Also by Jeanette Murray
Santa Fe Bobcats Series
One Night with the Quarterback
Loving Him Off the Field
Jeanette Murray
InterMix Books, New York
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
LOVING HIM OFF THE FIELD
An InterMix Book / published by arrangement with the author
PUBLISHING HISTORY
InterMix eBook edition / October 2014
Copyright © 2014 by Jeanette Murray.
Excerpt from Below the Belt © 2015 by Jeanette Murray.
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eBook ISBN: 978-0-698-17111-4
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For my dad, the original Bobcat in my life. Love you, Daddy.
Contents
Also by Jeanette Murray
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Sneak Peek at Below the Belt
About the Author
Chapter One
Two months earlier . . .
“Sweet Christ.”
It was the last thing Killian Reeves remembered uttering before having a heavy, unfortunate-smelling man slam him to the ground.
I get paid for this?
The man immediately stood, not delaying the inevitable. Killian did a quick mental check of his bones and muscles, contracting and relaxing each one until he was pretty sure nothing was broken or dislodged and getting up on his own wouldn’t prove fatal. So far, so good. He rolled over onto his side and groaned.
I do not get paid enough for this.
“Killian. Dude, you okay?” His holder—and backup quarterback—Josh Leeman, crouched down next to him. Which put his cup right in Killian’s eyesight.
“Get your junk out of my face, Leeman.”
Josh scooted back an inch, but not more.
“Christ, what happened?”
“Fumble,” came the obvious answer from the unhelpful holder. “Shitty snap, and I couldn’t recover.”
Killian tested getting up to a kneeling position. Nothing snapped or bent in the wrong direction. Though he hated the idea, he reached out and grabbed Josh’s forearm to pull himself up all the way. “And exactly how did that ogre get around the block?”
“Um, bad luck?”
He resisted ripping off Josh’s arm—mostly because he wouldn’t have the energy for it. He saw from the corner of his eye the kicker coach and two trainers jogging out to meet them on the field. He waved them off, because . . . embarrassing. The other guys took dozens of hits in any given game. He took one all season and he needed to be carried off the field?
Not fucking likely.
Without limping, he met the trainers and coach halfway to the bench and shook his head. They followed silently to his own little corner, his own little space on the Bobcats sideline where nobody bothered him and everyone knew invading his territory was punishable by death.
Head Coach Jordan knelt down as Killian settled on the bench and unsnapped his chinstrap. “Took a good one.”
“Felt like it.” Killian eased off the helmet, blinking when his ears started ringing.
“I think you flew back a couple of feet. Like watching a rag doll get tossed.”
“Not making me feel better, Coach.” His job wasn’t to take a punch. His job was to use his golden foot and kick the pigskin through the uprights. That was all. Go out, kick, score, wave, and retreat to his corner.
For this, he made a living.
One of the trainers stooped down beside Coach and shined a light in his eyes. Killian swatted at the pen light.
“I have to check your pupils.”
“There’s still two of them.”
Looking exasperated, the trainer pointed the flashlight elsewhere—thank you—and held up three fingers. “How many?”
“The number of seconds I’m giving you to step back: three.”
The other trainer, a cute little brunette who filled out the Bobcats polo well, jerked on his shoulder. “Give him a minute. He’s fine.”
“But I have to—”
“Give him a minute.”
Killian was going to send that girl trainer some flowers. She deserved flowers for her good sense and timing.
Coach Jordan saw the look in his eyes and waved off the trainers. “He’s fine. I’ll get you if he needs you.”
“Not likely,” Killian muttered as they walked away. Probably talking amongst themselves about what an asshole he was.