But she didn’t. Because, despite her past, Emma was a decent person.
The reminder of Charlie was enough to have him walking back to the bowl and staring at Aileen’s phone number.
Just burn it.
But as he reached out to grab the paper and do just that . . . he dropped his hand back to his side. Couldn’t.
Something told him he’d regret doing that. So he’d play it by ear for a while and see how that worked.
It wasn’t like she was going anywhere. The woman had been at practice every day for two weeks now. She’d be around if he needed to get ahold of her.
* * *
Aileen finished up the edits on her Hidden Talents story and watched it through one more time. The fact that she had to do her own editing annoyed her, but she appreciated the additional chance to tweak things. And knowing how the editing process worked gave her that much more info for when she hit it big.
And she would hit it big. There was no option otherwise.
She glanced up at her framed family photo, mentally blew a kiss to her parents, then buckled down and kept hunting online for signs of Killian having a life outside the football field. She knew where he lived—in a simple apartment complex not too far from the stadium, nothing fancy—but resisted the urge to go and knock on neighbors’ doors. It was a step in the wrong direction. She didn’t want a tabloid story, she wanted the real deal. A respectful piece, done well, to silence potential critics and make a good impression.
Her phone rang, and she glanced at the screen. Bobby. She winced, then pushed the phone to the side. The ringing stopped. She kept searching online—okay fine, Facebooking—for another minute while her phone buzzed repeatedly with text messages, then rang again. Twice.
“Jesus, Bobby . . .” she muttered, and answered on the fourth call. “What?”
“Get your ass to the hospital!”
She started, sitting back in her chair. “Am I gonna make it?”
“Something’s going down with a few of the players. Some fight, or something. Cassie Wainwright is involved, along with Stephen Harrison and Trey Owens. Looks like it could be a love triangle gone wrong. Get over there now.”
She was shaking her head before he finished the command. “No way. You know I don’t do that crap.”
“I’m not asking what you do, I’m telling you. Get over there and grab some footage. Try an interview. Rattle the cages, see what snaps at you.”
“Right. So I just wait until the injured parties are limping out into the parking lot and catch them at their most vulnerable?”
“There ya go.” Bobby’s voice was smug. “You’re catching on.”
“Sure, right. Let me see what I can do.” She hung up, rolling her eyes as she did. Glancing at her watch, she yawned. Oh, dear. And so close to my bedtime. Guess I’ll just have to skip this one.
It was still light outside, but who was counting?
She went back to her online search—fine! Candy Crush—for a few minutes, then gave up. Killian was being stubborn. He was a man, so it was a genetic predisposition regardless. She could respect that. But the man was harder than any other subject she’d come in contact with before.
Which was why he was the white whale, naturally. Did she really think it would be easy?
There wasn’t an option B.
She glanced once more at the photo of her parents, then to the last article her mother published. It sat, framed, next to the picture.
“I’ve got this, guys.”
* * *
Killian took longer dressing after practice than usual, hoping the largest swarm of parasites—ahem, reporters—would be gone by the time he left the locker room. The media had finally relented—slightly—since Owens and Harrison’s supposed bar fight, and subsequent hospital trip. Harrison hadn’t returned . . . and the team all knew where he was now. Rehab. Good luck to the guy.
Owens had returned, however, because they had a game on Sunday. Business as usual for the quarterback.
Business as usual. Killian scoffed. Anyone could see the guy was the walking wounded. It had to hurt, having to put his friend into treatment. Killian didn’t doubt that one bit, and sympathized with him for it. But there was more going on there. He didn’t buy the ugly love triangle gone wrong story the press and blogs ran with. If the media thought for one damn minute instead of running with the first rumor that sounded good in a headline, they’d realize the kind of girl each guy wanted was so vastly different from the other, it wouldn’t make a lick of sense that they’d aim for the same one, let alone get in a fist fight for her.
But when had anyone accused the media of having sense?
“You’re still here.”