“We agreed not to risk it,” he said in a low voice. “Both of us. Just like we agreed to time our visits better than this, with no surprises. We agreed not to take chances.”
“And I said I’m sorry. You don’t have to remind me like I’m a child. I made a mistake.”
Charlie yelled in the distance, egging Despereaux on in whatever adventure he was currently partaking in. They both sat quietly for a moment, listening to their son’s eager, happy chattering and encouragement.
“I always feel so guilty,” she said quietly. “That his start was so abnormal. So surprising. I love him, and I don’t regret him, but I feel like he got cheated out of a really great childhood. He’s got a good one, but it could be great, with both of us nearby.”
“I know.” He held out a hand and Emma placed hers in it. He squeezed. “We’re doing the best we can. Dr. Phil doesn’t have any parenting books with the subtitle, Help, the media is after me!” He grinned. “I checked.”
She laughed and squeezed, then released his hand. Her bracelet clinked against the kitchen table as she put her palms down to stand. In her simple navy skirt and light blue button-down shirt, she looked every inch the successful real estate agent and single mother she was. Nobody would look at her and think she’d once been a high-priced call girl for any athlete ready to pay.
“So, should I make dinner or will you?”
He shook his head, putting away thoughts of Aileen for the evening. “I’ll run out and grab something. There’s a great Thai place not too far. Charlie still like Thai?”
Emma nodded and smiled. “This week, anyway. And Killian?” When he paused at the door, she pressed a cool hand to his cheek. “Thanks for not freaking out on me. I made a mistake. You’re a big enough guy not to rub my nose in it.”
“You’re Charlie’s number one mom.” He pressed a kiss to her temple and grabbed his keys off the hook by the door. “And besides, I’m a big enough screw-up myself.”
“That you are,” she said with a wink, and closed the door behind him.
* * *
Aileen paused in the midst of knocking on Killian’s door. Her phone beeped and she checked the text. Maybe it was Killian, asking her to come over. Wouldn’t that be a cute little moment, to say Check the door, stud, and be standing there?
But no, it was Bobby, reminding her she had a week to provide more compelling footage or she was DOA.
“Charming,” she muttered, then shoved the phone back in her tote. As she debated sending the little “Invite me over,” text to Killian herself, Mrs. Reynolds’ door opened.
“Oh, sweetie, it’s you.” Killian’s neighbor smiled warmly. “Why don’t you come in and sit with me awhile? I saw him leave a bit ago.”
Aileen blinked and looked at Killian’s closed door. “Really? This late in the evening?”
“Oh, yes,” she said, reaching for Aileen’s arm. “Wheel of Fortune is about to come on. I always need a little extra help with the puzzles. Why don’t you come in, and we’ll pass the time together? You can help with all the pop culture.” With one frail arm wrapped around Aileen’s wrist in a surprisingly firm grip, Mrs. Reynolds towed Aileen toward her apartment. “Tell me, do you know who this Ke-dollar sign-heh gal is? Why does she need a dollar sign? Is an ‘S’ not good enough?”
Aileen chuckled and let herself be pulled. But when Killian’s door opened behind her, she whipped her head around.
A woman, close to forty years old, in a neat button-down shirt and dark skirt, walked out into the breezeway holding the hand of a small boy in a bright red shirt and unruly brown hair.
“Are you sure you left Iron Man in the car?” the woman asked carefully. “I don’t remember packing him.”
“Yes,” the boy said. “He’s in there. And I neeeeeeeeed him.”
Mrs. Reynolds relaxed her grip and sighed. “Well,” she muttered, “I tried.”
“Mrs. Reynolds,” Aileen said slowly. “Who—”
“Daddy said after the season’s over, we’re having a whole Avengers marathon.” The boy bounced on the balls of his scuffed tennis shoes as they headed down the staircase.
Aileen froze. Daddy? Her mind flashed back to the call the night before. The prank call, he’d said, when someone asked for Daddy.
No. There was no way. He wouldn’t have outright lied to her, would he have?
Of course he would have. He never wanted to do the interview in the first place, a little sinister voice whispered.
Give him the benefit of the doubt, she ordered herself. Even though it looked hopeless.
She went and knocked on Killian’s door while Mrs. Reynolds watched in unabashed curiosity.
“I told you, he left,” she reminded Aileen.
Aileen forced herself to take two calming breaths. Except they did nothing. She closed her eyes and let her forehead fall to the door.
Son of a bitch.
Mrs. Reynolds coughed loudly. “They’re coming back, dear.”
Aileen lifted her head in time to see the ice-blonde and the young boy approaching. In his hand, Iron Man rested.
“Hello,” the blonde said coolly. “Can I help you?”
“I . . .” Forgot my own name, apparently. “Hi. Is Killian available?”
“No, he’s stepped out.” The woman walked to the door, pausing while Aileen stepped out of the way. When she opened it, she shuffled the boy inside. She didn’t invite Aileen in—though why would she? They were strangers. “I can tell him you came by, though. What’s your name?”
“Just tell him Fr—Aileen came by. He’ll know why.” She stepped back, then couldn’t help but ask, “Are you his sister, by any chance?”
The woman just watched her, neither confirming nor denying.
“Right.” Something was gnawing at the center of her heart, leaving a bruise in its wake. “Okay, well—”
“Mom, who’s that?”
The voice was familiar, though Aileen couldn’t be positive if it were the one from the phone. She’d been half-comatose at the time. But when the little boy popped his head around what she assumed was his mother’s legs, there was no mistaking that face. Those unruly mink-brown locks. Those eyes.
Killian. Twenty-some odd years ago, that would have been Killian’s face.
The gnawing became a full-blown pain and she balled a fist against her chest. “I . . . I have to go.” She turned and stumbled toward the stairs, barely making it to her car before the tears started.
Chapter Twenty-one
Killian nudged the door open with his elbow and closed it behind him with his foot. “Dinner’s here. Get it while it’s hot, cause you know it’ll suck if we re-heat it.”
“Completely unnecessary use of the word ‘suck,’” Emma chided as she came to take one of the takeout bags from him. “But thank you for getting dinner.”
“Sure thing. Charlie! Come and get it!”
Charlie raced into the kitchen, green Hulk and an Iron Man clutched in his hands. “I’m busy saving the world. Can it wait?”
“Not if you want it to taste good. The world’s been here for a while now, I think it’ll survive another thirty minutes. Go sit down.”
“Go wash,” Emma corrected, shooing him toward the guest bathroom. When they heard the water run, Emma leaned on the counter next to where Killian was scooping food from Styrofoam boxes to plates. “Someone came by while you were gone.”
He paused mid-scoop. “Did you answer the door?”
“Sort of.” She waited for him to finish, then traded the full plate for an empty one. “She said her name was Aileen.” Watching him, she nodded. “So that’s her. I wasn’t sure, since she didn’t quite look like your type.”
“I don’t have a type,” he answered automatically. But he knew what she was saying. Aileen was almost the exact opposite of Emma in every way. “What’d you tell her?”
“She asked if I was your sister. I didn’t answer. Just said I’d tell you she came by.”
Not great, Killian thoug
ht as he stuffed the boxes in the trash can. Could have been worse.
Emma started searching the kitchen for silverware, grabbing forks when she found the right drawer. “And she saw Charlie.”
There was the worse. “Saw him? Like, hey, there was a kid in that apartment somewhere saw him?”
“More like, she got a really good look at him.”
Charlie was Killian’s mini-me in almost every way. You’d have to be an idiot not to catch on to the relationship. And Aileen was no idiot.
“I’m sorry,” she said again as he stared at her. “She caught us walking to your door. What was I supposed to do, shove him behind my back or throw my coat over his head?”
When the water in the bathroom turned off, he lowered his voice. “What did she do when she saw Charlie?”
“She . . .” Emma chewed on her lip and grabbed some paper towels for napkins, taking an absurd amount of time to fold each one into perfect squares. “She just left. Maybe she didn’t put two and two together.”
“She’s smart,” he said woodenly. “She’s a reporter. She’ll put it together.”
Emma’s jaw dropped. “I thought you said this was the special someone?”
“She is.” He tossed the serving spoon in the sink, wishing he had something to break instead. “She’s both.”
“Well, for God’s sake, Killian.” Emma delivered the plates to the kitchen table and turned back to him. “You’re dating a reporter?”
“Don’t start, Emma. Your little surprise is why we’re in this mess.” He wiped his hands on a dish towel and tossed it on the counter. “Son of a bitch.”
Charlie bounced in, action figures still in his hand, and slowed as he took in the mood of the kitchen. “Are you guys mad?”
“Yes,” Killian said just as Emma said, “No.”
“Tell the kid the truth,” Killian added when Emma glared at him. “Yes, your mom and I are angry. We’re talking it out, which is what you should do when you’re mad.” That was a mature, parent-like thing to say, wasn’t it? “Let’s eat, then you can get your PJs on and we’ll play some Star Wars before bed.”
As he sat down, fear coated his tongue and he realized he couldn’t eat anything. Fear for Charlie, that their secret would get out and negatively impact his life. Fear that Aileen wouldn’t hear him out, wouldn’t give him a chance to explain why he’d kept his child from her. Wouldn’t give him another chance.
He would put it aside. For now, he had to. His son—the reason they kept secrets to begin with—was here, and deserved his full attention. Tomorrow, he’d start working on what to do.
* * *
For the first time since they met, Killian waited for Aileen. He was leaning against the outside wall of her apartment, next to her door. His pose was almost a mirror image of all the times she’d hovered around the arena locker room or practice field parking lot, waiting for him to finish up and walk out. The thought made him want to laugh, even while his throat closed at the memories.
Only this time, the stakes were higher than he could count, and the pressure made it hard to breathe.
He heard the rattletrap car pull up before he saw it. She parked and got out, and he watched from several stories up, muttering about personal safety when she didn’t even pay attention to her surroundings as she hefted her large tote out of the backseat and over her shoulder. The urge to rush down and help her carry it up the stairs was heavy, but he pushed it back and waited. Better to catch her off guard, hopefully enough that she’d let him in. Or at least not immediately push him off the three- story balcony.
Her head was down as she approached the door, keys already in her hand. Her head moved side to side, and he saw she’d put in earbuds. Completely oblivious to anything going on around her. She never even noticed him standing to the side. As she put her key in the lock and turned, he waved an arm in her line of vision to get her attention.
“Oh, Jesus!” she screamed, jumping back and losing her footing. She fell before he could grab her, her tote landing on the concrete with a sharp thump. Papers and a few magazines spilled out and slid across the smooth concrete walkway. Her keys almost skittered through two metal balusters in the railing, down to the parking lot, but he managed to step on them to save them from going over.
Hand on her heart, Aileen looked up at him through dark shades that covered half her small face. “What the hell was that for, Killian?” she asked, her voice almost at a shout. Her hand rose and fell quickly over her heaving chest.
Kneeling down, he reached for her. She moved to the side, in a gesture that might have seemed coincidental. But he saw it for what it was. Purposefully widening the gap between them, both emotionally and physically.
“I’m sorry, I thought you’d see me. I wasn’t hiding.” He realized then she hadn’t even heard him, with her earbuds still in and playing music. He reached out before she could move and tugged them out so they fell into her lap. “I’m sorry,” he repeated. “I thought you’d see me.”
“I wasn’t paying attention. I warned you I had a major startle reflex.” She scowled at him—he could tell that even without seeing her eyes—and stuffed her earbuds into her sweatshirt pocket where he assumed a phone or iPod already resided. Then, gathering her things, she stuffed them back in her tote. Except, now that everything was in disarray, it wouldn’t fit. “Damn it,” she muttered.
“Here.” He picked up a large pile of papers and magazines and her keys. “I’ve got it. Let me help you get them inside.”
She sighed and stood, ignoring his offered hand. “Whatever.” Pushing her door open all the way, she walked in and dumped the bag on the ratty sofa. He placed what papers he had in his hand next to the bag and followed her to the kitchenette area. She was already guzzling a bottle of water.
She glanced at him over the bottle of water, then tossed her sunglasses on the counter. “I’m not offering you a drink.”
“Okay.”
“Offering you a drink would mean I wanted you to stay.”
He nodded his understanding.
She paused, as if waiting for him to say something. Then she waved toward the door. “That means I don’t want you to stay, which means you should go now.”
“I met Emma my first year in the league,” he began, and she moaned. Determined, he pushed on. He stuffed his hands in his pockets, pacing. This would be much easier if she’d offer him a damn seat. “I had almost no expectations, coming into the league. I was a natural loner.”
“No,” she gasped theatrically.
He could handle her sarcasm. He deserved it.
“So making friends was hard. I started latching onto whoever would offer to hang out. There was our punter at the time. Jerry VanHalson. Older than me, been with the Bobcats for almost ten years. Took me under his wing.”
Her forehead wrinkled, as if thinking back. “VanHalson. Name doesn’t even ring a bell. What happened to him?”
“As part of damage control, he was traded away.” When she blinked in surprise at that, he knew her natural curiosity was winning the battle between Pissed-off Aileen and Journalist Aileen. He just hoped, by the end, she made decisions with the Aileen who used her heart. “He was only with his new team one year when he tore something in his hip. He was close to retirement anyway, just came a few years early. But that’s getting ahead. My first year, he invited me to a few parties at his place, and I went. Wanted to bond with the guys, seem like part of the team. A couple of the guys would drink too much, or do a few lines. I wasn’t interested.”
She nodded, hopping up on the counter. The heels of her sneakers banged against the already-stuffed cabinets below. Clearly, she sat like this often. “I believe that.”
“I’ll have a beer, but drugs?” He shook his head. “So they made fun of the freshman boy scout. That I was too uptight. They weren’t going to push drugs on me, but maybe I’d unwind a little with some prime pus—um.” He coughed, remembering his audience a half second too late. “Unwind with some female compan
ionship.”
She scoffed, not fooled. “Right.”
“Emma . . .” He looked at her then, wishing he knew what was going through her mind. Then immediately feeling grateful he didn’t. “She was older, and she latched onto me pretty fast. She showed me around the area, was at all of Jerry’s get-togethers, and we hooked up. Casually, not like we were together. Just . . . having fun.”
He rubbed a hand over his forehead, then pushed her tote bag out of the way and sat on the couch. As the entire studio apartment was probably no more than four hundred square feet, they were still close enough to talk. And he needed to sit to get through the rest.
“I thought the women hanging around Jerry and the others were groupies, or just friends of friends. Party girls looking for fun.”
Aileen was quiet, taking another sip of water.
“Apparently not.” He laughed and looked at the blank space by her front door. “I felt like such an idiot when I realized . . . such an idiot,” he finished, voice low.
She stilled, water halfway to her mouth, but said nothing. Watched him warily. And he could see in her eyes she’d guessed.
“She was an escort. Most of the women there were.” He tried to swallow back the snort, but didn’t succeed. “Escort,” he said again, derision plain. “They were prostitutes. I’d been having sex with a prostitute, and I didn’t know. When I asked Jerry about it, he laughed. Thought it was so fucking hilarious. The freshman noob with no clue how to tell the difference between an eager groupie and . . . you know.” He smiled wryly. “I punched him then. Just one good pop to his jaw. Felt so good.”
“I bet,” Aileen said, her voice a gravely whisper. Her face had gone white, one hand clenched around the edge of the counter. The other squeezed the bottle of water so hard it crackled in her grip.
“A few weeks later, the entire escort service got busted for being a front for a prostitution ring.” He closed his eyes a moment, hating having to clarify. “I never—”
“Paid her.” Aileen’s voice cut through his with definitive certainty. “Of course you didn’t.”
He looked at her, surprised. It wouldn’t have been a stretch to assume that in his stupid youth he’d done so. Either through peer pressure or just a willingness to make a stupid error go away. “How did you know?”
Loving Him Off the Field Page 21