He jumped, then turned to see Josiah Walker and Michael Lambert lounging against a few lockers behind him.
“So?”
“Waiting for something?” Michael asked.
He shook his head. “Just taking my time.”
“Cool.” Josiah nodded his head toward the front of the locker room. “Trey’s still getting dressed. Wanna walk out with us?”
He automatically shook his head. “No, I’m almost done.”
Michael straightened and slung an arm around his shoulder. “Let me rephrase. Walk out with us.”
“I’ve gotta get home.”
“You’re just walking to the parking lot with company instead of solo. Don’t be a bitch about it.” Josiah turned and headed for Trey, who was the only athlete left in the room.
“He needs some support. You’re still here, and you’re ready to leave.” Michael’s voice was low, as if not wanting Trey to hear.
Killian shrugged one shoulder, dislodging Michael’s arm. “Fine. Whatever.”
As they left the locker room, he immediately regretted saying yes. They were swarmed by reporters asking questions. Josiah easily maneuvered to keep Trey inside their little triangle as they walked quickly toward the exit of their respective cars. Security did their best, but he realized without their added protection it wouldn’t have been enough. He asked Josiah, “Don’t you leave your bike over there usually?”
“Drove today. Have been for the last week.” Josiah’s answer was grim, and Killian knew immediately the reason was because he wanted to protect his friend on the way to the parking lot.
They were good guys.
As he settled in his car, he breathed a sigh of relief. He wouldn’t trade his salary for half of Trey’s, if that’s what the guy had to go through every other week. Hell, no.
Reporters. Leeches, more like it. He let his head fall back against the seat in relief. His mind replayed the swarm of reporters, and realized one freckled-faced pixie was missing from the bunch.
She could have been in the back . . . but he doubted it. She wasn’t a “wait in the back” kind of woman.
He hadn’t seen her for nearly a week. When the Prodigal Daughter Love Triangle story broke, he thought for sure she’d be around, asking annoying questions or trying to trip people up with interviews. But she’d been absent. Completely missing.
He missed her. How the hell could he miss her?
Obviously his brain was on vacation. Suffering from the same damage that had him agreeing to play bodyguard for Owens this afternoon. He needed to see someone about that.
His mind drifted to the scrap of paper in his change bowl with her number on it.
It wouldn’t hurt to just give her a call, would it? Her absence was unlike her. He wasn’t sure what to make of the fact that she didn’t stalk him after practice, or ask his teammates weird questions while pretending to ignore him.
Yup. Crazy. He was going crazy.
So maybe he’d made his point clear enough. She’d finally taken the hint that he wasn’t going to give her the interview she thought she wanted. Freckles had moved on to greener pastures.
The thought of not seeing her daily caused his gut to ache. Or maybe that was his lunch of chili and a soft pretzel before practice.
Good riddance, he thought as he started the car. She was a reporter. More trouble than she was worth.
So why, as he drove home, was he still thinking about her?
Chapter Five
This is insane. Don’t do this.
She glanced around the concrete walls of the breezeway outside Killian Reeves’ apartment. Guy clearly didn’t think much of security. The complex wasn’t even gated. She sort of liked that he didn’t have a big, pretentious mansion or anything crazy like that. But still, some version of safety wouldn’t have been out of line.
Seriously, don’t knock. Go back to your car and drive away.
She’d never shown up uninvited to a subject’s home before. It felt . . . wrong. But she was just going to knock and ask to talk. She wasn’t peeking in any windows, or interviewing the neighbors, or stalking. If he said go away, she would. If he wasn’t there, she’d leave. She would absolutely not make a nuisance out of—
“Yoo hoo!”
She shrieked and spun around, one hand over her heart. What the hell?
An old woman, maybe in her eighties, stood in the doorway of the apartment across the breezeway. She wore a simple button-down shirt and khakis, with her feet in slippers and a thick housecoat draped over her slight shoulders. “Are you looking for Killian?”
“No. I mean, yes.” She cleared her throat. “I haven’t knocked yet.”
“I know,” the woman said sweetly, smiling. “I’ve been watching you through my peephole.”