Loving Him Off the Field (Santa Fe Bobcats #2)(8)

His across-the-breezeway neighbor had taken it into her head to “adopt” him. The woman was eighty, if she was a day, and once she found out he was single, had decided to make him her pet project. Which meant she was constantly bringing by food, or a scarf she made, or inviting herself over to watch American Idol, because her TV was “on the fritz,” whatever that meant.

Mrs. Reynolds was a pushy lady when she wanted to be.

When he looked out the peephole and didn’t see his not-by-choice adopted grandmother scurrying over, he felt safe to breathe again. Dropping his bag by the door, he flopped onto the couch and grabbed his phone. Hitting his Favorites, then his top contact, he waited for Charlie to answer.

“Hey, Dad!”

Just hearing the boyish enthusiasm cheered him immensely. “Hey, bud. How was school?”

His son groaned. “Art day. I hate art day. I want P.E. Why can’t we have P.E. every day?”

Killian mentally shuddered. He’d felt the same way about art. All that cutting and pasting and blending colors and making weird-looking pandas out of flour and water . . . no thanks. “Otherwise fun?”

“I guess.” He could hear a little hitch in his son’s breathing. “Dad?”

“Yeah?”

“Are you coming out here soon?”

He closed his eyes against the wash of pain. “Probably not this month.”

There was a long stretch of quiet. “Okay,” was his son’s small reply. “Mom wants to say hi.”

“Hey, Charlie?”

“Killian,” was the cool, feminine reply.

Emma, Charlie’s mother. Killian scowled. “He didn’t say good-bye.”

“He’s tired,” she said simply. “And heartbroken.”

“What the hell happened?”

Emma was silent for a moment. He could picture her biting her bottom lip in indecision.

“Emma.”

“It’s Donuts with Dads week at school.”

“Donuts . . . what?” What the hell kind of holiday was this?

“Donuts with Dads,” she repeated again slowly. “Where the fathers come in early in the morning with their kids and eat donuts and drink orange juice and the kids get to show off their dads to the other kids and feel special.”

Gut punch. “Emma, I—”

“I already explained,” she said. There was no heat in her voice, no venom. They’d made the choice together to keep apart as much as possible. So that people wouldn’t put together Charlie’s parents and realize who had made the awesome little kid. For his own good. “That doesn’t make it hurt any less. But I’m going in your place.”

“What, there’s no Munchies with Moms day?”

“There’s a mother’s tea,” she said primly. “But a bunch of single moms were talking and decided to support our kids the only way we know how. So we’re wearing suits and fake mustaches and coming for donuts on Friday.”

His lips twitched as he pictured the gorgeous blonde bombshell wearing a fake mustache. “That’s . . . original.”

“It’s what single moms do.” When he sucked in a breath, she sighed. “I’m sorry, that’s not what I meant.”

He cleared his throat. “So, how’s the real estate business running?”

She huffed. “Picking back up. The market’s making a steady climb, so things are getting better. You can stop the extra payments . . . not that I needed them to begin with.”

“You know I’ll do whatever I can,” he said, meaning it. He couldn’t be there for every day of Charlie’s life, so he was going to make damn sure he and his mother never suffered in any other way. He paid the agreed upon child support without hesitation. It was enough for any normal single mom to survive on without needing a job. But when her real estate business plummeted with the down market right after Charlie was born, he’d added additional payments to get them over the hump. That, on his kicker’s salary, hadn’t been as easy. But he’d never begrudged her the money.

Emma was a good mom, and she made his life easier by always keeping communication open with Charlie, not playing stupid custody games, and agreeing to their necessary arrangement. She might be flakey from time to time, but not when it came to their son.

If it weren’t for their unfortunate start, things might have been different between them. Not that they would have been together now. There’d been no true spark. They’d been convenient for each other, in different ways, which had been enough. Liking each other had been a bonus.

And then it had all gone to hell.

“So how’s football treating you?”

“A game’s a game.”

She snorted. “You could try taking it seriously.”

“They pay me money to walk out, kick a ball, and walk back. It’s not brain surgery. I’m not vaccinating orphans in Africa, Em.”

“You’re providing for Charlie’s future. So keep kicking that ball as long as you can.”

“Yes, ma’am.” They spoke a few more minutes, then he hung up. So life was complicated. He didn’t get to see his son as often as he wanted thanks to his job, the pressure was piling on, and he had a freckled reporter who gave up too easily looking for a story.