Loving Him Off the Field (Santa Fe Bobcats #2)(13)

“I’m not asking what you do, I’m telling you. Get over there and grab some footage. Try an interview. Rattle the cages, see what snaps at you.”

“Right. So I just wait until the injured parties are limping out into the parking lot and catch them at their most vulnerable?”

“There ya go.” Bobby’s voice was smug. “You’re catching on.”

“Sure, right. Let me see what I can do.” She hung up, rolling her eyes as she did. Glancing at her watch, she yawned. Oh, dear. And so close to my bedtime. Guess I’ll just have to skip this one.

It was still light outside, but who was counting?

She went back to her online search—fine! Candy Crush—for a few minutes, then gave up. Killian was being stubborn. He was a man, so it was a genetic predisposition regardless. She could respect that. But the man was harder than any other subject she’d come in contact with before.

Which was why he was the white whale, naturally. Did she really think it would be easy?

There wasn’t an option B.

She glanced once more at the photo of her parents, then to the last article her mother published. It sat, framed, next to the picture.

“I’ve got this, guys.”

*

Killian took longer dressing after practice than usual, hoping the largest swarm of parasites—ahem, reporters—would be gone by the time he left the locker room. The media had finally relented—slightly—since Owens and Harrison’s supposed bar fight, and subsequent hospital trip. Harrison hadn’t returned . . . and the team all knew where he was now. Rehab. Good luck to the guy.

Owens had returned, however, because they had a game on Sunday. Business as usual for the quarterback.

Business as usual. Killian scoffed. Anyone could see the guy was the walking wounded. It had to hurt, having to put his friend into treatment. Killian didn’t doubt that one bit, and sympathized with him for it. But there was more going on there. He didn’t buy the ugly love triangle gone wrong story the press and blogs ran with. If the media thought for one damn minute instead of running with the first rumor that sounded good in a headline, they’d realize the kind of girl each guy wanted was so vastly different from the other, it wouldn’t make a lick of sense that they’d aim for the same one, let alone get in a fist fight for her.

But when had anyone accused the media of having sense?

“You’re still here.”

He jumped, then turned to see Josiah Walker and Michael Lambert lounging against a few lockers behind him.

“So?”

“Waiting for something?” Michael asked.

He shook his head. “Just taking my time.”

“Cool.” Josiah nodded his head toward the front of the locker room. “Trey’s still getting dressed. Wanna walk out with us?”

He automatically shook his head. “No, I’m almost done.”

Michael straightened and slung an arm around his shoulder. “Let me rephrase. Walk out with us.”

“I’ve gotta get home.”

“You’re just walking to the parking lot with company instead of solo. Don’t be a bitch about it.” Josiah turned and headed for Trey, who was the only athlete left in the room.

“He needs some support. You’re still here, and you’re ready to leave.” Michael’s voice was low, as if not wanting Trey to hear.

Killian shrugged one shoulder, dislodging Michael’s arm. “Fine. Whatever.”

As they left the locker room, he immediately regretted saying yes. They were swarmed by reporters asking questions. Josiah easily maneuvered to keep Trey inside their little triangle as they walked quickly toward the exit of their respective cars. Security did their best, but he realized without their added protection it wouldn’t have been enough. He asked Josiah, “Don’t you leave your bike over there usually?”

“Drove today. Have been for the last week.” Josiah’s answer was grim, and Killian knew immediately the reason was because he wanted to protect his friend on the way to the parking lot.

They were good guys.

As he settled in his car, he breathed a sigh of relief. He wouldn’t trade his salary for half of Trey’s, if that’s what the guy had to go through every other week. Hell, no.

Reporters. Leeches, more like it. He let his head fall back against the seat in relief. His mind replayed the swarm of reporters, and realized one freckled-faced pixie was missing from the bunch.

She could have been in the back . . . but he doubted it. She wasn’t a “wait in the back” kind of woman.

He hadn’t seen her for nearly a week. When the Prodigal Daughter Love Triangle story broke, he thought for sure she’d be around, asking annoying questions or trying to trip people up with interviews. But she’d been absent. Completely missing.

He missed her. How the hell could he miss her?

Obviously his brain was on vacation. Suffering from the same damage that had him agreeing to play bodyguard for Owens this afternoon. He needed to see someone about that.

His mind drifted to the scrap of paper in his change bowl with her number on it.

It wouldn’t hurt to just give her a call, would it? Her absence was unlike her. He wasn’t sure what to make of the fact that she didn’t stalk him after practice, or ask his teammates weird questions while pretending to ignore him.