but said nothing. The rest of the car had barely paused long enough to say bye to Killian and hadn’t noticed his focus on her. But Michael did. And he was asking with his eyes if she was okay.
She gave a tiny nod, and he returned with one of his own, then let the door close.
He was a good guy, that Michael.
Alone, she took one giant step back from Killian. He simply followed, as if they were in some weird dance. His grip never slackened.
“What are you doing?”
“What are you doing?” he countered, squeezing just a little. His expression was still blank, maybe a little amused, but curiously without a solid hint as to his mood.
Annoying.
“I’m staying in this hotel, too, you know.” Like hell was she telling him she’d been at his door not three minutes ago. Not now, when he was acting like this. “If you’ll excuse me . . .”
“No.”
His voice was so harsh, so low, she nearly didn’t recognize it. The sound raced up her spine, little fingers of dancing pleasure. “No, you won’t excuse me?”
“No, don’t leave yet.”
The sentiment stunned her enough she didn’t resist as he pulled her back toward his room. There was one final thought that flashed through her mind as his key card turned the light green and he pushed the door handle.
Caution. Caution. Dangerous roads ahead.
Loving Him Off the Field Page 10