Loving Him Off the Field (Santa Fe Bobcats #2)(32)

He reached over without thought and unfolded her hands from her lap. Taking one in his bigger hands, he rubbed until the color returned. “It’s just some turbulence. No biggie.”

“We are thousands of feet above the ground in a flying piece of metal and you want me to think that’s no biggie?” Her voice was tight, forced through her teeth. “Pardon me for calling you crazy.”

“I’ve heard it before.” He rubbed again. “Have you always hated flying?”

Her head drooped a little and she shook it, but didn’t answer.

“Haven’t done much as an adult?”

She nodded this time. Then, so quietly he thought at first he’d imagined it, she whispered, “My parents died in a plane crash.”

His hands tightened instinctively around her fingers, his instant reaction to protect and preserve. “Aileen . . . I’m sorry.”

“I thought doing this for work would keep me preoccupied enough I wouldn’t freak out. I tried once before, on a vacation.” She looked up now, her eyes a little glassy, but somehow still holding a bit of humor. “I hyperventilated. I think the air marshal on that flight was seconds away from putting me in a headlock.”

“You’re not hyperventilating now,” he pointed out. “So you’re doing better.”

“I can’t hyperventilate while you’re talking to me.” Her eyes narrowed. “Oh.”

He smiled momentarily. “I’m brilliant, I know.” He rubbed the back of her hand again. “Tell me something else about you. It’s your day,” he reminded her.

She looked uncomfortable, but didn’t back down. “I’m allergic to everything under the sun.”

“Really.” He waited a beat. “Even me?”

She laughed at that. “No. But nature in general has it out for me. I pop allergy meds like candy in the spring and summer. You should see me, though, trying to report during a baseball game. I’m a red-eyed mess. It’s probably a good thing I haven’t gotten a network job. They’d take one look at me on camera during spring training and fire me. Between that and my freckles . . .” She rubbed at her nose again, like she was trying to wipe them off. “I really picked a stupid career, didn’t I?”

She was gorgeous. How could she not see that? “No more stupid than mine. Remember, I’m the guy who kicks things for a living.”

That seemed to make her smile. “That’s true. What a weird pair we make.”

A pair. Was that what she saw them as? He glanced down and realized, though she’d stopped trembling and seemed to relax a little more with the smoother travel, he still held her hand. And she hadn’t taken it back.

He dropped it so fast her wrist hit the armrest with a thunk. Damn it.

“Sorry.” He rubbed her wrist where it had made contact. “Didn’t mean to do that.”

Her grin told him she wasn’t offended. “Do I have cooties?”

He ignored that and turned to look out the window again. Why did she get to him like this? What was it about this tiny, auburn-haired woman who crawled under his skin, into his heart and just sat there without moving?

It couldn’t happen. He loved Charlie too much—respected Emma too much—to lead danger right to their doorstep.

*

They’d won. Holy shit, they’d won.

Killian jostled back into the locker room with the rest of the team, riding high on the excitement of the last-minute field goal the team had miraculously set up for him to nail to take the game twenty-one to twenty. Someone jumped on his back and his knees nearly buckled under the weight, but he grinned anyway. The mood was infectious. Someone else kissed him on the mouth, and he prayed it was one of the female athletic trainers and not someone who stood to pee . . .

“Have I mentioned how much I love you lately?” Michael asked, draping an arm over his shoulder.

“Not lately,” Killian said, still a little dazed. “That wasn’t you who kissed me, was it?”

“No, but I love you, man,” Michael said in a comically emotional voice. Then he cracked up, slapped him hard on the back, and went to bump chests with a few teammates.

“Cavemen. Every one of them.” Quarterback Trey Owens wandered over at a more sedate pace and held out a hand. “But God love ’em for it. Nice work, Reeves.”

Killian shook his head and smiled. “Same to you.”

Trey nodded and stood for a moment, as if he wasn’t quite ready to roam back into the mosh pit that was the rest of their locker room. “They make it easy on me, when I’m safe in the pocket. Every second counts. Come out with us tonight.”

“Us?” He asked the question, rather than giving his typical Sorry, can’t bullshit excuse. Killian started pulling off his jersey as the coaches settled them down. And then, the reporters and cameras started trickling in.

“Me, Josiah, Michael, and a few others grabbing a bite to eat. We might wuss out and just do pizza in the room, actually. Depends on how fast we can get out of here.” Trey’s eyes tracked the first few reporters and saw them heading their way. He sighed the weary sigh of a man who had done this song and dance one too many times. “Damn it,” he groaned, then pasted on a bright, camera-ready smile. “Off to do the other half of my job. Think about it. Call one of our rooms if you decide.” He met the first reporter with a handshake and an easy greeting that held none of the frustration and weariness he’d shown Killian.