“Bobby,” she broke in, feeling flushed when everyone froze. Man, she hated that bug-under-a-microscope feeling. “If we could stay a moment after to talk?”

He nodded, then dismissed the rest of the crew. After everyone else logged off, and it was only her and Bobby on the screen, she breathed a little easier. “This story . . .”

“Pretty hot.” He nodded. “I have a feeling you’ll have to be careful with camera angles on some of these chicks. I know one of these women has a tattoo of her husband’s hockey jersey right on her—”

“Nope. No way.” She slapped her hands over her ears. “Full stop.”

Laughing, he shook his head. “You’re such a prude. When are you going to give up the crazy cat lady persona and kick it up a notch?”

She didn’t actually own a cat . . . but knew what he meant. Because only the hot Amazon women were considered for major network broadcasting. The ones who weren’t dwarfed standing next to a basketball star. Who commanded the eye. Who made men drool and women green with envy.

Her cat slippers shuffled on the floor. “I don’t have a crazy cat lady persona.”

“Then try showing a little cleavage in this next video. The male viewers love that shit.”

She squeezed her eyes shut a moment. Pays the rent. Pays the rent. Pays the rent. “Bobby, I need something more. Something more important than this. You know nobody’s going to take me seriously if tattoos and groupies are the extent of my portfolio.” She glared at him. “When I got hired, you promised I’d be working on the stories that mattered. That would catch the big networks’ attention. You said you looked forward to giving me my first step up.”

“You’re working up to it.” He shrugged. “Look, the fact is, viewers have a harder time taking you seriously when it comes to the actual sports stuff. They think you’re cute, like their little sister. The women like you because you’re softer, and the guys don’t mind watching because you know the right angles to push even on the bullshit stories.”

“So you admit you’ve been giving me bullshit stories?”

“I give you the stories that are challenging,” he amended with a toothy grin. “The ones only a true professional, such as yourself, can make shine.”

“Talk about bullshit,” she muttered.

He raised a brow, indicating he heard her.

“Bobby, give me something. Anything. I can’t keep doing this forever. I can’t be Off Season’s fluff reporter. You knew I had bigger dreams when I took this gig.”

He steepled his hands, watching her for a moment. His steel-gray eyes made her want to shiver with their coldness. Bobby Mundane had a way of staring at you that made you not sure if he was checking you out, or about to verbally skin you alive. “Okay, Rogers. You want something bigger? Go get it.”

She blinked. “Go get . . . what?”

“A bigger story. You get me a damn good story, a good five-minute run of unique content that would make any big network proud, and I’ll personally hand it over to my buddy at NBC.”

Her mouth dried up a little. “Seriously?”

“Hell yeah, I’m serious. Though to be honest, I don’t have high hopes.”

She fought back a scowl.

“Reminder,” he added, looking like he was one second away from busting out laughing. “You couldn’t score the goods with the Prodigal Daughter.”

“Nobody could score the goods with her. Cassie Wainwright didn’t want to be interviewed by any media after her initial opening. What was I supposed to do, duct tape her to a chair until she talked?”

Bobby brightened. “That’s the spirit. More of that talk and we could have a real go at this.”

She snorted in disgust.

“Rogers, you want attention from the big wigs? You need a white whale.” He tapped a finger on his goatee-covered chin. “Okay, how about this? Another elusive public figure. One nobody has any interview tape with. Not the big networks, not the small timers, nobody.”

A skitter of warning traveled up her spine. “Uh, Bobby . . .”

Warming to the idea, he ignored her. “You get an interview like that, and our view count would skyrocket.”

“Okay, but really—”

“There’s no way the networks could ignore that. You’d have what they couldn’t get.”

“Right, but—”

“Killian Reeves.”

Aileen disconnected the Skype chat without a word and let her head fall to the rickety desk. Of course. Sure, here’s your ticket into the big game, Aileen. And you only have to land on the moon to get it.

Feeling defeated, she stood and closed her laptop carefully. The desk, she could live without. The laptop, no way. And she couldn’t afford to replace it. Luckily, Bobby was the kind of boss who didn’t take offense when you hung up on him. He assumed all his reporters came with odd temperaments and adjusted his expectations accordingly.

She shuffled over to stand at the mirror of her bureau. One look at her reflection made her snort at the entire situation. From the waist up, she was the polished professional in a camisole and her one suit jacket. Her hair was twisted up into a simple bun, though she’d skipped makeup this morning. Nobody would have noticed that detail from the grainy quality the built-in camera in her laptop produced.

From the waist down, she was a joke. Just like her career. The flannel pajama bottoms and cat slippers almost mocked her.

Crazy cat lady persona.

Just because a woman wore cat slippers didn’t make her crazy. Or a cat lady. You had to have actual cats to classify for that.

Didn’t you?

She hung up the jacket and camisole, keeping them as neat as possible. She couldn’t afford dry cleaning, so taking care of what she had was her main defense. Luckily, she dressed casually for interviews. Casual was the tone Off Season aimed for. With each video they shot, they wanted to reach as many audiences as possible. Too stiff, and you lose the young crowd. Too loose, and you lose the older generations.

Grabbing the nearest notebook and pen—they were scattered all over her shoebox apartment—she started jotting down ideas to turn the tattoo story into something less skanky and more legitimate. Or, rather, as legitimate as a story about body ink could get.

But before she could stop herself, she’d written down talking points for, Killian Reeves. She groaned and ripped out the paper, tossing it at the wastebasket and missing by six inches.

Waste of time.

But wasn’t that what she was doing anyway? Wasting her time with Off Season? With each fluff piece she took on, each big moment she was passed by for a man, or a hotter woman, she wasted her time.

Crawling off the bed, she grabbed the paper she’d tossed away. She smoothed it out on her bed, reading over the few notes she’d made.

Was she doing this? Was she really going to badger a reluctant interview subject? And there was no doubt about it, Killian was reluctant. He personified the word.

She’d never made a nuisance of herself before in the name of a story. Which might explain why she was still at ground zero with her career.

Aileen walked over to the photo of her parents and let one fingertip glide over the edge of the frame. For courage, she told herself.

Time to take action. Time to at least try.

* * *

Killian toweled off and walked to his locker to change into street clothes. Around him, guys joked and messed around. Some talked about making plans for later, or made comments about what had happened the night before.

Nobody approached him, asking to hang out. Nobody ever did. He’d used to get invitations to barbeques, get-togethers, dinners out.

After he’d said no enough times, the offers stopped coming in.

He told himself that was fine. He didn’t need friendships. Didn’t need the hassle of connections, while trying to keep his life private.

The ache in his chest knew better.

“Hey, Killian.” Josiah Walker, Bobcat running back, self-professed eco-loving country boy, walked over. He was already dressed in a windbreaker, jeans, and running shoes, with a backpack slung over his shoulders. “There’s a cutie standing out there, waiting for you.”