They were heading back early tomorrow morning. Like, illegally early, in her opinion. What was with athletes and this obsession to be up before the sun? Tonight was her last chance to get some information from Killian in a less pressured environment. He’d be riding high on the win—even he couldn’t fake indifference with a nail-biter like that—and his emotions would be up. It’d be perfect, the right chance to get him talking and just let him go. Really get a good feel of the guy under the number seven jersey.
Wait, not feel, she scolded herself, even as her fingers tingled to touch smooth male skin. No, no. Not feel. Witness. Experience the man under the jersey.
Damn it, why did everything suddenly sound perverted?
Before she could think twice, she grabbed her key card and walked out the door. Now or never. She’d just knock on his door and ask him to join her downstairs at the bar for a simple drink and some conversation. A little more investigative work, laying the groundwork for her on-camera interviews. She would absolutely not invite him back to her room. That was the wrong thing. She wouldn’t ask him to come sit with her on her bed while she went over interview possibilities. Their bodies would not be molded together while they perused the lists on her laptop . . .
As Aileen knocked on Killian’s door, she wasn’t even sure anymore what she wanted. For her subject to be there? For temptation to be absent?
The answer came three minutes and two extra knocks later when it was obvious Killian wasn’t going to answer the door. Or maybe he wasn’t in there at all. He could already be at the bar, maybe. Or out with teammates.
No, he didn’t go out with teammates. He was a self-professed loner. So he could just be asleep—she checked her watch—at nine o’clock on a game day.
Yeah, right.
So then he was likely ignoring her. Might even now be watching her through the peephole, waiting for her to walk away so he could get back to . . . whatever it was he did alone in his hotel room.
Though it was childish, she flipped off the door, just in case.
She grumbled all the way back to the elevator and stabbed the up button hard enough to make her finger twinge. That, too, she could lay at the feet of Killian Reeves. He’d hurt her pride, her work, and now her finger.
And had her mind five kinds of twisted up. So it was probably a good thing she wasn’t seeing him tonight after all. She’d go back to her room, have a cold shower, and then screw her head on straight for the flight home in the morning.
The elevator dinged and she turned in time to see a car full of Bobcats, with one Killian Reeves at the front. The group was laughing in that masculine way that echoed off the small confines of the elevator and spilled out into the hallway. Michael Lambert noticed her first and grinned.
“Hey, Aileen.”
“Hey.” She gave a short wave as Killian stepped forward. He was the only one. The rest must be on the next floor up.
Killian walked toward her and halted a foot away, just staring. His eyes were focused, not blurry. But his expression was oddly blank. Like he wasn’t looking at her, or at anything at all, but lost somewhere in his own mind.
She nodded at Killian. “Nice game today.”
He didn’t acknowledge she spoke.
The elevator buzzed, an indication someone had been holding the door open too long.
“Going up, Aileen?” Michael asked, his shoulder blocking the door.
She took one step to the left to maneuver around Killian when his hand shot out and gripped her upper arm. It wasn’t a harsh grip, she could have shaken him off if she’d wanted to. But she wouldn’t. It’d be embarrassing in front of the others. And also, some tiny part of her mind admitted, she loved the feel of his hands on her skin. “No, sorry. Meant to press down and I hit up instead. Go on.”
Michael looked doubtful, but said nothing. The rest of the car had barely paused long enough to say bye to Killian and hadn’t noticed his focus on her. But Michael did. And he was asking with his eyes if she was okay.
She gave a tiny nod, and he returned with one of his own, then let the door close.
He was a good guy, that Michael.
Alone, she took one giant step back from Killian. He simply followed, as if they were in some weird dance. His grip never slackened.
“What are you doing?”
“What are you doing?” he countered, squeezing just a little. His expression was still blank, maybe a little amused, but curiously without a solid hint as to his mood.
Annoying.
“I’m staying in this hotel, too, you know.” Like hell was she telling him she’d been at his door not three minutes ago. Not now, when he was acting like this. “If you’ll excuse me . . .”