Loving Him Off the Field (Santa Fe Bobcats #2)
Jeanette Murray
Chapter One
Two months earlier . . .
“Sweet Christ.”
It was the last thing Killian Reeves remembered uttering before having a heavy, unfortunate-smelling man slam him to the ground.
I get paid for this?
The man immediately stood, not delaying the inevitable. Killian did a quick mental check of his bones and muscles, contracting and relaxing each one until he was pretty sure nothing was broken or dislodged and getting up on his own wouldn’t prove fatal. So far, so good. He rolled over onto his side and groaned.
I do not get paid enough for this.
“Killian. Dude, you okay?” His holder—and backup quarterback—Josh Leeman, crouched down next to him. Which put his cup right in Killian’s eyesight.
“Get your junk out of my face, Leeman.”
Josh scooted back an inch, but not more.
“Christ, what happened?”
“Fumble,” came the obvious answer from the unhelpful holder. “Shitty snap, and I couldn’t recover.”
Killian tested getting up to a kneeling position. Nothing snapped or bent in the wrong direction. Though he hated the idea, he reached out and grabbed Josh’s forearm to pull himself up all the way. “And exactly how did that ogre get around the block?”
“Um, bad luck?”
He resisted ripping off Josh’s arm—mostly because he wouldn’t have the energy for it. He saw from the corner of his eye the kicker coach and two trainers jogging out to meet them on the field. He waved them off, because . . . embarrassing. The other guys took dozens of hits in any given game. He took one all season and he needed to be carried off the field?
Not f*cking likely.
Without limping, he met the trainers and coach halfway to the bench and shook his head. They followed silently to his own little corner, his own little space on the Bobcats sideline where nobody bothered him and everyone knew invading his territory was punishable by death.
Head Coach Jordan knelt down as Killian settled on the bench and unsnapped his chinstrap. “Took a good one.”
“Felt like it.” Killian eased off the helmet, blinking when his ears started ringing.
“I think you flew back a couple of feet. Like watching a rag doll get tossed.”
“Not making me feel better, Coach.” His job wasn’t to take a punch. His job was to use his golden foot and kick the pigskin through the uprights. That was all. Go out, kick, score, wave, and retreat to his corner.
For this, he made a living.
One of the trainers stooped down beside Coach and shined a light in his eyes. Killian swatted at the pen light.
“I have to check your pupils.”
“There’s still two of them.”
Looking exasperated, the trainer pointed the flashlight elsewhere—thank you—and held up three fingers. “How many?”
“The number of seconds I’m giving you to step back: three.”
The other trainer, a cute little brunette who filled out the Bobcats polo well, jerked on his shoulder. “Give him a minute. He’s fine.”
“But I have to—”
“Give him a minute.”
Killian was going to send that girl trainer some flowers. She deserved flowers for her good sense and timing.
Coach Jordan saw the look in his eyes and waved off the trainers. “He’s fine. I’ll get you if he needs you.”
“Not likely,” Killian muttered as they walked away. Probably talking amongst themselves about what an * he was.
Yeah. He was an *. He knew it. He cultivated the rep in order to keep people from getting too close. Not that he had to try hard. He was a kicker. They were the redheaded stepchildren of the NFL.
Coach clapped his shoulder lightly. “Give yourself a minute, then come talk. We need to figure out just what the hell that was.”
“Talk to defense. Talk to whoever blew the snap. I didn’t even see it coming.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Didn’t see that semi-truck coming right at me.”
“You’re focused.” His coach shrugged, as if it were completely natural to just not see a three-hundred-pound man running straight at you, intent on destroying you. With that, he left Killian to his thoughts.
He grabbed a towel and wrapped it around his neck. Though it was mid-September, edging up on play-offs, the Santa Fe heat turned his uniform into a sweat box. He never would have made it playing the game if he’d had to keep his helmet on as long as the others did. But they all seemed to love it. Loved everything that came from the game. The bruises, the battle scars, the chicks . . .
Okay, the chicks were good.
Sometimes.
And others?
They f*cked up your world with knife-like precision.
Bad enough, he knew because the kick was botched, people would be looking at him and wanting his take on the whole fiasco. The press were already rabid with the Bobcats this season, thanks to the delightful addition of one new Jordan family member. The Prodigal Daughter. Though he was fortunate enough to keep an arm’s length away from that shit storm by playing clueless—weren’t they all clueless?—and silent as a monk.
When he ran out, did his job, and came back, nobody expressed any interest in seeing him. Which, frankly, was his dream come true. No reporters asking, “What was it like to kick a ball through a goal?” No post-game analysis with the press.