“There’s nothing here. I’m unimpressed and tired of letting you skate. Bring me a damn good interview with some actual emotion or start the job hunt.” He hung up without another word.
Aileen stared at her blank phone for a minute, jaw hinged open. He’d all but fired her. It had actually happened.
Well, crap.
She let the interview run again, all the way, without any of the cuts. The entire hour passed by in a blur of awkward silences, long pauses, and shuffling papers. Even between questions, when he wasn’t having to think or speak, she could see Killian had checked out. His eyes were more dull than she’d ever seen them, his jaw was so tight it looked wired shut, and his shoulders kept rising around his earlobes in a subconsciously defensive posture. Like she was lobbing live grenades at him instead of questions.
Maybe the other stuff would be better. The interviews with teammates and coaches. She’d shot just a little of that thus far, but nothing major.
Even as she thought it and started scrolling for the footage, she acknowledged it was a false start. If the subject itself wasn’t interesting, nobody cared what other people had to say about it.
Battleship sunk.
Maybe a plea to Killian would work. She could beg. Much as she wanted to leave Off Season, she still had to pay the rent on her crappy apartment. And since no other networks were climbing over one another to garner her attention, it wasn’t like she could just easily move on.
Which, of course, Bobby knew.
She glanced over toward her parents’ photo and felt the prickle of tears behind her eyes. “Mom . . . why am I even doing this to myself? Is it worth it? Did you feel like it was worth it when you had success? Or am I just going to be let down by that, too?”
Her mother’s smile, forever frozen, was unhelpful.
“Wonderful.” She let her forehead fall to the desk. The Bobcats were traveling to Miami, which meant she would tag along—at her own expense this time—and pray to get two minutes alone with Killian. The longer distance meant more time spent in modes of transportation surrounded by a hundred other people, and less down time at the hotel before and after the game.
Begging wasn’t her style. But when it came to begging or not eating . . . her stomach was going to be making some very pitiful sounds to go along with her pleading words.
* * *
Shutting the hotel door behind him, Killian blew out a breath. It had been a total whopping. Dolphins over Bobcats, 30-7. Not their best showing, and the fans had let them know it. His ears were still ringing from the boos.
He just wanted a quiet room, the trail mix he’d brought with him, a movie, and a soft bed to lounge on.
And someone to lounge with.
The idea popped into his mind before he was even halfway to the remote, and his imagination filled in the details. Stretching out with Freckles in bed, him in sweats, her naked—hey, his imagination, his choice—with her legs draped over his lap and her head on his shoulder. Watching a horror movie on pay-per-view, running a hand down her back to soothe her during the scary moments . . .
His phone was out with her number dialed before he could second guess himself. Five minutes later, she was in his room. Ten minutes later, she was naked.
An hour later, he was sated, with her body draped over his like limp spaghetti, ready for trail mix and a movie.
Her hand caressed up and down his ribcage. “Wanna talk about the game?”
“Nope.”
“Okay.” She said it so easily, as if she’d been prepared to hear that answer and had already accepted it.
He let his hand roam down her back. “What movie should we watch?” The options flipped across the screen one by one. “And your warning is if you pick a chick flick, I’m tossing you out in the hallway without your clothes.”
“Now there’s a walk of shame to remember,” she joked, poking his belly in retaliation. “How about something scary?”
“Seriously?” He stared down at her, wondering if he’d somehow telegraphed his desires. She blinked back up at him, clearly innocent. “You want to watch a horror movie?”
“I’m not a fan of watching them alone in my apartment,” she explained, hugging him tighter. “But I can be convinced when I’ve got someone to squeeze. My startle reflex is pathetic, so I’ll jump and jolt a lot. There’s your warning.”
He debated a moment, letting the image from his imagination spin out once more. But something held her back. “Is it my day, or yours?”
She rolled until her head was pillowed by his stomach, so she lay crossways over the bed. Her feet still barely reached the edge of the mattress. “I didn’t think we were keeping track anymore. But . . .” She closed her eyes and tapped her fingers on his stomach in a pattern he took to mean she was counting something. “Yours, I think. I’d be willing to take it, though, if you’re feeling generous.”