Loving Him Off the Field

by Jeanette Murray

  Just because she worked for a tiny web blog didn’t mean she wouldn’t try to do her best with the minimal resources she had. She looked around the room, but it was as if the man preferred living in a whitewashed apartment. Even the dish towels were fawn colored.

  She glanced through the door to the master bedroom, as he’d left it open. But even taking two steps in, she realized there was nothing for help here. It was as if the guy’s middle name was Greige. Ick.

  There was one more room to try. She looked at the closed door and sighed. Likely an office, which meant there was nothing inside to help, either. But it was worth a shot. Maybe he kept all the colorful things in there. Even a corny team poster at this point would be better than nothing. She turned the doorknob, but got nowhere. The door was locked.

  Why the hell would he lock his office door?

  “What are you doing?”

  Aileen jumped at the sound of Killian’s harsh question. “I was just—”

  “Snooping?” he cut in. He crossed his arms over his chest, watching her closely. He’d changed into a Bobcats T-shirt, the dark blue a sinfully delicious contrast to his tanned skin as its sleeved stretched over his biceps. His hair was brushed back behind his ears, and he looked ready to chew nails and spit them through railway ties.

  “Uh, no. I was looking for something colorful. For the background,” she elaborated, pointing at the Beige Couch of Blandness. “Something to liven up the shot. Pillow, blanket, whatever. I just thought maybe there was something in . . . the office?” she ended weakly.

  “No.” That was his only reply. “Let’s get this over with.”

  The cheerful, cheeky Killian of before was gone, replaced with the stiff, nearly robotic version in front of her. He sat at the edge of the couch cushion, back ramrod straight, eyes cold and a little sinister. She shivered as she adjusted for his height. “Could you scoot back a little? More. No, just, you know, sit like you would normally sit on a couch.”

  He glared at her, but shifted until his back rested against the cushion.

  Close enough. She finished lining it up, made sure her mic was working, turned on the recording, then sat next to the camera on a stool she’d taken from the kitchen. “You’ll talk to me, not the camera. And I’ll be cutting out things between each question, so don’t worry if you cough or whatever. Just talk conversationally, you and me. We’re alone, just the two of us, relaxed and hanging out.”

  His eyes sharpened. “We don’t just hang out.”

  Okay, so he was going to be difficult. She crossed one leg over the other and looked through her notes. “Let’s start with your athletic abilities as a kid. You played soccer. What was it about soccer you loved?”

  She walked him through it, question after question, pausing to remind him to rephrase his answers in complete thoughts now and then. The words were fine. Adequate. But there was no life. She remembered the times she’d spoken with him before, gotten him going back and forth. The give, the take, the actual passion even for the negative stuff. It was missing.

  It was The Beige Interview, to match the couch.

  After an hour, she stood. “That’s enough for tonight. We’ll keep it up in small chunks so we don’t burn out. Could you hang up that shirt somewhere so we remember what you were wearing and it stays nice? Continuity,” she explained when he gave her a weird look.

  He shrugged. “Sure.” He disappeared into the master bedroom to hang up the shirt, but left the door open and she took a quick step to her left to watch. Yup, she was shameless. He raised the shirt over his head and she enjoyed the view of taut muscles and tanned skin being revealed inch by inch. He threw the shirt on the bed and grabbed another from a drawer. It took everything she had in her not to give him a wolf whistle and tease him a little.

  As she packed the tripod, he reappeared and seemed a little more himself. The real him, not the bland façade he’d given her the last hour. Maybe it was camera fright. Some of the toughest, bruiser-like men got in front of a camera and started shivering as if they were locked in an upright freezer. Maybe that’s what the mood was about. Determined not to let it bother her, she gave him a sunny smile. “Thanks for that. Did you have a nice lunch today?”

  He walked into the kitchen and took a bottle of water from the fridge, holding it up for her. She nodded and he tossed it at her. She fumbled and dropped it on the carpeted dining area, cursing. He laughed softly and grabbed a water for himself before closing the door and propping a hip against the counter next to it. “I did.”

  When he offered no more, she sighed. “Did you go out with teammates?”

  “I did.”

  “You’re infuriating,” she accused, trying desperately to open the water and failing.

  His lips twitched, and she knew he was getting a kick out of baiting her. He stepped forward and took the bottle from her hands, popping the safety cap with ease. “You loosened it,” he said with mock seriousness when she scowled at him. “Did you have a nice lunch?”

  She raised a brow and took a sip. “I did. I went out with Cassie Wainwright.”

  That had Killian choking on his water. She smiled grimly with satisfaction as she whacked his back.

  “Did you invite her?” he asked in a wheezy voice, still recovering.

  “She invited me.” She sat down in one of the kitchen chairs and leaned back. The dining area was as sparse for personality as the rest of the apartment. Kicking the other chair out in invitation, she waited for Killian to sit, then propped her feet in his lap. One corner of his mouth raised in acknowledgement, but he didn’t push them off. Not a bad sign. “It was nice. I don’t have a lot of girlfriends in the area, and she was missing her best friend from back home. We just sort of clicked. It happens.”

  Killian started to say something, but Aileen’s stomach rumbled. “Sounds like dinner wasn’t as good as your lunch was.”

  “I didn’t eat dinner,” she said absently, rubbing at her stomach. That was uncomfortable. Thanks a lot, stomach. Wait until I’m working toward closing the deal with a guy to start singing whale mating calls.

  “I’ll make you something.” He settled her feet back to the ground and patted her thigh before standing.

  “That’s okay, you don’t have to.”

  He bent down and kissed her quickly. “I’m not listening to that stomach of yours all night. So yes, I do.”

  She waited until he was in the kitchen before she closed her eyes and breathed heavily. They were getting somewhere. She knew it.

  Where somewhere was, that was up for grabs.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Killian plated the sandwich and goldfish crackers, debating tossing a pudding cup on there for good measure. He wanted her well fueled before he got her into his bed. Then thought better of it. The crackers and sammie—as Charlie called them—were nerdy enough. Why add to it with a freaking pudding cup?

  He placed the paper plate down on the table in front of her, and her eyes lit. “Peanut butter and jelly?”

  He nodded.

  “Crunchy or smooth?”

  “Smooth.” Charlie hated chunks.

  “Grape or strawberry?”

  “Grape.”

  She sighed. “Okay. Next time, I’m bringing strawberry, though. You were this close,” she said, putting her thumb and forefinger almost together. “This close to the perfect sandwich. Nice try.”

  He ruffled her hair just to annoy her, then sat down. While she dug in, he lifted her legs and placed her feet back in his lap. “What’s with the shoes?”

  “Hmm?” she asked around a mouth full of sandwich.

  “The shoes. You always wear them. Ever tried heels?”

  She winced. “I know I’m short, but come on. Those things are torture. I have a few pair, but I’d rather be able to move than look good.”

  “You always look good,” he said. Her eyes went liquid with pleasure, and he forced himself to add, “Good enough to—”

  “Eh.” She held up a hand to stop him. “L
et’s just leave it there.”

  He tugged at the hem of her jeans. “So everything’s about comfort, not style.”

  “Mostly. I mean, I don’t wear stuff that’s ripped or stained. I have some pride in my look. But overall, I need to be able to chase after a guy more than a foot taller than me for a game-end interview. Can’t keep up if I’m tripping myself.”

  “Good point.” He smoothed the hem back down and let his fingers trail up and down her shins, over the soft fabric of the faded, hundred-times-washed denim. “Is that the only reason?”

  She thought for another minute, taking an extra long time to chew. “Maybe not. Part of me thinks I have to stand out somehow. My dream job is only partly talent. The other part is—let’s face it—physical attractiveness. I’m competing against tall supermodel-like women. They’re beautiful, they dress in things that show off their figure, and they get noticed not just because they’re good at their job, though . . . yeah, they’re good at their job, too.” With a self-deprecating laugh, she tore off a piece of crust and let it fall back down to the plate with a plop. “Maybe my subconscious realized I couldn’t compete in the looks department, so it draws me to clothes that contrast with that image.”

  “So you’re judging them for looking good.”

  She snapped her head up. “That’s not it. They can’t change their genes, and I’m not saying they’re better or worse at their job because they look good in a tight sweater. I’ve had several female role models who were very pretty. It’s just knowing that plays into it that sucks. Even if nobody says it, it’s true. So my inner-thoughts drift toward rocking the boat and not playing into that part of the game.”

  He nodded slowly, understanding a little of what she was saying. She distanced herself from other women in the broadcasting business by dressing less attractively and forcing it to be one hundred percent her talent alone. “I still think you’re selling yourself short,” he said, laughing when she rolled her eyes. “And that wasn’t a short joke. At least, not intentionally.”

  “So you’re not doing a story on Cassie Wainwright and Coach Jordan then, huh?”

  Her eyes narrowed, but she shook her head resolutely and kept eating. He sensed she was a little offended, but he was working up to a point.

  “I heard Stephen got a flower delivery. Know anything about that?”

  She looked at him for a long minute, her cheeks heating.

  “That was nice,” he said quietly. Especially when he knew she didn’t have the money.

  “No biggie,” she said, mimicking his retort from earlier.

  He reached for her plate and tossed a cracker at her. “That was nice,” he tried again.

  Swallowing the handful of crackers she’d just put in her mouth, she took a sip of water before speaking. “He’s a sweet guy. One of the first to actually let me interview him. I did this really dumb piece on his bottle cap collection. Which in hindsight . . .” She trailed off, looking a little sad at the reminder of why Stephen was on sabbatical. “I hope he liked them.”

  “I’m sure he did. I’m also sure he liked knowing his secret was still safe.” He waited for her to meet his eyes. “You’ve had two stories land in your lap in the past week, and you’re doing nothing about them. Why?”

  “I promised,” she said simply. “My mom said your reputation as a journalist was your biggest weapon. If people could trust you to keep a source anonymous, all the way, they’d keep coming back to you. I don’t necessarily have the whole anonymous source thing on this side of the media, but I do have the trust factor.”

  He itched to ask more, but decided one topic at a time. “So if you hadn’t promised, you’d be running with it.”

  “Maybe. Depends,” she said, scrunching her nose at that. “Hard to explain. It’s a gut thing. I hate sensational stories just for sensation. I don’t like feeling like what I report on is trashy. If I would feel trashy for having found the story the way I did, I’m not going to run it. It will just feel wrong, even if it got me attention and better assignments.” She fisted a hand over her heart, and it made him smile to see a smear of peanut butter on one knuckle. “How I feel about my work matters.”

  He waited for relief to pour through him. Relief that, if she ever found out about Charlie, she’d keep it quiet. It wouldn’t be her go-to story. She’d keep a promise to him to keep it under wraps.

  But his son was . . . everything. There was no way he would risk it, even for someone he cared about more than was wise. Maybe, one day, he’d explain. Once she was past this White Whale kick she was on, once they’d seen how far they would go.

  Pessimistic? Maybe. But for his son, he would play safe over sorry any day.

  * * *

  Aileen’s head was ringing. Sweet Christ, could she not get five minutes of sleep without waking up? She cracked one eye and stared blearily at the clock. It told her, in cheerfully glowing red numbers, it was almost four in the morning. She groaned and shut her eye again, praying the ringing would stop soon.

  It did, then started right back up again.

  With a grunt, she reached out one arm without looking and grabbed her phone. From memory, she slid the bar across the screen to answer without looking and mumbled a dark, low, “He-o?”

  There was a pause, and then, “Daddy?”

  She raised her head from the pillow long enough to see she’d grabbed Killian’s phone and not hers. Tossing the phone onto his abdomen, she heard the slap of plastic against flesh and his answering ooof.

  He pushed at her shoulder and asked, “What the hell?” in a sexy, sleepy voice.

  Without raising her head from the pillow, she waved around the area where she assumed the phone landed. “Call,” she said into the soft jersey fabric of the pillowcase. “Some douche asking for daddy. Make them go away. They keep calling. Won’t stop.”

  He rose from the bed, and she could hear him say a quick, “Hello?” into the phone before she drifted off.

  Some time later—could have been thirty seconds or three hours, for all she knew—she felt him climb back in. The mattress dipped with his weight, and she rolled into his back, wrapping her arms around his warm body and snuggling into smooth, male skin. She pressed a kiss between his shoulder blades. “Sorry I answered your phone. I swear I’m changing my ringtone when I get home tomorrow.”

  “Yeah,” he said, then pulled her arms tighter around him. “What’d they say to you?”

  “I was still half-asleep, but I think they called me Daddy. I might have heard that wrong, though.” She sighed. “Crank call or wrong number?”

  He hesitated so long, she thought he’d fallen asleep. Then he pulled her just a little closer. “One of the guys on the team. We all have the maturity of a seven year old, at the end of the day.”

  She chuckled softly at that, then drifted off.

  * * *

  “This is absolute shit.”

  Aileen pulled the phone away from her ear and put the speaker on. If Bobby was going to curse, she’d rather hear it at a distance. She set the phone down on the desk and brought up the example reel she’d compiled for him, at his last-minute request. “It’s not done, Bobby. I told you it was rough, and incomplete.”

  “Not the edit job, though really, hack job is a better word for it.”

  “So hire more editors and make us stop editing our own work,” she said, knowing he was just rolling his eyes.

  “This is boring as hell. He looks like a wax figure. You couldn’t get him excited about anything?”

  “The second half is better,” she promised, crossing her fingers on one hand in her lap while scrolling with the other through the clips of video she’d pasted together for him to see.

  “Is the second half done?”

  She paused.

  “Rogers!”

  “I’m working on it.” She was about to get fired, she could feel it.

  “Jeez, the guy’s dead inside.” She heard some of the playback through the phone, the bit where Killian talked abo
ut transitioning from soccer to football at the drop of a hat.

  “Don’t say that,” she snapped. But even as she said it, she watched her own version play on her computer, muted, and saw the truth. The Killian she knew when it was just the two of them, in bed or out, bowling or making love, was absent. This was a talking shell. “He’s just . . . camera shy. I’ll work on loosening him up. If we have time, I can reshoot the first bit after he gets more comfortable.”

  “Do whatever you have to, because this is crap. I can’t use this at all. Show him your tits if that’ll perk him up.”

  She gagged a little at the suggestion. Bobby was such a pig.

  “Let me be clear, Rogers. You’ve been skating on thin ice as it is. You’re not pulling in the big numbers, and you’re not bringing in the white whale like you promised. You didn’t bring me the Wainwright interview.”

  “Nobody has done an interview with her since she and Coach Jordan first announced themselves,” she pointed out, praying her voice didn’t sound suspiciously evasive.

  He ignored that. “And since you refuse to do that one interview with the cheerleaders I asked for . . .”

  “The one where I let the Bobcat cheerleaders give me a makeover and put me in a bikini for a photo shoot? Fuck that, Bobby,” she said through her teeth.

  “There’s nothing here. I’m unimpressed and tired of letting you skate. Bring me a damn good interview with some actual emotion or start the job hunt.” He hung up without another word.

  Aileen stared at her blank phone for a minute, jaw hinged open. He’d all but fired her. It had actually happened.

  Well, crap.

  She let the interview run again, all the way, without any of the cuts. The entire hour passed by in a blur of awkward silences, long pauses, and shuffling papers. Even between questions, when he wasn’t having to think or speak, she could see Killian had checked out. His eyes were more dull than she’d ever seen them, his jaw was so tight it looked wired shut, and his shoulders kept rising around his earlobes in a subconsciously defensive posture. Like she was lobbing live grenades at him instead of questions.