Loving Him Off the Field (Santa Fe Bobcats #2)(72)

“But you haven’t met up with him this season, have you?” She watched him closely. “Is that . . . because of me? Because I’ve been around you so much?”

“Freckles, I . . .” he started, then saw her eyes heat. She sensed bullshit coming on and wanted none of it. “Yeah. I would have seen him in San Francisco, but I asked them not to come.”

She settled back, a stunned look on her face. Raising one fisted hand to her chest, she blinked slowly. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“It sort of is.” Her eyes closed. “This was all one big bowl of crazy from the start, wasn’t it?”

He nodded, hands clasped.

“Is this the part where you ask me to not write the story?”

Killian’s grip tightened, until his knuckles turned white. “I’m not going to do that. You’ll do whatever you have to.” Slapping his hands on his knees, he stood. “I need to get back before Charlie eats Mrs. Reynolds out of her apartment.” He breathed heavily. “You know, Emma’s a great mom. That shocked me from the start, but it’s true. She’s always been great with Charlie. It’s me and her who bump heads from time to time.”

“And are you a great dad?”

He looked at her from the door, surprised. “Who’s asking?”

“Freckles,” she said, watching him closely. “Just Freckles.”

“I love him, and I’d do anything for him.” Even if it cost him Aileen, and a potential future he’d begun to crave.

She didn’t stop him from leaving.





Chapter Twenty-two




Aileen sat on the sofa until the condensation from the bottle in her hand soaked her shirt and forced her to get up and toss it out.

A high-priced escort. A secret kid. Lies and half truths from the start. No, this hadn’t been what she’d been hunting around for when she’d started his story. But it absolutely did explain why he was so aloof from everyone, including his own teammates. He was protecting his son’s right to anonymity by removing all temptation and opportunity to spill the news.

Charlie. An adorable name for—what she’d seen of him—an adorable young boy. Killian’s spitting image.

Wiping her hands on a kitchen towel, she sat at her desk chair and opened her laptop. She typed out a few sentences in a Word document, hoping to put things together in an outline. Maybe, if she saw it on paper, she could make her mind process it easier. Black and white had always been her go-to for centering before. But her eyes kept drifting to the left, to the photo of her parents.

“Mom . . .” The word caught in her throat. “What . . . I mean, how . . .” She let her head drop to the desk, arms dangling down. “There’s no way. I can’t do this.”

Reaching for her phone, she dialed the one person she least wanted to speak to at that exact moment. She hit the record button just as he answered.

“You’ve got Bobby Mundane, what’s the story?”

Ug. The greeting made her skin crawl. “Bobby, it’s Aileen.”

“I know.”

“Then why did you answer like that?”

“It’s my thing,” he said simply, and she fought a gag.

“I’m recording this call for my own records. I’m not doing the Killian Reeves story. Just thought I would let you know.”

“Got a Cassie Wainwright story?” he asked immediately.

She refused to even let him know she’d spoken to the coach’s daughter. “I do not.”

“Then this is the end of the line, babe.”

Babe. Another gag.

“If you can’t pull out the big guns when we need you most, there’s nothing I can do to save ya. You don’t have the killer instinct for this gig.”

He might have been right about that. But . . . “It’s fine. I was actually calling to quit, anyway. As of this moment, I’m no longer employed by Off Season, which means all unsubmitted footage is my own.”

“Sounds like that’s a whole lot of bupkis anyway,” he said easily. “But sure, whatever. Anything not already in our system is yours to keep. Though I’ll tell you right now, you’re not going to find another website or vlog that’s gonna want it.”

“Maybe, maybe not.” That was her concern now. “Either way, I’m not your problem anymore. Guess you’ll have to find another chick to take the softballs you lob at her. Hey,” she said in a falsely cheerful voice. “Maybe the next one will like bikinis!”

“I can only wish,” he said in a reverent voice, then hung up on her.

“Pig.” She closed the screen, then leaned back so far in her chair it creaked and made her think twice about the position. As she couldn’t afford a new chair—couldn’t even before she quit/got fired, and certainly couldn’t now—she got up gingerly from the seat and paced the tiny room.

“What would Mom do,” she muttered, glancing around the room for inspiration. “What would Mom do?”

Then her eyes landed on the bag in the corner behind her front door, and stayed there. “Seriously?” She glanced toward the photo, as if that were going to answer her. “Fine. Who am I to judge?”