Текст книги "Loving Him Off the Field"

Автор книги: Jeanette Murray

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Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

Killian nearly had to clench the booth seat to keep from reaching out and punching at Josiah.

The server arrived with their food instead, which served as a distraction for his frustration. Frustration with himself, mostly, at not having a clue what the hell was wrong with him. He had no claims on Freckles. They weren’t dating, they weren’t . . . anything, technically. It would be bad for her if her boss found out she was with the subject of her current work. And keeping her around long enough to find out about Charlie would be the exact disaster he’d spent the last six years trying to avoid. Would he be anything less than an idiot for practically inviting that sort of trouble through his door?

“She’s nice, too. I heard she found out where Stephen was and sent him flowers a few days ago.”

Killian’s head snapped up from his chicken to look at Michael. “How’d she find out?”

“Dunno.” His seatmate took a huge bite of his fish and chewed for what Killian thought was an insanely long time. “Maybe it’s slowly leaking, but I didn’t see anything online about it. So she never reported it, or told anyone at work. It was a nice touch, I thought. Classy, keeping that quiet. The guy clearly needs help, and he’s getting it, and if she found out, she’s not making it more difficult for him to get the help.”

Killian couldn’t help but agree. His heart was doing that annoying racing-thumping-skipping thing again, and he rubbed at it with the heel of his hand.

“What we need is another good, solid clusterfuck,” Trey said, stabbing at his salad. “You know, one of those that rocks the media for a while and really throws them in a different direction?”

“Like the prostitute ring a few years ago,” Josiah said, picking up his wrap. “But let those NBA jokers have the scandal this time.”

At the mention of the prostitution ring, Killian’s gut turned to ice. He set down his fork and took a sip of water, hoping the glass didn’t shake noticeably in his hand. When they continued on, making disparaging remarks about other sports—in a good-natured way—he let go of a shaky breath and tried another bite of his chicken.

It went down like glass shards.

“Whatever happened with that whole thing?” Michael asked.

Killian kept his eyes on his plate, fighting in his mind for a way to change the subject that sounded better than “How about that local sports team?” Since, you know, they were the local sports team.

“That was years ago,” Trey said, shrugging. “God, I was probably only a few years into the league when they busted that up.”

“We all were,” Michael said. “Too young to be caught up in that shit.”

Killian managed to swallow a dry laugh.

“I think they cut a deal with the ring’s madam,” Josiah said, scratching at his jaw in thought. “Most of the women just disappeared. Vaporized. We’d see some of them, remember? We knew their call names, or whatever they used when they were working. I haven’t seen any of them around recently, so my guess is they beat a hasty retreat.”

“Probably found a new type of clientele to utilize,” was Trey’s guess. “Stock brokers or surgeons or something. My guess is it’s same trick, different city.”

Different city was right, Killian though. New trick.

Real estate, this time. And single motherhood.

“Hey, you okay little man?” Michael thumped him on the back once. Killian coughed in response. “You’re looking pale.”

“I’m good,” he managed to choke out. “But I think you just made me swallow my fork.”

Michael laughed at that, and they moved on to a new topic, one he wasn’t capable of following. All he could think of was Charlie, and exactly why he needed to get a better grip on his . . . whatever with the freckled journalist.

Chapter Eighteen

Aileen sat in her car, making notes. While the rest of the spectators and journalists slowly exited, she held back. If Sybil was going to do its favorite cough-and-die trick, Aileen would prefer it be in private, with as few witnesses as possible. So under the guise of making notes and being too busy talking on her phone—to nobody—she sat with the car off and waited, doodling in her notepad, drawing footballs and—sadly—the number seven over and over again. As soon as most people had cleared out of the parking lot, she’d give it a go.

A knock on her window had her shrieking and throwing up her hands. The pen and pad scattered to the floorboards and her elbow crashed into the horn, making it honk once. People turned to stare as she did her best to right herself.

So much for going unnoticed.

She looked out the window and found Cassandra Wainwright smiling and waving for her to roll down the window. Since the window didn’t actually do that, she opened the door instead. “Hey.”

“Hi.” With a bubbly smile, Cassie waved in the car. “Sorry about that, I didn’t realize you were concentrating so hard. Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“I have a highly developed startle reflex,” Aileen joked, picking up the pen and pad. “What’s up?”

“I got ditched for lunch. Wanna grab a bite to eat?”

She blinked. “Um, sure. Yeah, that’d be great. Let me just . . .” She stared at the key in the ignition, then back at Cassie. “Where to?”

“Come with me. I’ll drive, then drop you back off.” Cassie hooked an arm through Aileen’s, then pulled until Aileen stood. “Thank you. You’ve saved me. I’m still desperate for female companionship. My sisters are great, but they’re teenagers. And my dad is . . . well, my dad.” She grinned. “I have my best girlfriend back home, but there’s something to be said for sharing a brownie in the flesh with another female, you know?”

Aileen didn’t, actually. Most of her friends were more acquaintances, or males she worked with. But she nodded as if everything Cassie said were old news.

“Great. There’s a deli not too far from here, and a bakery beyond that with the most awesome pastries.”

Mentally blessing her decision to wear loose cargo pants that morning, she settled into the SUV Cassie pointed at and reveled in the idea of getting into a car without having to do a prayer and virginal sacrifice to get it started.

Cassie chatted the entire way to the deli, barely pausing for breath. It was nice, since that meant Aileen simply got to absorb the idea of female companionship. It was new and took some getting used to. The cadence of Cassie’s conversation was vastly different than that of a man’s. But after awhile, she got into the rhythm and was able to contribute to the conversation more than just I’m listening sounds.

Ten minutes later, they were seated in a corner of the deli with sandwiches, bags of chips and sodas. The person who had taken their orders, whom Cassie had introduced as the owner of the family-owned and -operated business, had given her lunch companion an exaggerated wink and pointed them toward the partially hidden corner table. Cassie took a long pull of her drink and sighed. “There’s really nothing so good as a Diet Coke. I know it’s bad and chemicals and blah blah blah. I could probably recite the spiel by heart now. Trey’s forever giving me crap about soda.”

It was one of the tidbits Aileen the reporter would have loved to hear. She could have created an entire fluff piece on players and their drinks of choice. But she was supposed to be Aileen the friend now. She nodded and held up her own matching soda. “Cheers for better living through caffeine.”

Cassie laughed and tapped her paper cup to Aileen’s.

“I’m glad you asked me out,” Aileen said after a minute of quiet eating. “I don’t get to do this often.”

“It’s because you’re a journalist,” Cassie said bluntly. “Makes people nervous. Made me nervous, to be honest, at first. Not you specifically,” she added hastily when Aileen’s smile dimmed. “You were upfront from the beginning. I liked that. I respected that. But just the media in general. I didn’t grow up with this, like my sisters did.” She screwed up her face, her nose scrunching in a cute way. “We don’t have to do that whole ‘off the record’ junk, do we?”

Aileen laughed at that. “Let’s just assume if I don’t specifically put us on the record, we’re off. I can’t afford to alienate one of the few people I like around here.”

Cassie laughed as well. “It’s hard right now, knowing who to trust. Trey swears it will get better and we just have to push on.” She sighed and picked up a barbeque chip, then dropped it back down to the paper. “My dad’s wife is always harping about image and keeping the family’s name clean and whatever. I get it, don’t want to embarrass the family. But sometimes I just want to breathe and run around town free to do my own thing without worrying I’m going to get someone bothering me.”

It was telling she referred to Tabitha Jordan as her father’s wife, not her stepmother. “I’m not a huge fan of the stalker tactics myself. That’s why I like these stories I do now. I have everyone’s permission, there’s no secrecy, and they’re sort of fun, too. They’re fluff,” she said, dismissing their importance. Being self-deprecating about her job made it easier to handle that she wasn’t doing what she thought she’d always do . . . sideline reporting. “But people seem to like them.”

“They’re not fluff,” Cassie protested, then looked sheepish. “Okay, I mean, maybe they are. But I like them. I’ve been looking through some of your older stuff,” she admitted when Aileen raised a disbelieving brow. “After we met that first time, I checked you out. Saw some interviews, some funny little pieces. It was nice. Humanizing. And you’re right,” she added, picking up her drink and using it to gesture. “It was obvious all parties were okay with it. No taking photos from behind cars or using spy cams. That shit’s creepy.”

They both looked at each other, then laughed hard enough to have one of the deli workers look at them with a bewildered gaze.

Aileen wiped at the tears that had gathered in the corners of her eyes. “This was nice. Thanks for trusting me.”

“My pleasure, and thank you for being trustworthy.” Cassie bit a chip with a crunch and grinned.

Aileen picked up her sub, then set it back down. “But if you and Trey ever decide to do an interview as a couple, I’m totally game. Just saying.”

Cassie laughed again.

* * *

Killian shuffled into the kitchen for dinner, determined to make himself something grown up and nutritious. After the lunch out—though he’d had chicken and vegetables—he knew his sodium was going to be way off the mark.

But after staring at the vegetable crisper for five minutes, he closed the door and grabbed a loaf of bread and peanut butter and made himself a sandwich. And ate it standing up. On a paper towel. Like a boss.

Peanut butter wasn’t on his top ten list of favorite foods, but he kept it around just in case Charlie ever visited. Much like he kept goldfish crackers, pudding cups, and a few other items. It was stupid, he knew, to keep them when Charlie wouldn’t be coming. Just like it was stupid to keep the second bedroom locked up, hiding the bedroom he’d set up for his son.

Just in case.

Because he was in the kitchen, he heard someone walk by the door to his apartment. And then he heard his neighbor open her door and speak to whoever walked by. Curious, he used the peephole and found Aileen and Mrs. Reynolds chatting like old friends by his neighbor’s open door. He stuffed the sandwich in his mouth to hold with his teeth and wrenched the door open.

“Hey,” he said to Aileen. She was still wearing the outfit he’d seen her at the practice field wearing. The ever-present canvas tote was slung across one shoulder, the strap cutting between her small breasts, making them more obvious. Her Converse, simple jeans, and a faded T-shirt with Motley Crue screen printed across the front made him smile a little. “You didn’t knock.”

“I was talking to Mrs. Reynolds,” she pointed out. “And she was telling me that you’re her favorite cookie eater.” Her grin was infectious, her eyes sparkling with humor. “Now tell me, Mrs. Reynolds, exactly what are his favorite cookies? Because if treats are the way to gain compliance, I’m going to be in a baking mood.”

His neighbor giggled like a schoolgirl. “He’s partial to my oatmeal raisin, actually. And you know, I gave him a large tub of those the other day, after he helped with my wobbly coffee table.”

“A wobbly coffee table, huh?” She leaned against Mrs. Reynolds’ doorjamb. “He fixed it all by himself?”

Killian felt the beginnings of a headache starting. “Freckles, weren’t you coming in?”

She shook her head. “I’m good here. Tell me more, Mrs. Reynolds.”

“Well,” his neighbor began, looking grateful for a captive audience. “It was right after I had him move my television set to the opposite wall. It’s so hard to see the screen these days, and the glare from my patio window was just awful.”

“Of course. Glare is terrible,” Aileen agreed.

“Freckles,” he warned.

She held up a finger without looking at him.

“And I said, ‘Killian, you’ve been such a help to me. You need some cookies to take home.’ He fought me on it.” Mrs. Reynolds leaned in, ready to impart a secret. “He’s got to watch his figure in season, you know.”

Aileen let out a small snort before she could get it together. “Oh, yes. His figure is very important.”

And that was all Killian could take. Leaving his door open, he stomped across the breezeway and wrapped a hand around Aileen’s upper arm. “Thanks for the cookies, Mrs. Reynolds. I’ll get you that tub back in a day or so.”

“No rush!” she called as Aileen and Killian walked across his doorway. “You two have fun now!”

“Bye!” Aileen waved, jerking her hand back just before Killian slammed the door shut. “I adore her.”

He did, too, normally. When she wasn’t imparting little tidbits of his life to reporters.

“And who knew you were so handy?” Aileen patted his chest, her hand lingering just a little so the gesture was more intimate than patronizing. “Maybe you should come over and fix my—”

“Everything?” he cut in. “I’ve seen that place.”

She shrugged, unbothered by the comment. “It’s cute that you help her out.”

“It’s no biggie.”

“Hmm.” She took a step away and surveyed the apartment’s common space. “Mind if I set up in the living room?”

“Set up what? Your cell phone?” He followed her into the living room, surprised when she reached into her tote and pulled out an extendable tripod. “Whoa. What else do you have in there?”

“Not much. A few snacks, a camera, the cure for world hunger . . .” She kept digging and pulled out a camera to use with the tripod. “Okay, just kidding. I don’t have any snacks.”

“World hunger must be heavy.”

“The cure for,” she corrected, letting the tote drop carelessly to the floor. Apparently, now that she had the tripod and camera out of it, nothing else was of significant value or care. “The light is best in here. I can change it up, but that would require dragging lamps around the apartment and that’s annoying. So is it okay?”

“I don’t remember any on-camera interview being discussed.” He took another bite of his almost-forgotten sandwich. “I need some prep time.”

“You’ve had prep time. And if I recall correctly, you were the one who nagged me about going too slow, and to hurry up and get this whole thing over with. Was that you, or some other cute kicker I was rolling around a bowling alley naked with?”

“Better not have been,” he grumbled. Now that she was actually taking the steps to finish the whole thing, he regretted having pushed.

“I’m going over all the questions we’ve discussed before on paper. Now you’ll just be answering them to the camera. No surprises.” She looked down as she adjusted something on the tripod, then glanced at him from the side. Bits of auburn hair drifted over her ear and into her face, but he could still see her eyes. “I know you hate surprises.”

“I’m getting used to them,” he murmured. When her eyes widened, he shrugged. “Guess I should go brush my hair and my teeth then. Wasn’t planning on being on camera.”

“Go for it. I’ll just arrange things here. Mind if I clear your coffee table off?”

“No prob.” It was just magazines and a few remotes. “I’ll be right back.” He headed toward the master bedroom, with the bathroom attached. Damned if he was doing an on-camera interview with peanut butter teeth.

* * *

Aileen framed the shot, then cleaned off the coffee table. Setting everything to the side in neat piles—because the man was definitely a neat freak, maybe even a minimalist—she double checked the angle. No color. Nothing. The walls were white—unsurprising, in a rental—but there were no photos or posters up. The couch was beige. The furniture was bland wood. Nothing at all to make the shot interesting.

“That’s what he’s for,” she muttered to herself. But even knowing Killian would be in the line, she knew it would look wrong without something. Pillows, or a throw over the back of the couch. Anything.

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.