He absorbed that for a minute. It was true that he’d spent more time talking to the guys since she showed up. But that wasn’t what he wanted. He needed the anonymity. Wanted to stay under the radar as long as he could.
Killian tapped out a staccato on the bench beside Josiah’s gear. “You know kickers. We’re the redheaded stepchildren of the league.”
“Yeah. Ugly, too.” Josiah grinned. “Come hang out with us after practice.”
Something he’d thought long-buried clawed up his throat and begged him to say yes. The part that was tired of going home to an empty apartment and nothing but the six o’clock news for company. Something that reminded him that he, too, had been social and friendly . . . once upon a time.
“Can’t.” He swallowed down the urge and stood quickly. “Thanks, but no. See ya out there.”
He walked away from the offer and hardened himself for the future.
For Charlie.
Chapter Four
One week—and a win against the Rams—after her amusing confrontation with Killian, Aileen went fishing. She already printed out the measly information she had on him, most of which was on his skimpy bio on the Bobcats website.
Killian Reeves, number seven. Five foot ten, a hundred and eighty pounds of delicious muscle. Kicker, drafted at the age of twenty-three. Currently twenty-nine years old, and originally from northern California.
Google produced nothing for family. No parents—single dad, now deceased, mom not in the picture—no siblings. A call to his college coach had gone unanswered, and she wasn’t about to spend next month’s rent money flying out to California. The few teammates she’d managed to track down on social media had zero help to give, claiming Killian had been quiet and a loner, adding nothing to her research.
She couldn’t find any mention of friends he hung out with, no haunts around town he liked to frequent. And a quick search of the Bobcat blogs was a total waste of time. Not only was there no mention of him off the field, but the entire thing was like a Cassie Wainwright explosion. She spared a moment of pity for the girl—woman, actually—who never stood a chance against the ever-opinionated huddled masses, then shut the laptop with a gentle snap. The thing was ready to fall apart. She had to baby it until she could afford a new one.
So apparently, there was no getting around the fact that, if she wanted a Killian Reeves story . . . she’d have to get it from Killian Reeves.
The guy was a freaking vault. Locked down and seemingly impenetrable.
Suiting up for battle, in her favorite black Converse and a hoodie, she drove to the practice arena and waited. And waited. And waited. Finally, she sank down onto the concrete outside the main hallway and pulled out her phone. Thank you, Candy Crush, for the company.
Finally, a few guys trickled out. She ignored them, except to give a silent wave to one as he said hello. Then a few more. Then a rush of guys leaving at once. If she wasn’t immune to it, the sight of all those fresh-from-the-shower hard bodies would have given her palpitations.
At this point, Candy Crush was more important.
Sometime later, she felt a nudge against her knee. She glanced up, saw Killian, then ducked her head again.
“Who are you waiting for now?”
She didn’t respond.
“Hey. Freckles.”
Her nose wrinkled at the name. Rubbing a finger self-consciously over her nose and the dozen or so freckles that graced it, she kept playing.
“So what, you’re ignoring me now?”
“I’ve been on this level for two freaking weeks. Hold your horses.” She felt him sit down beside her, but she didn’t look over. She was almost . . . yes, yes, yes . . .
No.
“Damn it.”
He chuckled, then took her phone from her. “Level sixty-four, huh? That’s a lot of levels.”
“It’s addictive.” She glanced at him finally and batted her eyelashes. “I don’t suppose you have any lives you’d be willing to pass over?”
“I don’t even play this. I’m not much of a gamer.” He passed her the phone back. “So who is your intended victim today?”
“No victim.” She slid her phone in her tote and settled back against the cool concrete wall. “You did well on Sunday.”
“Not like my job’s all that difficult.”
She considered that a moment. “Why do you do that?”
“Do what?”
She turned and watched him. He stared off into the distance, looking at nothing. His hair was damp from his shower, curling a little behind his ears in little dark brown Cs. His eyes looked glazed over. “Make your job sound worthless. I’ve heard you do it before.”
“I don’t do that.” He blinked, eyes focusing as he turned to look at her.
Their faces were inches apart. She breathed in the scent of his body wash. Unconsciously, of course. A girl had to breathe, didn’t she? “Yeah. You do. You make it sound like any four year old could run out there and do it. I know kickers get a little flack—”
He snorted.
“Okay, a lot of flack. But don’t you believe in your own position? Don’t you think you’re worthwhile to the team?”
“I earn my paycheck.”
“That’s not what I . . . never mind.” She sighed. He was being deliberately obtuse, which was quite obvious by the grin on his face. “You live to annoy me.”
“Hardly.”
“You know what I think?” She didn’t bother waiting for what she was sure would be a sarcastic response. “I think you like me bugging you. You thrive on it. You look forward to these little sparring matches.”
He hesitated only a half second before rolling his eyes. “Whatever, Freckles.”
“Aw, I have a pet name already, honey buns?”
He glared at her.
She shrugged and stood. “If you don’t have any Candy Crush lives to lend, then I guess we’re done for the day.”
“That’s it?” He stood as well, brushing off his very fine ass from the dust on the floor. Dust that was likely coating her not-as-fine ass. Not that she cared. “You have the worst approach ever.”
“You said you weren’t giving me an interview.”
“So you just abandoned it?”
“Have you changed your mind?”
“No.”
She squinted. “Then why’d you come sit with me?”
He looked off for a moment, then grabbed her elbow. “I’m walking you to your car.”
“Mkay.” She let him guide her toward the parking lot, to her embarrassment of a car. She wasn’t into cars. It was a simple mode of transportation, in her mind. But the moment she had a decent paycheck . . . one word.
Upgrade.
“Is this thing even safe for the highway?” He watched the car skeptically, like it might reach out and bite him, while she unlocked the car and tossed her tote bag in the back seat.
“Don’t talk about Sybil like that.” She rubbed one hand over the rear door, where the silver paint was still pretty much in tact. “I stay in the right lane, mostly. I’m not going to win any drag races, but it’s paid for and it gets surprisingly decent gas mileage.” She grinned. “Josiah said he’d lend me a bike. But I live too far away from the stadium to make it here.”
Killian’s jaw clenched at the mention of his teammate. “So are we through? Have you decided to drop the story?”
She shook her head, somewhat sadly. “I’m on a mission, I’m afraid. You know, you might be the least Google-able person in the NFL? No social media sites, no major blog hits, no interviews. Your college teammates all say there’s nothing to talk about, since you were a lone wolf. And unfortunately, your college coach hasn’t returned my calls.”