Текст книги "Loving Him Off the Field"

Автор книги: Jeanette Murray

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Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

Chapter Eight

Aileen squinted at the door Killian left swinging in his wake. That was . . . odd. And not all that complimentary. She stood and used the bathroom mirror to inspect her back. Bandages of varying sizes covered the area between her shoulder blades and down to the middle of her back. She used a fingertip to touch the lowest one she could reach.

He’d been so cautious, so light-fingered, she almost couldn’t feel it. The peroxide had sucked, of course. It always did. She was twenty-six and still hated having to use that junk. But when he’d started rubbing her back while spreading the ointment, she’d almost moaned in delight. The feel of his fingers over her uninjured skin had been magical.

He would have gotten a wrong impression. She wasn’t here to seduce him. She was here to do her job.

She slipped her bra and shirt back on, careful to not rub against the bandages. And she looked around the bathroom. Pretty clean, for a bachelor. No beard shavings spread over the counter, or dried toothpaste coating the sink basin. No wet towels on the floor or funky smells. She commended him on his cleanliness . . . even as she realized she was being stupid. He likely had a maid service come in and take care of the place.

But at least he cared enough to arrange it.

Nothing was out of the ordinary. She closed the door and took a few minutes to use the bathroom and wash her hands. It wasn’t snooping, she reasoned as she dried her hands, if she made general observations on her surroundings. He’d led her in here himself. She hadn’t broken in. It wasn’t like she was opening his medicine cabinet or anything.

She stepped into his bedroom and was again struck by how . . . stark it was. There were a few spots on the walls that looked as though they might have had photos hung up at one time, but even those were few and far between. Nothing very personal. Not even a photo of his parents or his diploma or teammates.

Though maybe the diploma was in the second bedroom. Could be an office. She could always ask to see it later.

As she stepped into the living room, she searched for him. As the fridge closed, she walked toward the kitchen and found him leaning against the back wall of the narrow room, a bottle of beer at his lips.

“I’m going to head out.” She backtracked to the sofa for her bag and phone. “It’s been a long day for me, and I need to get some thoughts together before I get my next day.”

Her back was to him, but his silence was heavy enough that she didn’t need to see his face to have an inkling about his stormy mood.

Striving for unaffected, she chirped, “See ya!” and bolted for the door. She didn’t slow down until she reached the parking lot, then skidded to a halt. Her car was back at the practice field. Right.

Shit.

“Let’s go, Freckles.” Killian’s voice, so close behind her, made her jump. “You could at least give a guy five damn seconds to put his shoes on before you leave.”

She flushed, feeling the heat from her chest to the roots of her hair. “I forgot you drove me,” she mumbled before climbing in the passenger side of his car. He walked around, and she spent the five seconds she had alone pep-talking herself out of being an idiot on the drive home.

Not that she had to worry. He cranked up the music the moment the car was on.

Okay, then. No small talk this time around. Suited her just fine, since she had no freaking clue what she would say. It felt . . . wrong, somehow, to interview him in the small confines of the car. Like she would be breaking some sort of unspoken rule to bust out her phone and start recording.

So she closed her eyes and leaned her head back, reliving the moments in the bathroom. She’d felt so vulnerable, stripped to the waist, with nothing but her shirt clutched to her front. His touch had been soothing. He probably would find that insulting to hear, she mused. She stole a quick glance at him as he changed lanes. His body was stiff, his face set in grim lines that radiated the warning Back Off. He considered himself a hard man, a man without people, an island.

Which was all bullshit, of course. But he’d also hate to hear that.

He pulled up to the lot with her car and parked two spaces over. As he reached for his door handle, she waved him off. “Don’t get out, I’m fine.”

His scowl told her Yeah right, and he did it anyway. But she just got out her own side and walked swiftly toward her car, hoping he wouldn’t follow. Which meant he did, of course. “I said, I can do it. You don’t have to play the gentleman and open my doors or anything.”

“Who says I’m playing?” He seemed easier now that they were out in the open air again. His teasing tone—so rare she secretly treasured it—was back. As she opened her door and tossed her bag in the passenger seat, he got a good look inside. “Holy hell, Freckles. Were you raised in a barn?”

She glanced into her backseat, which served as part suitcase, part trash can. “I’m messy. Can’t help it.”

“Messy would be an upgrade.” His face showed serious signs of horror, to the point where she giggled a little. “Ever had this thing shoveled out? It’d probably run better without fifty pounds of junk weighing it down.”

“It runs fine,” she said, defensive of Sybil, while simultaneously praying to the car gods the car started the first time she turned the key. “You’re just jealous.”

“Caught me.” He grinned, and she mirrored the gesture. His was the first to fade. “My day tomorrow.”

“Yeah, about that . . .” She fiddled with her keys. “I get what you’re doing, you know.”

His face went blank. “What am I doing?”

“You were just using that as a way to lower your interview days.” She watched as something flickered over his face. “Only have fifteen instead of thirty?” she added. “You don’t have to interview me or anything. That’s silly. I can just give you a day’s break between each session.”

Killian shook his head. “No way, Freckles. You and I had a deal. Are you gonna back out?”

“No, I just . . .” She shrugged. “Thought I’d offer you an easy out.”

“I don’t take the easy out.” There was a world of determination in his voice as he said it. “That’s for pussies. I’ll see you tomorrow after practice.”

She opened her mouth to say yes, then stopped. “Can’t.”

His eyes narrowed. “Back to reneging?”

“I don’t renege,” she said hotly, then forced herself to calm down. “I just have plans tomorrow, that’s all. So you can have a free day to not be around me.”

She hadn’t meant it in a negative way, but he shook his head. “It’s not a chore. I mean, it’s just the deal. What plans do you have? I’ll come with you. Same thing you’d be doing with me.”

He was right, but she didn’t want to say. “Just, you know . . .” She mumbled the rest, then tried to duck into the car. His hand wrapped around her upper arm and halted her escape.

“Didn’t hear you, Freckles. What is it?”

She looked away and muttered it again.

“Speak up, Aileen.”

“Bowling. League,” she snapped. “There. Satisfied? I’m in a bowling league. And when I’m not working or at home, I’m at the bowling alley.”

His brows rose in surprise but, to her relief, she didn’t see any mockery in it. “Bowling league. That’s . . . unexpected.” He nodded a little, looking at her as if trying to picture her in an alley, holding a ball. “Yeah, okay. So I’ll go with you.” When she gave him a scathing look, he smiled. “Maybe I like bowling myself. Maybe I’ll take the lane next to you and get in a few rounds while you do your thing.”

“Maybe pigs will fly,” she muttered. “You can come, but you can’t make fun of my friends.” It would be horrible, she realized, if he ruined her league for her. It was the only thing that kept her sane.

“I wouldn’t,” he said, and his face held such sincerity, she didn’t question it.

“Fine. Just . . . be there around five if you want. But I warn you, I’m not going to have a lot of time to talk. I’ll be in the zone.” Even as she said it, she realized how stupid it probably sounded to a non-bowler. But he just agreed and let go of her arm. Until he did, she hadn’t realized he’d been holding her in a gentle grip the entire time.

He watched her another moment and, almost resigned, he bent and brushed a kiss over the corner of her mouth. “It’s not a chore,” he said again. Then he turned and went to his car.

She resisted the urge to run her fingertips over the corner he’d just kissed, to see if it felt as hot to the touch as she thought it did. But when he didn’t start his car, she realized he was waiting for her to leave before going himself. She hopped in the car, sent up a quick prayer, and started Sybil on the first try.

“Sybil,” she said as she pulled out of her parking spot, Killian right behind, “you won’t believe my day.”

* * *

Michael and Josiah walked by his locker after their team meeting. “Wanna grab a burger?”

Killian glanced at his watch, surprised that he was seriously considering it. “I would, but I have somewhere to be.” Practice had run over, and then the team meeting had taken forever, so he was already late for the start of her game. Match? League? Practice? He didn’t know what to call it, but he did know he was running too far behind to sit around and gab.

Josiah looked dubious, but said nothing.

Michael had no such reservations. “Dude, don’t be an anti-social nut sac. Come eat with us. We’re about to go on the road for two weeks straight so let’s just hang out tonight.”

He hid a grin as he bent over and zipped up his bag. “Unlike popular belief, I’m actually not a . . . what was that term you just used? An anti-social nut sac.” He clapped Michael on the shoulder as they all headed toward the exit. “But I actually do have plans.”

“What?” Michael asked, clearly not believing him.

“I’m meeting up with Freckles.”

“Who?” Michael asked.

“Aileen?” Josiah paused mid-step, forcing both Michael and Killian to glance behind them. “You’re going out with a reporter? Lambert’s wrong. Your sac isn’t anti-social, it’s made of brass.”

He shrugged, like it was no big deal. “She’s okay. But it’s not social,” he hastened to add as the other two exchanged a look. “She’s been hounding me for an interview so I agreed. I’m just trying to annoy her into giving up before things actually get started. I figure me pestering her while she’s doing something she likes—like she pesters me at my job—is the quickest way to get that accomplished.”

They both looked like they doubted him, but said nothing.

“Thanks for the offer, though,” he added after some thought. When they reached the parking lot, he took a chance and said, “Next time?”

Michael shot him a thumbs-up before heading to his car. Josiah walked to his hybrid SUV—too cold to bike today—and gave him a wave.

Killian tried to remember the last time he’d hung out with his teammates. His freshman year . . . when he’d met Emma. He hitched his bag in the back and scrubbed a hand over his face. He was twenty-nine. Wasn’t it time for him to start having a social life again? A select few guys, maybe. The ones who wouldn’t say shit even if they found out about Charlie and Emma. The kind who wouldn’t blink before agreeing to protect a little kid.

Yeah. He watched both Michael and Josiah pull out. Maybe it was time to try.

* * *

He wasn’t coming.

Aileen refused to dissect exactly why that made her so sad. Sure, he’d promised, so she expected him to show up. But it wasn’t like he was obligated. They didn’t have a cheering section, and it wasn’t like she’d saved him a seat. It was just league play, like any other week.

Ernie, her favorite teammate, nudged her shoulder. “You all right, kid?”

He often called her “kid,” as she was the youngest on the team. Second youngest in the league, actually. At twenty-six, she was less than half the age of most of the participants. Many were retirees, or people who had been bowling for decades, before it was retro-cool. She didn’t mind. It was like having a huge group of grandparents, aunts, and uncles. As much as she missed her own parents, the league had become a pseudo-family for her over the last few years.

Aileen tightened the Velcro on her wrist wrap, then flexed her fingers. “I’m okay.”

“You’ve been checking the door every two minutes for the first two games. Expecting someone?” Ernie sat down and propped one spindly leg—clad in khakis with a sharp crease—on the seat next to him. Their teammates, Cindy and Al, a married couple in their late forties with an empty nest and a zest for their new hobby, were discussing the best way to attack the seven-ten split.

“What, for bowling league?” she scoffed. “I don’t need my own cheering squad. I’m good enough without it.” She made a show of buffing her nails on her polyester shirt with her name sewn on the pocket.

“Everyone needs a cheering section.” Ernie watched her, his faded blue eyes so insightful it made her gut hurt. She debated, just for a moment, spilling the beans about her problems.

Then her problem walked in the door.

He wore sunglasses, even in the dark alley, and a hoodie with the hood scrunched up around his neck. Not quite over his head, but up high enough to detract people from seeing his face. His hands were stuffed in his jeans pockets and he was scanning the area looking for . . . well, her, she assumed.

The butterflies in her stomach—the same ones that had been making lazy circles since she’d left the parking lot yesterday—went into overdrive. As his gaze passed over her lane, she held up her hand in a little wave. He must have passed over her for a second, then zeroed back in on her. With a slow gait, as if he had nothing else to do, he sauntered over.

“Hey,” she said, somehow more nervous and less so all at once now that he’d shown up. “Hope you aren’t this punctual to practice or you’ll be out of a job.”

“I had stuff. Team meeting. Sorry.” He looked around, then sighed and shoved the glasses up over his head. “Dark in here.”

“Part of the ambiance. Haven’t you been bowling before?” He shrugged one shoulder, which made her wonder if that was a yes, or a no. “I’ve just got one game left. If you don’t want to stay, it won’t hurt my feelings.”

Yes, it will.

But that wasn’t his problem.

“I’ll stay. I’ve never seen a bowling league in action.” He looked around and pointed to an empty seat. “Can I sit here, or is there a special spectator’s section?”

She slapped his arm. “Don’t be sarcastic. Yes, you can sit there. Don’t distract me, and don’t embarrass me.”

As he cocked a brow in question, she just grinned and walked over to the ball return. Ernie was waiting.

“That your boyfriend?”

She didn’t look over her shoulder. “Just a guy. Don’t worry about him.”

Duty bound to ignore the request, Ernie looked over her shoulder and waved at Killian. Aileen groaned and picked up her ball. Al and Carol were still discussing—fighting—her last missed opportunity in the previous frame and didn’t even notice they had been joined by someone else. They probably wouldn’t, as they were typically more concerned with each other than anyone else around them. But Ernie . . .

“Okay, look, he’s the subject of a piece I’m doing. It’s for work. Please don’t make it awkward?”

Ernie shook his head. “Someone for work is showing up to cheer you on at league? Doesn’t seem all that professional.”

“He’s not . . . I mean, he is, but . . . it’s complicated,” she finished. “Now scoot so I can take my turn.” She waited for Ernie to slide over so she could pick up her bowling ball. The custom-made ball fit her fingers like a glove, and the design she’d asked for always made her smile, even on her crappiest days.

As she took her spot on the line, she breathed in once, closed her eyes, and let the breath out in a slow, controlled motion. When her eyes opened again, the world had narrowed to ten white pins, and the long alley to get there. Knees bent, she took her approach and took the shot, doing a mental fist pump when she saw all ten pins crash down. Doing the actual fist pump would be more her style . . . but Killian was watching and she’d be damned if she made this an even dorkier experience than it had to be.

Ernie gave her a quick nod of approval and a pat on the back, and both Carol and Al pulled their heads up long enough to give her some acknowledgement. She lifted one shoulder in a no big deal gesture, then walked back to Killian. Except it was a big deal for her. She was okay, but she wasn’t amazing. Every strike was a reason to celebrate.

“Nice shootin’, Freckles.” He moved over an inch so she could sit beside him. Their thighs brushed on the plastic chairs that gave no room and even less comfort. “When you said bowling league, I thought you were kidding, to be honest. This is serious stuff.”

“It can be. The league ranges in people who are in it more for the beer and the companionship than the game, and those who are ready to sign up for their pro card and start grabbing sponsors.”

“And where do you fall?”

“I’m more toward the beer-and-companionship side.” He stretched and laid his long arm across the back of her chair, forearm brushing her neck. It wasn’t a move, she knew. The sitting area was just too small for comfort. They were bound to touch. Which of course, didn’t explain why the hairs on the back of her neck stood up and said yes, please, more of that. “I do like the social aspect. It’s why I started in the first place. It was something to do that would force me to not be thinking about work all the time. But then . . .” She held up her hands, let them fall back into her lap, and grinned. “It became about the game. My parents and I played a lot when I was a kid. Then they died, and I stopped.”

He was quiet for a moment. The sound of pins clattering and jovial conversation surrounded them, but in their tiny corner of the building, it was as if the world around them had been muffled. “I’m sorry.”

“Thanks. It’s been a while, but thanks. Anyway, I stopped playing for a bit, and got tied up in work and things. Then one day I was sitting around with nothing to do, feeling sorry for myself that my career wasn’t going the way I’d hoped, and I was looking at this photo of my parents and . . .” She shook her head. “This is a silly story.”

“Not silly. Keep going,” he encouraged easily, sounding sincere.

“Okay. Um . . .” She focused on picking the rhythm of the story back up, instead of staring into his eyes, watching her every motion. “I grabbed an old photo album, and started flipping through. And I kept coming up with pictures of us at a bowling alley, having so much fun we could hardly breathe. My dad used to have this gag,” she said, smiling at the memory, “where he’d pretend the ball was too heavy to pick up, so he’d move on to a lighter one, and it’d make him fly back because it was too light. Silly,” she added, knowing it was hard to explain. “You had to see it.”

“He was a funny guy? Your dad?”

“Hilarious. Which embarrassed me to no end in my sullen, black-humored teenage years, of course. Which is when we stopped bowling as much. They joined a league themselves—with Ernie, actually—but I just stopped. I regret it was my fault we didn’t keep going together.”

“I’m sure that’s not the only reason. Teenagers are busy. Your parents were probably busy with work, too.”

She liked him even more for trying to shield her feelings. “Maybe. But I’m guessing my attitude didn’t help. Anyway, so I kept remembering all the fun times we had while bowling, and before I knew it, I’d signed myself up for the local league. I found Ernie from my mom’s old contact book,” she said, pointing to the wiry old man. “He took me under his wing, brought me into the team. He’s a good friend.”

“Sounds like it.” Was it her imagination or did his fingertips brush down her shoulder? “So now you bowl in a league, and wear a shirt with your name on it.”

She glanced down at the neon blue and green polo shirt. “Our team colors. Carol picked.”

“Could be worse.”

“How?”

“They could be Green Bay colors,” he said with total honesty.

She laughed. Laughed and folded in on herself until she could barely breathe. “Oh. Oh, that was good. Nicely played.”

“Aileen!” Al waved at her. “You’re up.”

“Coming!” She patted his knee. “I’ll be back. Don’t move.”