Loving Him Off the Field (Santa Fe Bobcats #2)(10)

He didn’t laugh, like she’d meant him to, so she glanced up. He was watching her oddly, like maybe judging how serious she was.

“Oh, come on, Josiah. That was a joke.” She punched him in the arm lightly—not that she thought she could hurt him, but why risk a million-dollar receiving arm? “Got any leads on other hidden talents?”

Josiah’s slow grin put her on alert. With his syrupy drawl thicker than usual, he said, “I know a guy who can kick a ball through a field goal at sixty yards.”

She rolled her eyes. “I said hidden talent. Pretty sure that one gets displayed on a regular basis. And this isn’t about him.”

He stared at her pointedly. “Isn’t it?”

*

Killian didn’t believe for a second Freckles had been oblivious to him. He waited until Josiah entered the weight room before he ambushed him. “What’d she ask about me?”

The running back shook his head and made his way to the side wall holding cubbies and tossed his backpack in one, sitting on the bench in front of it to change shoes. “Not everything’s about you, Killian.”

Of course it wasn’t. It hardly ever was about him, for which he was very grateful, thankyouverymuch. But this was different. She was . . . well, he couldn’t say she was stalking him, because it wasn’t like she followed him home or to the grocery store or anything. But she had a tricky way of making it seem like she was ignoring him while at the same time, making him feel completely exposed. Freaking unnerving.

She should work for the CIA.

He breathed out heavily. “Okay, fine. Sorry. She’s just . . . she’s . . .”

“She’s under your skin.”

He jerked his head toward the other man. “No, that’s not it. She’s annoying.” His hands clenched in front of him. “She’s like this annoying, buzzing, tiny, little freckled beetle that just circles you until you can’t see anything else and can’t focus and—”

“Under your skin,” Josiah crooned softly as he changed from street shoes to gym shoes.

“Bite me.”

Taking pity, he tugged at his laces to tighten them. “Look, she’s doing a legit story on hidden talents. It’s just one of those cute fluff pieces. Harmless. And I like her. The other guys she’s talked to like her. She’s thoughtful, she’s self-deprecating, and she gets the game. You can tell she wants better gigs, but she’s biding her time. I respect that.”

“I didn’t say I didn’t respect her.”

“You just acted like it,” Josiah added helpfully.

Killian rolled his eyes and sat.

“But I think we can safely say that one good thing has come out of her hanging around.” When Killian raised a brow in question, Josiah added, “Since she started coming around, you’ve been opening up more in the locker room. I haven’t heard you say this much to other guys on the team since you got here.”

He absorbed that for a minute. It was true that he’d spent more time talking to the guys since she showed up. But that wasn’t what he wanted. He needed the anonymity. Wanted to stay under the radar as long as he could.

Killian tapped out a staccato on the bench beside Josiah’s gear. “You know kickers. We’re the redheaded stepchildren of the league.”

“Yeah. Ugly, too.” Josiah grinned. “Come hang out with us after practice.”

Something he’d thought long-buried clawed up his throat and begged him to say yes. The part that was tired of going home to an empty apartment and nothing but the six o’clock news for company. Something that reminded him that he, too, had been social and friendly . . . once upon a time.

“Can’t.” He swallowed down the urge and stood quickly. “Thanks, but no. See ya out there.”

He walked away from the offer and hardened himself for the future.

For Charlie.





Chapter Four




One week—and a win against the Rams—after her amusing confrontation with Killian, Aileen went fishing. She already printed out the measly information she had on him, most of which was on his skimpy bio on the Bobcats website.

Killian Reeves, number seven. Five foot ten, a hundred and eighty pounds of delicious muscle. Kicker, drafted at the age of twenty-three. Currently twenty-nine years old, and originally from northern California.

Google produced nothing for family. No parents—single dad, now deceased, mom not in the picture—no siblings. A call to his college coach had gone unanswered, and she wasn’t about to spend next month’s rent money flying out to California. The few teammates she’d managed to track down on social media had zero help to give, claiming Killian had been quiet and a loner, adding nothing to her research.

She couldn’t find any mention of friends he hung out with, no haunts around town he liked to frequent. And a quick search of the Bobcat blogs was a total waste of time. Not only was there no mention of him off the field, but the entire thing was like a Cassie Wainwright explosion. She spared a moment of pity for the girl—woman, actually—who never stood a chance against the ever-opinionated huddled masses, then shut the laptop with a gentle snap. The thing was ready to fall apart. She had to baby it until she could afford a new one.

So apparently, there was no getting around the fact that, if she wanted a Killian Reeves story . . . she’d have to get it from Killian Reeves.