Coach clapped his shoulder lightly. “Give yourself a minute, then come talk. We need to figure out just what the hell that was.”

“Talk to defense. Talk to whoever blew the snap. I didn’t even see it coming.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Didn’t see that semi-truck coming right at me.”

“You’re focused.” His coach shrugged, as if it were completely natural to just not see a three- hundred-pound man running straight at you, intent on destroying you. With that, he left Killian to his thoughts.

He grabbed a towel and wrapped it around his neck. Though it was mid-September, edging up on play-offs, the Santa Fe heat turned his uniform into a sweat box. He never would have made it playing the game if he’d had to keep his helmet on as long as the others did. But they all seemed to love it. Loved everything that came from the game. The bruises, the battle scars, the chicks . . .

Okay, the chicks were good.

Sometimes.

And others?

They fucked up your world with knife-like precision.

Bad enough, he knew because the kick was botched, people would be looking at him and wanting his take on the whole fiasco. The press were already rabid with the Bobcats this season, thanks to the delightful addition of one new Jordan family member. The Prodigal Daughter. Though he was fortunate enough to keep an arm’s length away from that shit storm by playing clueless—weren’t they all clueless?—and silent as a monk.

When he ran out, did his job, and came back, nobody expressed any interest in seeing him. Which, frankly, was his dream come true. No reporters asking, “What was it like to kick a ball through a goal?” No post-game analysis with the press.

When he missed, or something went wrong, suddenly everyone remembered his name and needed to hear his take on it. The pressure only rose exponentially during a high-stakes game like this, their fight for the division championship.

But that wasn’t the worst part. No, not by a long shot.

Grabbing the nearest water bottle, he squirt a stream of water in his mouth, swished, then spit, hoping it would remove the bad taste of what was yet to come.

No such luck.

Mopping his forehead, he settled back to watch the team set up their defense.

“Charlie is going to give me such hell for this.”

* * *

Aileen Rogers plugged one ear, holding the other flat against her iPhone. “Bobby. Bobby! I can’t do this story.”

Bobby Mundane—his unfortunate real name—sighed. “Aileen, this is what you’re good at. Getting the women to talk. You’re disarming.”

Which, Aileen knew, was Bobby Code for, You’re not a bombshell. Women see you as their new best friend, not as competition. “That word isn’t a compliment, you know.”

“I don’t have to compliment you, I pay you money to do what I say. That’s what happens when you’re the owner. Now get something on camera about the groupies, get a few interviews, and get back with the editors so we can move on to the next story.” With that, he was gone.

Aileen stuffed the phone back in her jeans pocket. She’d curse, but it was a waste of breath. The guy thrived on being disliked. Something about how it made his job as everyone’s boss easier if nobody came in expecting to be treated well.

There’s a boost of morale if ever she’d heard one.

She picked up her camera, checked the view through the lens, and nearly dropped the thing when the first shrill scream sounded. Another joined it, then another until the roughly two dozen women were all bouncing around on their high heels and attempting to out-shriek one another. Aileen captured a few moments of the groupie hysteria before she saw the first Bobcat player emerge from the side door.

Man, this felt creepy. It was bad enough she’d been forced to sit back by the players’ parking lot to get a good spot to talk with the groupies about what made them tick—hint: not brain cells. But filming the men for a fluff piece about women who wanted to slip between their sheets, when she’d rather be interviewing them about the game they just played, felt like a very small step above paparazzi behavior.

After another few moments, Aileen gave up and tossed the small camera in her bag. She shuffled slowly through the jumping women, trying to reach one of the guys to get a quote about the game. With her iPhone in her hand and her recording app running, she called a few questions to the linemen as they walked past. But they largely ignored her, choosing instead to give attention to the women whose breasts were on display like pastries in a bakery window.

Trey Owens walked by, shuffled through the throng by security. He didn’t speak to anyone and quickly disappeared into the parking lot. So, at least she knew he wasn’t going to be featured in her groupie piece.

Every time she managed to get close to one of the players, she got an elbow in the head, or stepped on. The price of being barely five feet, nobody seemed to notice you when they almost squashed you. It was worse than a mosh pit.

Accepting defeat, Aileen took a step back and did her best to regroup. She’d wait, give the girls time to recover after the players had left, then ask a few questions to round out the footage she already had.

And Bobby would just have to be satisfied with that.

As she leaned against a pole, she noticed one player walk out behind two others, sliding almost unnoticed by the other women. Killian Reeves, the kicker, and the unfortunate man to get blindsided by a tackle today. He hung back, leaning against the side of the building, as if waiting for the crowd to thin before attempting to get through. No other women approached him. In fact, one woman looked like she wanted to, but then veered off course.

It was a sign. Quickly adjusting her bag over her shoulder, Aileen stepped in to stand beside him. “Hey.”

He glanced down, then away, then back down again. “Hey.”

“Killian Reeves, right?”

He raised a brow. “Fan?”

“I know my local sports.” She hitched her bag higher.

“Oh, yeah?” He paused, then crossed his arms over his chest. “I assume you were at the game, then?”

“Couldn’t get tickets.” It was true enough. Off Season—the website she worked for—wouldn’t foot the bill for the season pass. She couldn’t afford one on her own. Cheap-ass Bobby. “But I listened on my phone.”

“And now you’re out here.” His mink-brown hair, brushing over one eyebrow, fell a little farther to nearly cover his left eye. She itched to push it back behind his ear.

“I am.” She took a chance, then added, “Can I wait with you?”

He blinked at that. “I think you’ve got your players mixed up. You want one of them.” He pointed toward the players who hadn’t made a break for the parking lot. The ones who were not only allowing, but almost encouraging the touching and body-pressing and Sign my jersey right over my breasts crap. “They love talking to women.”

Aileen made a face before she could catch herself. “I’ll pass, thanks.”

He started walking toward the opening of the parking lot. If he walked in there, she couldn’t follow, and she didn’t want to feel what it was like to be tackled by a security officer.

“Girls like you don’t wait out here,” he said, surprising her.

“Girls like . . .” She glanced down at her simple black V-neck shirt, jeans, and Converse. Was that an insult or a compliment? “I’m not sure how to take that.”

“Take it however you want.” He paused just before walking through the gate. Other girls were still hanging off the massive biceps of the players who had stopped to chat, but nobody approached them. Odd, since Killian was wide open. Why?

“Did you have something you wanted me to sign?”

“Oh, uh, no.” She was wasting her one opportunity. Aileen fought for something—anything—then blurted out, “What the hell happened when you got hit?”

His annoyed frown turned into a scowl. “You know, you might be the worst groupie I’ve ever seen. You’re supposed to make the guys feel like gods, not knock them down off the pedestal.”