Loving Him Off the Field (Santa Fe Bobcats #2)(12)

His brows lowered. “Digging into my past?”

“What little of it there is.” She held up her hands. “Killian, I’m a reporter. I might not have a portfolio that indicates I’m any good at actual journalism, but it’s what I want. It’s what I was meant for. I’m pushing hard to get real stories, real assignments. I’m not giving up. So you can cooperate, or you can just wait until I finally dig up something worth talking about.”

He growled and crowded her against the car. With another man, she might have felt intimidated. With Killian, she saw it for what it was . . . a distraction. An act. Nothing more.

She lowered her voice, and her eyes. “I’m doing you the courtesy of telling you in advance. You can head me off at the pass, if you want. Just cooperate.”

He leaned down, one arm reaching around her back. His breath was on her cheek, his eyes so intensely focused on hers, she almost lost her balance and tipped over from the force.

Oh, God. Was he going to kiss her?

Please, no.

Please . . . yes.

She heard a click, and then he opened her car door and gestured with a sweep of the arm. “Good-bye, Freckles.”

Well, that was embarrassing. Thank God he wasn’t a mind reader. She stiffened her spine and climbed into the car. He shut the door with restraint—for which she and Sybil’s rusty frame thanked him—and crossed his arms. Apparently, he was going to stand there and make sure she actually left the premise. She rolled her window down instead and thrust out an arm.

He scowled at the piece of paper she held out. “What’s that?”

“A map to Treasure Island. Just take it.”

He did. “A phone number. Yours?”

She just grinned and started her car. As it coughed to life, she watched Killian’s face take on a look of horror. Yup. Sybil wasn’t pretty, but she ran. Most days. “In case you decide to be cooperative, for a change of pace.”

He stood there until she was out of the parking lot and on the main road.

But she didn’t take a full breath until he was fully out of sight.

*

Killian walked in the door of his apartment and tossed his bag down by the door. His keys dropped in a bowl on the kitchen counter. In his pocket, his fingers brushed against the slip of paper Aileen had written her phone number on.

Just toss it into the trash. Hell, burn it. No reason to keep it.

He placed it in the bowl he threw his spare change in instead. Just in case.

His phone buzzed with a text. He glanced down to see Emma’s number. As he opened the text, he smiled.

Charlie had texted him his list of spelling words for the week.

Typing back a quick word of encouragement, he shut the phone’s screen off. Thank God Emma was so free with the communication. The ball was truly in her court, as far as how much he got access to Charlie. They’d kept as much of the custody case out of court as possible, avoiding public records for privacy. With no divorce to worry about, it had been a simple shell game to keep things quiet. But she had every legal right to block him from things like a text message about spelling words, or a quick Skype call about math homework or his soccer game.

But she didn’t. Because, despite her past, Emma was a decent person.

The reminder of Charlie was enough to have him walking back to the bowl and staring at Aileen’s phone number.

Just burn it.

But as he reached out to grab the paper and do just that . . . he dropped his hand back to his side. Couldn’t.

Something told him he’d regret doing that. So he’d play it by ear for a while and see how that worked.

It wasn’t like she was going anywhere. The woman had been at practice every day for two weeks now. She’d be around if he needed to get ahold of her.

*

Aileen finished up the edits on her Hidden Talents story and watched it through one more time. The fact that she had to do her own editing annoyed her, but she appreciated the additional chance to tweak things. And knowing how the editing process worked gave her that much more info for when she hit it big.

And she would hit it big. There was no option otherwise.

She glanced up at her framed family photo, mentally blew a kiss to her parents, then buckled down and kept hunting online for signs of Killian having a life outside the football field. She knew where he lived—in a simple apartment complex not too far from the stadium, nothing fancy—but resisted the urge to go and knock on neighbors’ doors. It was a step in the wrong direction. She didn’t want a tabloid story, she wanted the real deal. A respectful piece, done well, to silence potential critics and make a good impression.

Her phone rang, and she glanced at the screen. Bobby. She winced, then pushed the phone to the side. The ringing stopped. She kept searching online—okay fine, Facebooking—for another minute while her phone buzzed repeatedly with text messages, then rang again. Twice.

“Jesus, Bobby . . .” she muttered, and answered on the fourth call. “What?”

“Get your ass to the hospital!”

She started, sitting back in her chair. “Am I gonna make it?”

“Something’s going down with a few of the players. Some fight, or something. Cassie Wainwright is involved, along with Stephen Harrison and Trey Owens. Looks like it could be a love triangle gone wrong. Get over there now.”

She was shaking her head before he finished the command. “No way. You know I don’t do that crap.”