He took another swallow of water before setting it down on the coffee table. No coaster. “I tried out for linebacker, but they said I was too big.”

She sighed.

“I enjoy kicking things.” He picked up the bottle, then set it down again without drinking. His eyes stayed on the table. “I played soccer up through high school, not football. Never played a day of football in my life until college. Wasn’t even a fan of the game, really.”

“Yet you played four years in college.” She smiled a little at his glance. “Google, remember? I warned you I’d be looking.”

“Yes, I did. I tried out for the soccer team, but I didn’t make the cut. However, the football coach had been meeting with the athletic director in the stands of the soccer field that day, saw me making goals from the longest distance, and asked if I’d ever thought of kicking a football instead of a soccer ball.”

“What’d you say?”

“I laughed at him.” He shook his head in amusement. “It was so absurd. I just got cut from the soccer team, and here was the football coach asking me to try out for him. Not good enough for soccer, a game I’d played since I was four years old, but good enough for football? Something I’d barely even watched?”

“So soccer was your passion, then.” He scowled at that, as if not caring for her choice of words. “Okay, not passion, maybe. First choice. Soccer was your thing.”

“I knew I wasn’t going to play soccer professionally. It’s just not realistic. But yeah, I wanted to eke out four more years of good, solid competition before I hung up my cleats and moved on. I thought college graduation was the beginning of adulthood, when I’d stop playing games and start being serious about life. Instead . . .” He held up his hands in surrender. “Now I play games for a living. Ironic, right?”

“Did you come to love football like you love soccer?”

He seemed to consider that for a moment.

He started to reach for his water again, then sat back without taking it and ran a hand through his hair. The mass, still damp from his shower, curled behind his ears and flopped in dark lines over his forehead. “I . . . I don’t know.”

The simple question—one she hadn’t intended to trip him up with—seemed to throw him off. “Let’s move on. Did you have to try out for the team?”

“Oh, yeah.” On steadier ground now, he grinned. “I sucked. Didn’t make a single shot through the upright that time. Thank God they had me try out alone . . . and probably for that exact reason,” he added, his voice trailing off. “Hmm. I didn’t think about it at the time. Anyway, I was sure I’d just wasted two hours of my time. And my leg was really fucking sore. Sorry, freaking.” He winced and stared at her phone, still sitting between them.

She laughed. “This is just for my own memory, I’m not using this in any finished product. And curse words don’t offend me. Don’t worry about it. Sore leg? After years of playing soccer?”

“Uses different muscles, different range of motion. Plus, I’m not always kicking a long distance. A good deal of soccer is running or sprinting, blocking with your body. So I left the field thinking I’d just wasted everyone’s time—mine most of all—when the coach called me and asked me to come to the first practice. Apparently I’d done something he thought he could work with.” He grabbed his water this time and uncapped it, but settled it on his knee instead of drinking. “And the rest is history.”

She made a pffft sound. “Right. We’ll just skip over everything else and call the story done. Thanks so much for your time.”

“Great. It’s been fun, Freckles.” He made like he was getting up, and she laughed. The man was funny, so funny, and she’d bet he didn’t even realize it. If she told him he was hilarious, he’d probably think she was joking.

“Okay, so. We’ll back up farther than high school. Let’s talk family.”

At that, the humor evaporated, sucked out of the air like a vacuum. “No.”

Aileen settled back on the couch and crossed her arms. Waiting.

She’d waited for this interview for weeks. Waited for this chance for years.

She could wait another few minutes while he pulled his head out of his ass.

* * *

“Family’s off limits.” Killian fisted his free hand at his side, keeping it from shaking. The hand clutching his bottle of water tightened until the plastic made a cracking sound.

Aileen blinked at him, lingering. Like she could just sit there all day and not consider it a waste. Damn it, Freckles.

“No,” he said again, hoping she got the point and moved on to another question.

“Parents?” she asked hopefully.

“No.”

“Oh, I see. You were hatched out of an egg.” When he didn’t smile, she narrowed her eyes. “You promised to let me interview you. This is day one. I’m following the rules.”

“You also promised not to push.”

“I . . .” He could almost see her mentally reviewing their walk on the trails, playing back their words. “Fine. What do you want to talk about? Is there anything on your mind you want to make sure I include?”

He thought for a moment, but she shifted on the couch, winced and hissed through her teeth. She arched her back away from the arm and pulled at the back of her T-shirt.

“What? What’s wrong?” He knelt down by her, still nearly eye to eye thanks to her short stature.

She gave him a wry smile. “Bark burn.”

“Bark . . .” Oh. He grimaced, then reached around and bent her over a little. Raising her shirt, inch by inch, he watched the pale skin of her back revealed until he saw the angry red scrapes. They started in the middle of her back and extended up behind the line of her simple gray cotton sports bra. He had to force himself not to lift the band of her bra to see how far they went.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked, mentally wincing at the temper in his tone. “I would have stopped if it hurt.”

“It didn’t hurt at the time,” she said. “I was a little busy concentrating on other things.”

His fingers smoothed gently around the edges of the scrapes. “I’m sorry. Let’s put something on this.”

“No, it’s fine.” She laughed, a little brittle, as if from nerves. “Just a scrape.”

But he wasn’t about to hear no. He’d done this to her . . . him and his crazy, unleashed lust. This was what came from not controlling your emotions and intense hunger . . . people got hurt.

“Come with me.” He let her shirt fall back down and took her elbows, guiding her up. She watched him with wary eyes, and he couldn’t blame her. They were adversaries, two people with cross-purposes. She was right to be suspicious.

Killian led her through the master bedroom into the small master bath, which was thankfully clean from the cleaning service having visited that morning while he was in practice. He pushed the toilet lid down and pointed. “Sit.” She did, and he washed his hands at the sink before digging around under the counter for the first aid kit he kept. The few times Charlie had come to see him at his apartment made him intensely aware that he had to have simple first aid around. The kid was a walking disaster.

He pulled out the peroxide, biting back a smile when her eyes widened.

“No, thank you.” She stood, ready to bolt, but he just pushed on the uninjured part of her shoulder and watched her plop back down. “Seriously, that stuff stings, Killian. Don’t.”

“You don’t know what that tree had crawling over it. It’s better to get it out of the way now, so it won’t get infected.”

Her mouth twisted as she watched him soak a cotton ball over the sink. “What, you think I got some contagious tree disease?”

“Just shut up and turn around.” Miraculously, she did, but not without a muttered curse. With her back to him, he could grin at her cute disgruntlement. “Lifting your shirt now.” He slid his hands under the soft fabric once more and raised it up. At the first touch of the cotton ball to her skin, she hissed and twisted.