Killian jostled back into the locker room with the rest of the team, riding high on the excitement of the last-minute field goal the team had miraculously set up for him to nail to take the game twenty-one to twenty. Someone jumped on his back and his knees nearly buckled under the weight, but he grinned anyway. The mood was infectious. Someone else kissed him on the mouth, and he prayed it was one of the female athletic trainers and not someone who stood to pee . . .
“Have I mentioned how much I love you lately?” Michael asked, draping an arm over his shoulder.
“Not lately,” Killian said, still a little dazed. “That wasn’t you who kissed me, was it?”
“No, but I love you, man,” Michael said in a comically emotional voice. Then he cracked up, slapped him hard on the back, and went to bump chests with a few teammates.
“Cavemen. Every one of them.” Quarterback Trey Owens wandered over at a more sedate pace and held out a hand. “But God love ’em for it. Nice work, Reeves.”
Killian shook his head and smiled. “Same to you.”
Trey nodded and stood for a moment, as if he wasn’t quite ready to roam back into the mosh pit that was the rest of their locker room. “They make it easy on me, when I’m safe in the pocket. Every second counts. Come out with us tonight.”
“Us?” He asked the question, rather than giving his typical Sorry, can’t bullshit excuse. Killian started pulling off his jersey as the coaches settled them down. And then, the reporters and cameras started trickling in.
“Me, Josiah, Michael, and a few others grabbing a bite to eat. We might wuss out and just do pizza in the room, actually. Depends on how fast we can get out of here.” Trey’s eyes tracked the first few reporters and saw them heading their way. He sighed the weary sigh of a man who had done this song and dance one too many times. “Damn it,” he groaned, then pasted on a bright, camera-ready smile. “Off to do the other half of my job. Think about it. Call one of our rooms if you decide.” He met the first reporter with a handshake and an easy greeting that held none of the frustration and weariness he’d shown Killian.
The man was damn good at that. And it was a little bit of relief to see someone whom he thought was so at ease with his on-camera personality actually struggling with it. Made his own feelings of Get away from me seem more normal. Natural.
He gave a few quick interviews, keeping his answers short and non-leading. But he wasn’t the big star, and for that he was eternally grateful. His time on camera was short-lived and he finished changing alone. While he walked by, he heard Trey answering in clipped tones that he wasn’t going to discuss his private life, Cassie Wainwright, or Stephen Harrison with anyone. Killian sent him a sympathetic wince and walked to the bus that would take them to their hotel.
As he settled down in his seat, he contemplated hanging out with the guys. Pizza in a hotel room wasn’t complicated. A good jumping-off point to start the re-introduction to social groups.
He could do pizza.
* * *
Where the hell was he?
Aileen paced her hotel room and cursed the day she decided to come on this infernal trip. Sure, she’d gotten a few great shots earlier with the tailgating San Francisco crew, and she’d seen the Golden Gate Bridge on her own time. The game itself had been an intense nail-biter, and every time Killian stepped out onto the field, she’d held her breath until the ball had flown between the uprights . . . which it did. All three times. It had been a good day.
So why was she so disappointed now? He wasn’t technically under any obligation to keep her updated on his whereabouts. She wasn’t his mommy, wasn’t his keeper. So why did she feel such disappointment that, as the team had come back to the hotel, he’d ducked into his room without saying hello to her? And after dumping most of her equipment in her room and racing back to his to say congratulations, why had she felt a hint of anger when he hadn’t answered his door?
Because she was letting it get too personal. Even a blind man could see that. It was getting to be too intense. She was too attached to the subject. Too dependent on his cooperation. Wanted his hands on her more than she should, his lips on her skin in a way that would shock her if she’d said it out loud.
Oh, sweet gutter ball . . . she was lusting after the kicker.
Damn it.
Aileen fussed in the room for a few more minutes, then forced herself to sit down and write a few paragraphs on her voiceover script for the tailgate piece.
Crap. It was absolute crap. A third grader could write better dialogue than this. She groaned and erased everything she’d just typed. Then standing, she paced a few more times.