I call after him, “See you at practice.” He puts a hand above his head without turning around, and his middle finger raises high in defiance.
I want to laugh, but I don’t. It’s not really funny and I feel mixed. Besides, now I have to face Henry and own up to breaking my promise because I’m not even going to try to deny that I did.
Closing the office door behind me, I stand and face my boss. He scowls, sitting at his desk, silent. Then he stands and leans forward.
“You swore on your mother’s grave, Smitty. Now I can’t trust you.”
“You never could and you know it. You know my motives, you know my agenda.” I shrug, not nearly ashamed enough to apologize for real.
“Fair enough. Then let me give you a different motive. How about this. If you want to get back in the field, back on air, you stick to doing background work for Sarina’s Perspective piece—in the studio for one solid week. Best behavior.”
My chest tightens. He’s banned me from on-air work for a week. That’s steep and unexpected. I’ve underestimated Henry’s toughness and that’s on me. I nod because what else can I do?
The week passes quickly and even though the sting of being absent from my usual on-air stints kills me, I’m enjoying the time investigating and digging into the muck and weeds, finding the old stuff. At least I was enjoying it, right up until I found clips from the day Tate was drafted into the NFL.
Friday morning in the studio early and I’m in the film archive room by myself, thank God, reliving what has to be Tate Fontanna’s worst nightmare. His entire family’s worst nightmare. Clips from the funeral of his uncle Frank chill me to the bone, and shame at my profession courses through me like I’ve never experienced before.
It’s always been understood that a reporter has to report, has to tell the story, has to earn a living and do what he or she is paid to do. A lot of shit is tolerated under that umbrella of understanding, but not in this moment, not as I see the pain and rage in the eyes of Tate as a younger man—only four years ago, but an eon in disillusionment and grief.
Going through all the clips from the most recent backwards, I rail at not having discovered this sooner. But now I shoot through the entire history of Tate’s pre-NFL football clips with frantic urgency, fighting the clock because I need to get to the gala tonight ahead of the crowd.
I watch the entire history of his uncle Frank and him, all the clips of Tate being interviewed in high school and college showing his uncle either in the background or standing shoulder-to-shoulder with him as if he’s Tate’s representative. Understanding spreads through me in a sickening hot wave. I know why Tate hates the media. I know it with a burning, visceral ferocity.
It doesn’t take me long to find out that Frank was in fact Tate’s representative until Frank died suddenly. Then there was a scramble of all kinds of agents besieging him. It wasn’t until after he reported to camp weeks later that he signed with his current agent and there was a one-liner in one article quoting his agent admitting that Tate’s uncle Frank had done a good job in negotiating his rookie contract, his first deal. He had reportedly already been in talks for endorsement deals with Gatorade, Skechers, and Land Rover. I blow out a whistle.
Then I stand and roll my shoulders, restless and aware that I need to tear myself away. Tonight I’ll see Tate for the first time since our interview—where I blindsided him with an provoking question.
Chapter 8
Chloe
Driving home on Friday afternoons is a bitch in Boston. Especially when I feel an irrational sense of urgency. The urgency has nothing to do with the football season. We’re only at game two of the preseason coming up on Sunday. The game will be inconsequential except for the bubble players—the ones close to being cut—and Sarina is covering that angle. I won’t have much to do since none of the starters are playing.
But I’m happy that Sunday’s game marks my return to live coverage after being relegated to the studio doing nothing but research all week. On the upside, I’ve gotten to know people at the studio.
And I’ve gotten to know a lot more about what makes Tate Fontanna tick. The scary part of that is that I’m even more fascinated than before. And heartbroken.
My conscience gives me a little squeeze every time I picture his face with those sad eyes, knowing what’s behind them.
Once I finally get home, I focus on dressing and the job at hand. Anticipation revs me up. After putting the cap on my tube of lipstick, I toss it into my makeup bucket and turn away from the mirror.
There’s no reason I should be this excited about attending tonight’s benefit gala. It’s not my first black-tie event, more like my hundredth. If anything, I should be dreading it because I’ll be on the job, won’t even be able to enjoy a drink, and I’ll be lucky if I get any food. Henry gave me strict instructions to interview as many players as possible about their auction items and their charity—except one. Under no circumstances am I to talk to Fontanna.
Feeling the heat explode through me like it does every time I think about it, I feel like a third grader who just got spanked. Another thing I ought to be used to since it’s not the first time this has happened in my adulthood. I pointed out to my boss that I can hardly avoid Fontanna forever since I’m doing background on him for the Perspective piece—that’s what he’s calling it now since he’s skewing it more to a thought piece, human interest rather than an exposé. But he’s leaving all the teeth in it—so the label is just pretense. It’s a sneaky move. My conscience gives me another pinch as I slide on my sparkly silver round-toed pumps with just enough heel to be sexy, but not enough to be vampy—and I’ll be able to wear them all night on my feet.
My theory is that Coach Marini gave Henry a call after the interview and that’s what got me banned from talking to him tonight. Henry won’t confirm or deny, but he did say that my moratorium on talking to Fontanna will be lifted after tonight if I behave. I wonder if Fontanna complained to Marini and that’s why Marini called Henry.
No matter, I pick up my silver clutch to match my silver heels and my silvery dress. One last twirl in front of the full-length mirror I nailed to the closet door and I’m satisfied with the way the dress both drapes and clings, the way the hem skims my thighs a couple of inches above my knees. Eat your heart out, Fontanna.
Stop it, Chloe. Get over him. He’s your subject, not your crush. Tell that to my lady parts every time I look at film of him. He’s so . . . normal and decent and humble and funny and clever. Slapping my forehead to knock the useless thoughts of him out of my head, I pull the door shut behind me and turn my key in the lock.
Clicking in a staccato beat down my stairs, I get into the car and call Maguire to tell him I’m on my way. We’ll meet at the back door of the Boston Harbor Hotel waterfront ballroom, which I’m told is spectacular when it’s lit up at night. He’s my date tonight, him and his camera. Some of our footage will go on tonight’s show with Sarina and the rest of it will go online on the NESH website. Sarina is going to be here tonight, but as a paying patron, not working. She’ll need to duck out early for her show, but still, for once in my life, I wish I was here for the fun rather than the job.
I still haven’t heard from Cat about that dinner party blind date and I make a mental note to call her, but then I realize she’ll be here tonight. There’s no traffic on the bridge into town as dusk falls over the city and the dark water glitters with reflections of the lights. There’s not a star in sight above the skyline, all obscured by the manmade glow.
Tempted to valet park, I don’t and pull into the nearest parking garage since I’m going in the back door. There’s a green room of sorts set up there for media with phones and computers and backstage access—a stage was installed for the occasion for the main event, where they auction off a couple of Boston’s most eligible bachelors. Some hockey star named Ryan O’Rourke and a restauranteur whose name I don’t remember because, let’s face it, a girl only has so much room in her head for details and I need to
save it for sports. It’s called professional focus, I tell my conscience, who’s accusing me of laziness.
It’s not laziness, it’s being distracted that has me in less than top form, ever since this afternoon when I’d learned those things about Fontanna’s past that explain a few things about his present, things that leave me feeling disturbed. And guilty, almost ashamed for my profession. Things that make me want to make him understand who I am—and who I’m not—things that make me want to console him and make it all up to him somehow.
Not in the cards, Smitty. Keep your nose clean, do your job, and cause trouble another day.
Checking in at the back door with my media card, I see Maguire consorting with our competition at Beantown Sports Broadcasting. I wave him over. It’s early, but looking out at the room, I see some people already checking out the auction items set up around the perimeter. There’s a buffet and bar set up in the middle of the space surrounded by small tables, leaving plenty of room for mingling.
“First time you’ve been here?” Maguire asks. I nod.
“Let me show you around. With any luck, we can set up some interviews outside overlooking the water.”
“Think again, old man. We need to stick to the auction items.” I shrug. “May as well get started now. We need a dozen spots, according to Henry.”
Maguire lets out a whistle. “Doesn’t leave a guy much chance to eat.”
It doesn’t take much convincing to get Maguire on board for fast and furious spots, but by the tenth one I’m dizzy with details and struggling to find inventive new ways to get the same information from each auction donor about their item and their favorite charity. Mindful of avoiding the bland, I try to prod stories out of each one of them about what led to their charity choice. Having done my homework helps—that and the cheat card that I have tucked in my purse.
“Let’s go for number eleven,” I say checking the time. It’s nearing eleven p.m. and the place shuts down at midnight. Glancing around the room, not for the first time, until I find Fontanna in the crowd, I watch him briefly and look away before he can catch me. Craning my head to survey the crowd, I spot our next interviewees. “There’s Cat Marini and Hunter Quintanna.”
Maguire follows me as I wind my way to where they’re encouraging competition for bids on their auction item. It’s a good one.
After we exchange hellos and a brief hug, I go into professional mode.
“You would expect a special auction item from this power couple of the Boston Militia, and you wouldn’t be disappointed. Tell us what you’re auctioning off, Cat and Hunter Quintanna.”
“Four tickets to each and every Militia home game, including the playoffs and Super Bowl this year,” she says. “On the fifty-yard line high above the stadium in a luxury box with full catered meals and open bar.”
“Wow—a dream come true for a die-hard fan and I bet we have a lot of those in attendance here. Tell us about your charity.”
Hunter says, “All proceeds to go the foster care foundation of greater Oneonta, New York.” Cat goes on to talk about what they do and her passion complements her husband’s steely reserve perfectly. They’re so in-sync, yet so opposite, and that fascinates me. We shoot over five minutes with only a few breaks, giving us plenty of content.
Before I go, I can’t resist my reminder. “Still looking forward to that dinner party.”
She laughs. “Don’t worry, the deal is almost closed. You won’t be disappointed.”
Hunter says, “After all Cat’s efforts to match-make you, don’t go and get married between now and then.”
“I think we’re safe. I’m a casual relationship kind of girl.” I am, right? I should be. I have too much ambition for a serious relationship.
He frowns and I hate disappointing him, but I am who I am, right?
“I’ll be in touch one day next week,” Cat promises. “If you have time when you sign off tonight, have a drink with us.”
“We have one more interview to do, so it’s possible.”
Moving aside to give potential bidders room, I take Maguire’s arm and look around, but I don’t see Tate. Maguire yawns and says he needs a break. I watch him head outside to the patio where I know he’s going for a smoke. That gives me a chance to do the one thing I promised myself I would do tonight by hook or by crook.
Heading for the auction items on the far wall, I glide through the crowd, managing not to meet anyone’s eyes, homing in on item number fifty-four. Tate Fontanna’s signed jersey. Before I get there, I stop and look around to wait for a couple nearby to move on. Then I swoop in, picking up the stylus and tablet quickly. This needs to be strictly anonymous, so I write in my information next to my bid amount precisely and fast.
Mission accomplished, I put the auction bidding tablet back on its stand and turn around to find Maguire so we can finish our job for the night. But the man standing there, too close for comfort and giving me chills,, is not Duff Maguire.
“What do you think you’re doing skulking around my jersey?”
Tate’s neutral face is belied by his intense, suspicious eyes, not that I blame him.
“Taking a break, checking out the auction. I’d stay and chat, but I have to get back to work—”
“Not so fast, Smitty.” His words are steely. I don’t know how long he was spying on me, what he might have seen, but I can’t lie to him if he calls me on it. I’m standing in front of the tablet with my bid on it plain as day. It’s an anonymous bid, but if he sees at it, he’ll figure it out.
He puts his hands on my upper arms and moves me aside gently, only because I let him.
Picking up the tablet, he studies it more than long enough to see the anonymous email address I used for my contact info next to the anonymous donation of ten thousand smacks for his signed jersey. The previous bid was $500. Putting the tablet down slowly, he looks up and meets my eyes. I’m standing as still as death as I quake with some kind of pent-up emotion inside that I can barely control.
“What the fuck, Chloe?” Maybe it’s the way he says my name, but I shiver and my heart starts racing. I’m all messed up, but I manage to speak and sound half normal.
“What can I say? I’m a sucker for a good cause.” I wait while he continues his evaluation of me, a predatory look unhidden by a game face, no pretense of civility.
“There are dozens of good causes here.”
I stare back at him. How do I tell him that I know why he hates me, that I want to make up for all the awful things others in my profession have done to him.
The instant he understands that I know, I see it in his expression like a dawning light that clears his features. Except it feels like he slams the door in my face. But that’s when I’m at my best. When doors are shutting in my face, I come to play anyway.
I sigh. “What do you want me to tell you, Fontanna? The story about your uncle gets to me.”
“Which part?” he growls low
I have to tell him the truth.
“The part about the media ambush at his graveside.”
His jaw muscles clench and I can see the vulnerability, the discomfort as if I were aiming a camera at him right now instead of my eyes. I want to yell at him that my eyes are innocent.
“I’m not one of them, Tate.”
“That right? Last time I saw you it felt a lot like an ambush, albeit on a smaller, less dramatic scale.”
“I’m sorry.” I never apologize for doing my job, so I don’t know why I’m saying it now except I have an irresistible need to apologize for all the wrongs every media type ever did to him, to make it right. Knowing I can’t. I want to tell him he’s not responsible for his Uncle’s death, that it wasn’t his fault, but I have no standing. He’d reject my opinion as insignificant. Rightly so.
We stand silent and still for a while. It’s his show so I’ll let him close the curtain.
“Look out, it’s the boss coming in at six o’clock,” he says. I turn around to see Coach Marini taking his time to get to us.<
br />
“Who’s in more trouble—you or me?”
He smiles. His dimples pop out and my tummy flutters like I’m a teenager with a crush. Not much difference, upon reflection, than being a twenty-five-year-old woman with a crush.
“The least I can do is cover for you after the donation you made,” he says.
“I didn’t make the donation to bribe you.” I keep my eyes glued to his in an effort not to be mesmerized by his mouth and will myself to revert to wise guy form. “Besides, who says I’ll win the auction?”
He laughs and Marini comes up behind me, touching my back and wearing his wolf-in-sheep’s clothing look. It’s hard to think of the old man as Cat’s father, but he is, and a good one by all accounts. Otherwise I don’t suppose she’d be working with him now—or married to one of his players. Way to keep it all in the family.
“You here on the job, Smitty?” he says, knowing full well I am.
“Of course. Wouldn’t have it any other way.”
“How about if you let me have a chance to plug my charity on air?”
“I was just about to suggest it.”
He nods at me and flashes Tate a look. “See you tomorrow, Fontanna.” He takes my arm as if he doesn’t trust me. Because he probably doesn’t.
“Let’s go. Time is running out. Besides I can’t have Tate consorting with his professed enemy.” I catch the warning in the coach’s voice.
We take off to find Maguire, leaving Tate behind, by himself. It’s clear to me that his coach is unhappy about him consorting with the media—namely me. He’s notorious for his paranoia about leaks of sensitive information, which translates to just about all information. Gently pulling my arm from his grasp, I’m all too aware this is Tate’s contract year. He has a lot at stake. The feeling that the coach is my real enemy strikes me even though it shouldn’t, but I can’t help being on Tate’s side in this tug-of-war—in spite of the exposé.
Playing for Keeps: An Enemies to Lovers Sports Romance Page 8
