“Oh, uh, no.” She was wasting her one opportunity. Aileen fought for something—anything—then blurted out, “What the hell happened when you got hit?”
His annoyed frown turned into a scowl. “You know, you might be the worst groupie I’ve ever seen. You’re supposed to make the guys feel like gods, not knock them down off the pedestal.”
“I’m not a groupie, I’m a reporter.” Her chest swelled a little at the title, even if it did come with the less-than-distinguished employment. She looked down into her bag for her press credentials, then glanced back up to find him already walking away. “Wait! Can I get a comment on the game?”
He shot her a sarcastic salute, then said, “I don’t talk to reporters.” And walked through the security gates, out of reach.
Aileen sighed.
“Barking up the wrong tree there, sweetheart.”
She turned and nearly ran into a boob. Damn being short, once again. Craning her neck, she looked up at the woman with teased blonde hair and a number sixteen jersey stretched so tight over her breasts the material might split at any moment. “What tree?”
The woman laughed and slung an arm around Aileen’s shoulders, hunching over a little to do so. “Kicker Killian. He doesn’t talk to us. Like, ever.”
“Us . . . oh. Right.” They thought she was a groupie, too. Was she giving off a desperate vibe she was unaware of? “Why is that, anyway?”
“Well, some of the girls hypothesize he’s testy about his testes.” When Aileen blinked, confused, she laughed harder. “They think he’s got a small package in his cup, to go with his small stature.”
“That’s a small stature?” The man had to be five foot ten, maybe a hundred and seventy pounds.
“Maybe not to you, little thing, but compared to the rest of the prime beef he plays with . . . yeah. I’m Meg, by the way.” She escorted Aileen over to a pack of women who must have given up the ghost and accepted defeat on the manhunt for the day. “This is Tricia, Sarah, and Eve.”
The women all gave her a little wave. Aileen smiled.
Meg gave her a squeeze. “Stick with us, honey. We’ll guide you to the more . . . shall we say, willing players.”
“Oh, I don’t—”
“I don’t need a willing man. I just like to touch the muscles.” Eve—she thought it was Eve—licked her lips. “One quick touch lasts me through the week.”
“Her husband’s a toothpick,” Meg whispered none too softly. Eve shrugged. “We’re going for drinks. Join?”
Aileen had to laugh. These women were more fun than she’d mentally given them credit for. Suddenly, her assignment didn’t seem so pathetic. “Sure. And actually, I have some questions . . .”
* * *
A reporter.
Killian snorted as he climbed in his SUV and started the engine. He had to wait for the AC to kick in before leaving the shelter of the parking garage or he’d be toast in the sun. He let his head hit the back of the seat and closed his eyes. Every muscle in his body ached. Even his jaw was sore from the way his teeth knocked together at the hit.
How in the hell did the guys do this week after week?
He raked his hand through his hair, pulling it away from his brow, then thought back to the reporter’s auburn hair. That perfect mix of red and brown, where it couldn’t be just one or the other, but a true blend of both. She’d had freckles, too, covering her face and forearms. He’d bet money she was covered in them all over. He wouldn’t have minded going on a little freckle-hunt, finding each and every one.
Killian was a sucker for freckles.
The cute, freckled one just had to be a reporter.
Not that being a groupie would have been much of a better option. He’d been wary of groupies since his sophomore year with the Bobcats. For damn good reason. He’d been burned by a woman before.
He should have known she wasn’t one. She’d been dressed to blend in, not stand out. No cleavage, no Bobcats shirt or jersey stretched tight over paid-for tits, no groping or touching or trying to hop on his back and convince him he’d wanted to give her a piggyback ride.
Though thankfully, that shit had ceased several years ago, when he’d made it clear he didn’t do the groupie-touching thing. Ever. At least, ever again. After awhile, they stopped bothering. Between that, and the well-known fact that the kicker was the most underpaid guy on the team, he rarely suffered having to beat them off with sticks anymore.
How the fuck did Owens deal with it for months at a time?
And yet the tiny freckled reporter had made him consider, just for a moment. . . . Some tiny spark of hope had bloomed in him, without any reason. Probably a sign he needed to get out and get laid.
After checking behind him, Killian reversed and pulled out of the parking spot. When he reached the side road that led into the parking garage, he hit a button on his steering wheel. “Call Charlie.”
Ringing filled the car, and after two quick seconds, a voice answered. “Are you okay?”
He smiled at the anxiety. “Yeah, I’m good. Can’t keep me down for long.”
“He’s okay!” Charlie yelled. A feminine voice said something Killian couldn’t make out, then Charlie laughed. “She says your head is hard.”
“She’s not wrong.” Killian felt his entire body relax now, his forehead smooth out. Tension evaporated into the hot September New Mexico air like steam. “Don’t let anyone give you crap about it tomorrow.”
“I won’t.” Another moment of feminine murmuring in the background. “I gotta go. Talk to you tomorrow?”
“You bet.”
A pause, and then, “I love you, Dad.”
“Love you, too, bud.” Killian smiled as his son hung up. He was reaching the age where he was too cool to say it regularly. Which only made the times he said so unprompted that much more special.
God, he missed Charlie with a bone-deep ache. Worse than the physical pain of being hit by a guy the size of a trailer. But they’d agreed—he and Emma—it was best for them to stay in Vegas. Keep some distance between them, for Charlie’s sake.
Didn’t make it hurt any less.
As he drove home, his mind rotated through a litany of regrets. The fumble, not seeing Charlie every day, and the missed opportunity with Freckles.
Chapter Two
Aileen fought hard not to yawn as she listened to one of her co-workers drone on about his fantastic interview with some up-and-coming golfer. She shuffled her feet in her cat slippers, wondering when the last time she’d dusted her apartment floors was. Swiffer time, maybe? Glancing down, she saw the bottom of one cat was coated in gray.
Yup. Swiffer time.
“Rogers!”
She jolted, nearly falling out of her seat. Straightening her one business jacket, she sat up straight and nodded to the camera on her laptop. “Yes?”
“Done daydreaming over there?” Her editor, Bobby, looked amused. The other male reporters—all of whom were on the Skype call—looked annoyed.
“No. I mean yes. No! I wasn’t daydreaming.” She closed her eyes for a moment. “I’m sorry. What did you say?”
Bobby looked down at his notes, then back up. “Your groupie video played out pretty well. Women thought it was interesting without being catty, men thought it was hot.”
“Oh, goodie,” she muttered behind her hand, covering a slight cough. One of the male reporters didn’t bother covering his chuckle. Not that she was shocked. To them, she was completely irrelevant.
“Next assignment is . . .” Bobby shuffled. “Tattoos.”
She blinked. “Just tattoos?”
“Tattoos on the wives. What wives have tattoos supporting their husbands. Jersey numbers, quotes, names, team logos, whatever. I have a few leads I’ll be emailing you with, and we’ll go from there.”