Loving Him Off the Field (Santa Fe Bobcats #2)(33)

The man was damn good at that. And it was a little bit of relief to see someone whom he thought was so at ease with his on-camera personality actually struggling with it. Made his own feelings of Get away from me seem more normal. Natural.

He gave a few quick interviews, keeping his answers short and non-leading. But he wasn’t the big star, and for that he was eternally grateful. His time on camera was short-lived and he finished changing alone. While he walked by, he heard Trey answering in clipped tones that he wasn’t going to discuss his private life, Cassie Wainwright, or Stephen Harrison with anyone. Killian sent him a sympathetic wince and walked to the bus that would take them to their hotel.

As he settled down in his seat, he contemplated hanging out with the guys. Pizza in a hotel room wasn’t complicated. A good jumping-off point to start the re-introduction to social groups.

He could do pizza.

*

Where the hell was he?

Aileen paced her hotel room and cursed the day she decided to come on this infernal trip. Sure, she’d gotten a few great shots earlier with the tailgating San Francisco crew, and she’d seen the Golden Gate Bridge on her own time. The game itself had been an intense nail-biter, and every time Killian stepped out onto the field, she’d held her breath until the ball had flown between the uprights . . . which it did. All three times. It had been a good day.

So why was she so disappointed now? He wasn’t technically under any obligation to keep her updated on his whereabouts. She wasn’t his mommy, wasn’t his keeper. So why did she feel such disappointment that, as the team had come back to the hotel, he’d ducked into his room without saying hello to her? And after dumping most of her equipment in her room and racing back to his to say congratulations, why had she felt a hint of anger when he hadn’t answered his door?

Because she was letting it get too personal. Even a blind man could see that. It was getting to be too intense. She was too attached to the subject. Too dependent on his cooperation. Wanted his hands on her more than she should, his lips on her skin in a way that would shock her if she’d said it out loud.

Oh, sweet gutter ball . . . she was lusting after the kicker.

Damn it.

Aileen fussed in the room for a few more minutes, then forced herself to sit down and write a few paragraphs on her voiceover script for the tailgate piece.

Crap. It was absolute crap. A third grader could write better dialogue than this. She groaned and erased everything she’d just typed. Then standing, she paced a few more times.

They were heading back early tomorrow morning. Like, illegally early, in her opinion. What was with athletes and this obsession to be up before the sun? Tonight was her last chance to get some information from Killian in a less pressured environment. He’d be riding high on the win—even he couldn’t fake indifference with a nail-biter like that—and his emotions would be up. It’d be perfect, the right chance to get him talking and just let him go. Really get a good feel of the guy under the number seven jersey.

Wait, not feel, she scolded herself, even as her fingers tingled to touch smooth male skin. No, no. Not feel. Witness. Experience the man under the jersey.

Damn it, why did everything suddenly sound perverted?

Before she could think twice, she grabbed her key card and walked out the door. Now or never. She’d just knock on his door and ask him to join her downstairs at the bar for a simple drink and some conversation. A little more investigative work, laying the groundwork for her on-camera interviews. She would absolutely not invite him back to her room. That was the wrong thing. She wouldn’t ask him to come sit with her on her bed while she went over interview possibilities. Their bodies would not be molded together while they perused the lists on her laptop . . .

As Aileen knocked on Killian’s door, she wasn’t even sure anymore what she wanted. For her subject to be there? For temptation to be absent?

The answer came three minutes and two extra knocks later when it was obvious Killian wasn’t going to answer the door. Or maybe he wasn’t in there at all. He could already be at the bar, maybe. Or out with teammates.

No, he didn’t go out with teammates. He was a self-professed loner. So he could just be asleep—she checked her watch—at nine o’clock on a game day.

Yeah, right.

So then he was likely ignoring her. Might even now be watching her through the peephole, waiting for her to walk away so he could get back to . . . whatever it was he did alone in his hotel room.

Though it was childish, she flipped off the door, just in case.

She grumbled all the way back to the elevator and stabbed the up button hard enough to make her finger twinge. That, too, she could lay at the feet of Killian Reeves. He’d hurt her pride, her work, and now her finger.

And had her mind five kinds of twisted up. So it was probably a good thing she wasn’t seeing him tonight after all. She’d go back to her room, have a cold shower, and then screw her head on straight for the flight home in the morning.

The elevator dinged and she turned in time to see a car full of Bobcats, with one Killian Reeves at the front. The group was laughing in that masculine way that echoed off the small confines of the elevator and spilled out into the hallway. Michael Lambert noticed her first and grinned.

“Hey, Aileen.”

“Hey.” She gave a short wave as Killian stepped forward. He was the only one. The rest must be on the next floor up.