Loving Him Off the Field

by Jeanette Murray

Maybe the other stuff would be better. The interviews with teammates and coaches. She’d shot just a little of that thus far, but nothing major.

  Even as she thought it and started scrolling for the footage, she acknowledged it was a false start. If the subject itself wasn’t interesting, nobody cared what other people had to say about it.

  Battleship sunk.

  Maybe a plea to Killian would work. She could beg. Much as she wanted to leave Off Season, she still had to pay the rent on her crappy apartment. And since no other networks were climbing over one another to garner her attention, it wasn’t like she could just easily move on.

  Which, of course, Bobby knew.

  She glanced over toward her parents’ photo and felt the prickle of tears behind her eyes. “Mom . . . why am I even doing this to myself? Is it worth it? Did you feel like it was worth it when you had success? Or am I just going to be let down by that, too?”

  Her mother’s smile, forever frozen, was unhelpful.

  “Wonderful.” She let her forehead fall to the desk. The Bobcats were traveling to Miami, which meant she would tag along—at her own expense this time—and pray to get two minutes alone with Killian. The longer distance meant more time spent in modes of transportation surrounded by a hundred other people, and less down time at the hotel before and after the game.

  Begging wasn’t her style. But when it came to begging or not eating . . . her stomach was going to be making some very pitiful sounds to go along with her pleading words.

  * * *

  Shutting the hotel door behind him, Killian blew out a breath. It had been a total whopping. Dolphins over Bobcats, 30-7. Not their best showing, and the fans had let them know it. His ears were still ringing from the boos.

  He just wanted a quiet room, the trail mix he’d brought with him, a movie, and a soft bed to lounge on.

  And someone to lounge with.

  The idea popped into his mind before he was even halfway to the remote, and his imagination filled in the details. Stretching out with Freckles in bed, him in sweats, her naked—hey, his imagination, his choice—with her legs draped over his lap and her head on his shoulder. Watching a horror movie on pay-per-view, running a hand down her back to soothe her during the scary moments . . .

  His phone was out with her number dialed before he could second guess himself. Five minutes later, she was in his room. Ten minutes later, she was naked.

  An hour later, he was sated, with her body draped over his like limp spaghetti, ready for trail mix and a movie.

  Her hand caressed up and down his ribcage. “Wanna talk about the game?”

  “Nope.”

  “Okay.” She said it so easily, as if she’d been prepared to hear that answer and had already accepted it.

  He let his hand roam down her back. “What movie should we watch?” The options flipped across the screen one by one. “And your warning is if you pick a chick flick, I’m tossing you out in the hallway without your clothes.”

  “Now there’s a walk of shame to remember,” she joked, poking his belly in retaliation. “How about something scary?”

  “Seriously?” He stared down at her, wondering if he’d somehow telegraphed his desires. She blinked back up at him, clearly innocent. “You want to watch a horror movie?”

  “I’m not a fan of watching them alone in my apartment,” she explained, hugging him tighter. “But I can be convinced when I’ve got someone to squeeze. My startle reflex is pathetic, so I’ll jump and jolt a lot. There’s your warning.”

  He debated a moment, letting the image from his imagination spin out once more. But something held her back. “Is it my day, or yours?”

  She rolled until her head was pillowed by his stomach, so she lay crossways over the bed. Her feet still barely reached the edge of the mattress. “I didn’t think we were keeping track anymore. But . . .” She closed her eyes and tapped her fingers on his stomach in a pattern he took to mean she was counting something. “Yours, I think. I’d be willing to take it, though, if you’re feeling generous.”

  He sifted his hand through her hair. Her eyes drifted closed and she made a little hum of pleasure. The sound vibrated through his torso and his cock jumped at the feel of it. Down, boy. Not now. Later. “Why journalism?”

  She snuggled a little more into him, draped one arm over his chest, and sighed. “We’ve talked about that. My parents were both journalists.”

  “How old were you when they died?”

  “The plane crash was when I was eighteen.”

  He waited for her to go on, but she was surprisingly quiet. “I’m sorry.”

  “Me, too.” She drew a pattern over his chest, twirling his chest hairs in little spirals here and here. “My mom was brilliant. Dad used to joke his main goal in life was to keep up with her. He was more into photojournalism, but my mom was the real hard-hitting stuff.” She smiled a little, and he could see she was rifling through memories. “She was the one who would find the most war-torn country, rife with murder and rape and political unrest, and fly straight into the eye of the storm. Dad would follow and catch what he could with photos. Keeping up with her was like trying to keep up with smoke, he said. As many dangerous places as they ended up, it was like they were in some sort of protective bubble. Trouble seemed to bounce off them. They always made it back in one piece.”

  “Where were you while this was happening?” He wasn’t sure he liked the idea of a tiny Aileen being left behind.

  “Oh, this was all before I was born.” She waved that off. “They still worked once I came along, but it was more local. And by local, I mean inside the continental U.S.” She grinned. “Mom was forever plotting another trip to DC or New York or wherever corruption lived and needed to be blasted out in the open. She took me a few times on the less intense trips. I missed some school, but mom insisted it was more educational than sitting at a desk memorizing the order of presidents. What was the point in knowing the past if you weren’t experiencing your present to the fullest, she’d always say.”

  “Nice.” He stroked the backs of his fingers over her shoulder and upper arm, watching goosebumps raise on her porcelain skin. “What happened?”

  She knew without him elaborating what he was asking. “Small plane crash. Them and four other people. No survivors. The weather turned ugly mid-flight and there was no good place to put down. Just one of those freak things.” She gave a shaky laugh. “They spent nearly a decade of their lives bouncing around from one developing country to the next, risking themselves in war zones, and they make it back okay only to die in a freak plane accident. I remember thinking how unfair that was. That Mom was sitting up in Heaven rolling her eyes at the totally anti-climatic way she’d been taken out. Probably sounds stupid,” she muttered, pressing her nose to his skin. “They’re dead, no matter how it happened. But that’s what I remember most. Not the sadness, but the rage at how they’d been taken from me. As if dying in the line of journalistic duty would have made it easier.”

  “It might have,” he said, his heart breaking for the angry young woman she must have been. On the cusp of adulthood, when she’d needed guidance like never before, it had been ripped from her.

  “I always knew I’d be a journalist like her, but print just wasn’t where my heart was.” She grinned up at him, eyes still a little shiny. “And I just found myself inexplicably drawn to hot athletes.” Climbing over him, she straddled his lap. “Can’t imagine why.”

  He could. She’d taken the heart of her parents’ profession and twisted it to make it something she wouldn’t be competing with them on. So their memory would live on, untouched by her successes or failures. He rubbed up and down her back. “I want some trail mix.”

  She blinked, clearly thrown by the change of subject. “Ooookay. Do you need to make a vending machine run?”

  “Nope. I have some.” He rolled her off, then headed to grab the bag from his duffle. He tossed it to her and she read the label.

  “There are M&Ms in here.” Sh
e looked up, excited. “This isn’t healthy.”

  There was no point in mentioning his usual choice of trail mix didn’t contain chocolate. He’d bought it, subconsciously, hoping to share with her. “I’ll just pick those out.”

  “And give them to me,” she said, handing the bag back. He opened it and snuck under the covers with her. Dumping a handful in his palm, he held it out and let her pick out the chocolates. “Thank you,” she said, and the words carried more meaning than just for the food.

  He kissed the top of her head. “No problem. Now. Zombies, ghosts, or ax murderers?”

  “Your pick.” She rifled through his next handful of mix for the chocolate. “Just make sure you aren’t holding this when the scary stuff gets going. Otherwise, it’s gonna get ugly when peanuts and raisins go flying.”

  He kissed her again, hiding a smile in her hair a moment before making a selection.

  Chapter Twenty

  Killian walked up the steps of his apartment, keychain swinging around his finger, whistling. Life was good. Practice had been fantastic, the team had really rallied after that embarrassing show in Miami, and he was in his last week of his agreement with Aileen. After the interview was over and done with, he’d slowly start working his way toward telling her about Charlie . . . once he was one hundred percent positive it wouldn’t be a problem.

  Not that Charlie was the problem. His son was never the problem. Emma, however . . .

  As he stuck the key into the lock of his front door, he heard Mrs. Reynolds’ door open behind him. He sighed inwardly, plastered a smile on his face, and turned toward her.

  And the smile froze as he saw Emma and Charlie standing on the threshold of Mrs. Reynolds’ door. Charlie clutched a Hulk action figure in his hand, and Emma held onto the handle of a rolling suitcase.

  “Daddy!” Charlie squealed, then bolted at him. Killian barely managed to bend down in time to catch him. Hauling his son up on his hip—dang, the kid was getting huge—he gave him a massive hug, then looked him over once for injuries. “Hey, bud. You okay? What’s wrong? Anything hurt?”

  Charlie giggled as Killian’s hand passed over his side. “That tickles, Daddy. No hurts.”

  No hurts. He hugged Charlie again, pressing a kiss to his clean, baby powder–scented hair that was identical to his own. Then he glanced at Emma over their son’s head. “What the hell?” he mouthed.

  She smiled grimly and stepped aside for Mrs. Reynolds.

  “I caught these two hovering around your door about an hour ago. And I said to myself, there’s a young man who needs a cookie.” She gazed softly at Charlie, who giggled again and held up two fingers. “Or maybe two.”

  “Uh-huh. Well, thank you, Mrs. Reynolds.” He swung the door open wide and gestured for Emma to walk in ahead of him. “I appreciate you entertaining them. Must have gotten my times mixed up.”

  “Anytime I can have a wonderful little boy over for some lively entertainment is a good day,” she said, patting her hair. Not that any of it was out of place, with as much hairspray as she likely used on it. Then, with a sharp look that told Killian she’d caught on to the situation, she added, “He’s a good boy, that one. A good egg. I’m sure his parents are very lucky to have him.”

  Killian nodded, his throat closing up tight. Then he walked in and shut the door. “Hey, bud, wanna watch a movie?”

  “Yeah!” Charlie ran for the couch and jumped on it, bouncing once before settling. His bright red shirt with Iron Man’s mask stood out so much against the light brown couch. Beaming, his son slapped his knees and said, “Which one?”

  “How about we try in here?” Killian went to the second door, took out his keys and unlocked it. Opening it wide, he grinned as Charlie gave a loud squeal of joy and ran in.

  The second bedroom consisted of a twin-size bed with navy blue comforter, a simple dresser he’d bought at Target and assembled himself, and some posters of comic book characters and heroes he knew Charlie loved. The small TV and Xbox console that sat on the dresser, along with an assortment of DVDs and age-appropriate games were what really caught his attention.

  The dresser and closet, Killian knew, also contained just a few sets of clothes, and an extra set of bedsheets.

  By some people’s standards, it was a pretty basic room. But it was something he’d had to do.

  “When did you put this together?” Emma asked quietly.

  Killian shrugged, embarrassed. “Just, you know, things here or there if they caught my eye.” Which was a lie. The day he’d moved in to the apartment, he’d bought a crib and diapers to keep, just in case. The fact that Charlie had never used them was a sucker punch to the gut. But he’d been able to donate them to a shelter, and that had felt good. Sneaking them in and out without Mrs. Reynolds seeing had been another story altogether. And replacing them with little boy–appropriate furniture and accessories had soothed the ache.

  “It’s sweet, that he has a place here.”

  Not that he’d ever used it.

  There was no reason for saying so. He was using it now, even if it was unexpected.

  Charlie kicked off his shoes with flair and rolled around on the bed. “What movies do we got?”

  After a quick debate, he chose The Tales of Despereaux. Killian started the movie, his heart swelling as he turned around and found Charlie already snuggling with a stuffed monster from Monster’s Inc. “Your mom and I are gonna be right out here, okay?”

  Already engrossed in the movie, Charlie waved him off. “Okay, bye.”

  Killian hated to make his son watch a movie five minutes after seeing him, but he and Emma were going to have a serious Come To Jesus, and their son needed to be sheltered from it.

  He found Emma sitting primly at the kitchen table, a glass of water in front of her and her purse slung over the arm of the chair. The luggage, he noted, had been shifted to sit next to the couch. She waved him into the opposite chair, as if she were a queen bestowing a peasant the honor of her presence. He sat, because if he didn’t, he might go into the kitchen and find something to throw at her.

  “What the hell, Emma?”

  “Charlie missed you,” she said simply, as if that were all the explanation needed for why she’d broken a nearly six-year-long agreement to not pull this shit. “And I was sick of you blowing off his calls and visits.”

  “I call back when I miss one of his. And one visit, Emma. One fucking visit.”

  “Don’t use that word when he’s around,” she warned, but Killian sliced a hand through the air.

  “You’re one to talk about rules. Sneaking around, breaking our own agreement? Nice co-parenting style you’ve got there, Emma.”

  “You were—”

  “The season is busy for me. Always has been. Always will be. It’s my job. And I’ve got a freaking reporter dogging my heels until the end of the regular season. You thought now, of all times, was the best opportunity to show me up?”

  She bit her bottom lip for a moment, but he didn’t buy the innocent act. She was a good mom, a great one. And she’d been easy to work with in regards to Charlie’s custody and parenting. But something was up, and he wasn’t about to let her get away with just violating the rules so easily.

  “I need some time off.”

  Time off. “What, like a vacation? You want a vacation? For God’s sake, Emma.” He sat back and let his hands fall to the table. “You couldn’t have told me that on the phone? Two weeks from now, you can take a month off. You know I’ve never said no when you wanted a long weekend or a trip or whatever. As long as I could swing it, I’ve always said yes. I’ve always come up to stay with him when you wanted to go to a conference or see your mom out in Portland.”

  Her eyes shifted to the side, and he saw how tired they were. “It’s not a long weekend, Killian. It’s . . . I need just some time off. I’m full-time mommy, full-time real estate agent, and . . .” She blew out a breath. “I’m seeing someone.”

  That took him by surprise. “Oh.”


  “He’s really nice,” she rushed on to say. “He’s forty-five, a mortgage broker. No kids of his own, but he’s good with Charlie. They’ve met a few times, but I’ve only told Charlie he was my friend.” She smiled a little. “It’s not serious yet, but I hope it will be. He wanted to take me away for a week and when you weren’t being plugged in, I just panicked. I’m sorry.”

  “A mortgage broker.” He smiled at the job title, something so completely commonplace. The total opposite of his job. “That’s good, Emma.” She was nearly ten years his senior, and he’d wondered as she approached forty, if she would ever want to find a man and marry. Maybe have another child or two. He didn’t begrudge her the opportunity, and jealousy had no place in their relationship. They’d never been in love. But . . . “Does he know?”

  She hesitated, then shook her head. Blonde tendrils of her professional twisting updo fell around her ears and she pushed them back. “He knows Charlie’s father lives out of state and sees him when he can, and that we were never married or anything. But not, you know, details.”

  The details were potentially a deal breaker for anyone. “Emma, I don’t wanna tell you how to run your life but—”

  “I know, Killian.” Her voice hardened. “I know. If he’s not the guy for me, I’ll figure it out before I share that little tidbit. If he is, then he won’t hold my past against me.”

  Fear was like a struggling worm against a hook in his heart. It was all he could do not to reach across the table, grip her arms, and beg her not to say a word to anyone. For Charlie. But on the same side of the coin . . .

  “I’ve sort of met someone, too.”

  She raised a brow. “Did you?”

  “Not like that,” he said, shooting her a narrow look. “She’s nice. It’s not like before. She’s not a groupie or . . . you know.” Even years later, he tried not to use the word in case it offended Emma.

  “A call girl? Escort?” She smiled at that, as if amused by her former self. “Well, that’s good. Enough time has passed, you know. Maybe nobody will even put two and two together.”