“Fontanna. You’re back.” She smiles and it looks genuine.
She buys me a drink I have no intention of drinking, but I don’t bother bursting her bubble. Not yet anyway.
“How’d you get here, Chloe?” I stand between her and her sidekick, Duff, noting that there’s no camera in sight. He has a half glass of beer in front of him and looks solid.
“She’s with me,” he says. “I’ll see that she gets home.”
“Aw, that’s so sweet of you, Duff.” She doesn’t argue and I’m almost surprised, but she’s not stupid or self-destructive—only bold and daring and just a hair this side of real trouble. A tight walk along an edge that can wiggle either way.
I nod at Duff. “Let’s get a table, so we can talk, Chloe.” I take her hand and she doesn’t resist, so I lead her up the stairs to a semiprivate balcony bar even though it’s probably closed for business. No one stops me because Louie knows me and I’m a loyal customer who tips well.
“Wow, a secret private hangout,” she says when we get to the top of the stairs to the dimly lit empty room filled with low tables and club chairs. I take a seat and so does she, but not in the chair next to me. She sits in my lap and bam. It’s like alarms whooping and red lights flashing in my brain alerting my cock to full-on action.
“You don’t mind if I sit with you, do you, Fontanna?”
“Not if you don’t mind sitting on my hard cock.” No sense in pulling punches when the obvious is so obvious. She laughs.
“I like you.” She wraps her arms around my neck. Holy shit. This is what I took her up here for, isn’t it? To test her, to taste her, to see how explosive the sparks are.
To get her out of my system.
“I think you like me,” she says, her red nail drawing a line down my jaw and across my lips. I don’t bother confirming or denying. Instead I slip my hand up her back and thread my fingers through her soft curls and move her face toward mine until our lips are a breath apart.
With my pulse thundering crazily, insanely, considering I’m a full-grown man, well past the adolescent stage where anticipating a kiss should have me in such a state, I touch my mouth to hers. A soft brush, a caress of skin, moist and hot, our lips meet with that perfect amount of pressure to make me sizzle, to make my cock jump and beg.
When I feel the vibration run through her, her tense, unshed passion communicates to me as she presses her lips to mine, parts them to allow a heady taste of her essence. And then all bets are off.
The answer is loud and clear how real this physical attraction is between us, the lust alive and rearing, making my cock strain, my pants tight. Our tongues mingle, our mouths ravenous, her hands on me, touching everywhere she can. I take my fill of her, drink in her beauty, her vibrancy, her sensuality, and let it all run through me and feed my raging blood.
Her ragged breathing mingles with mine and I separate our mouths, still close, and hold her face in my hands to look into those mesmerizing eyes. I want to say something, but my speech center isn’t working, my emotions in the red zone and my brain shut down while my cock is full of purpose. My chest heaves as I grasp for some control, something to hold onto that isn’t her, that isn’t like dynamite in my hands. Because deep down somewhere my sense of self-preservation is still at work.
“You’re a dangerous woman,” I breathe. She vibrates in my arms with the kind of sensuality that speaks to me, matching something in me like a mirror. A tremor runs through her as I nibble on her earlobe because it’s there and my body is following its own path. She feels hot and restless, like she’s balancing on that edge of danger and safety and that’s exactly where she wants to be, where she lives. One hair this side of the line.
“Not so dangerous,” she says, her voice a heady whisper. “Maybe a little naughty.”
“Naughty?” I want to laugh, but tension grips the muscles of my gut too tight, has me twitching, my cock like granite except it’s throbbing with life and putting up a fight against my self-preservation. “Naughty is too tame a word for you.”
“Trouble?” She goes back to drawing a line along my jaw with that red-tipped finger. Her face is flushed a pretty pink and that curl falls across her forehead, partly hiding one eye, making her look like the sexiest sex kitten I’ve seen since I used to paw through old Playboy magazines when I was a kid. Enough innocence and substance mixed with the sensuality to make her far more than trouble.
“Trouble’s not enough, either,” I say, raspy and parched for more. “Playing with you feels more like playing with dynamite.”
She tips her head back and stops touching me, moving on my lap to get separation then grinding so that I clench my jaw tight to stifle a groan—pleasure or pain, I’m not quite sure.
“Funny,” she says, “because I feel like I’m playing for keeps.”
Frozen for one second, staring at those eyes, my heart nearly stops before it stampedes in my chest. She shuts her eyes, blushes pink, and pushes off my chest as she scrambles off my lap to a stand.
“I think it’s time for me to go home,” she says, sounding sober and more like the Smitty I know from behind the microphone.
I stand and reach for her, because my raging heart and blood and cock heard what they heard and won’t let common sense or reason stop them, stop me, from taking her back into my arms, from kissing her again.
Even as her lips soften against mine and I taste that dynamite, feel the connection seeping and clawing into me, grabbing inside my chest to find my heart, she pushes away.
“Enough fun and games for one night,” she says turning away again. “You don’t want to get blown up, do you?”
Before I can think what to do or say, knowing I shouldn’t argue—because she’s doing me a favor, isn’t she? —I hear a commotion downstairs at the front entrance below and a loud, long whistle.
“Yo, Fontanna? You upstairs? You coming with?” It’s Gabe. I drove over with him. Either I go with him now or I go with Chloe. But she turns to me with a smirk that says no way I’m going with her. The moment is lost.
“Your friends are calling, big boy. Time to go.” She walks past me and once again I get the feeling that this isn’t right, leaving her this way, so I call out to the guys to wait a minute and I catch up with her before she gets to the stairs. Because I want the moment back.
“Wait a minute, Chloe. You—”
She puts a finger on my lips, stares at me with a purposely sultry look and says, “It’s been fun. I trust you’re not the kind of guy who kisses and tells.” Then she pulls from my arms because I’m not trying to hold her, not really, and heads downstairs, her heels clicking on the steps in a staccato rhythm like she’s dancing to some unheard music in her head. Whatever vulnerability, whatever emotional truth she’d shared is gone, taken back, locked down again behind enemy lines, inside the head and heart of the reporter.
And playing for keeps are empty words stuck inside my head with no home.
Losing myself in football is what I do, what I’m good at, like all the guys on the team. Whatever else is going on in life, the field is the place we leave it all behind. And in spite of seeing Smitty on the sidelines of the practice field and at post-practice press conferences this week, we don’t exchange more than a look. I try like hell to match her professionalism. Her indifference. It shouldn’t be hard. She’s a damn reporter and she’s living proof why media is not to be trusted. Print, broadcast, sports, all the same. They’re just out for a story and people aren’t human beings to them, they’re subjects.
Why Chloe had wanted to seduce me Sunday night, I can no longer guess. Was there a physical connection? Hell yes. But was it enough to overcome the line between us as adversaries? Hell no. The only reasonable assumption for me to make is that she had an agenda, still has an agenda, and is waiting to play it out.
This week heading into the last pre-season game is finally at an end and I feel like a racehorse at the starting gate with the door stuck closed. The game is tomorrow and Coach hinted I mig
ht get some playing time. Finally. We’re all in the locker room to change after the light walk-through. I need a shower because it’s a muggy hot day in August and the sooty East Boston air is stuck to me in places I don’t want to think about.
In my shorts, I grab a towel from the shelf and head to the showers. Sean catches up to me, still dressed, his phone in hand.
“Fontanna, you gotta see this. My Twitter feed is blowing up about you.”
“What the fuck are you talking about? And more to the point—who the fuck cares?” I turn away.
“The tweets are between the official Militia Twitter account—namely Cat Marini—and one sexy reporter—namely Chloe Smith.”
That stops me.
“Take a look.” Sean shoves his phone at me and I read the thread of tweets starting with Chloe—her handle recognizable as @SmittyJuniorSportsReporter—no subtlety there. She asserts in her usual pithy bold style that Fontanna is not the number-one middle linebacker in the league and maybe not even on the Militia. I snort as I scan through the back and forth between her and Cat where they exchange stats like heavyweight blows to back up their positions. Chloe insists with some impressive arguments that there are others better than me, putting forward a few names. Shaking my head, I’m ready to give the phone back to Sean, when my thumb slides down and I see some of the fan response.
Fuck. There are some mean, nasty SOBs out there taking exception to Smitty’s tweets. Everyone knows the trick. Media clickbait at its best/worst. Throw out a grenadelike comment to rile up the fans and then argue with them about it endlessly. I’ve seen it, ignore it religiously. It’s what sports media do. I shouldn’t be surprised and I definitely shouldn’t be concerned. She’s a big girl and knows exactly what she’s doing. Staging a Twitter war in the name of fan engagement and bigger, better ratings for her and her station.
Handing his phone back to him, I turn to the shower.
“You gotta respond to this man. She’s dissing you. I thought she liked you—I mean for real. But I don’t know.”
“She’s playing games, Sean. It’s her way.”
“Then you gotta play back. Tweet her.”
“I don’t have a Twitter account—you know that.”
“Start one. This’ll be fun. Some kind of sick flirtation—like when you’re a kid in the schoolyard and you shove a girl because you like her. You can flirt on Twitter.”
Snorting, I whip my towel at him, catching him on the back of the legs. “No way am I flirting on Twitter. I shouldn’t be flirting at all. It’ll just encourage her and I truly don’t need bad PR of any kind—not even on social media. I want to score on my new contract.”
Sean nods.
“I get you. I’ll keep you posted if anything blows up.”
“You do that.” I pause as I turn the spray on. “I appreciate you having my back, Sean.”
He moves on with a grin to leave me to shower in peace. But Chloe’s in my head, so there’s no such thing as peace. She gets to me and she’s not even here. She gets to my cock too. I should have waited to shower at home though that would be fucked up since I’m too sweaty and dirty to put on clothes or sit in my car.
The thing that churns in my gut, as I shut the water off and grab the towel, is the response Cat and Chloe’s exchange of opinions is getting from fans, some of them far from reasonable. It’s not my job to worry about her, but someone needs to. Or her sweet ass is going to land in a pile of trouble she might not be able to handle.
Chapter 11
Chloe
All the broadcasters at the studio have social media accounts, including me, and I put my Twitter account to good use today, staging a discussion about who’s the best middle linebacker in the league with the incendiary assertion that it’s not the Militia’s Tate Fontanna. Did I expect the discussion to go viral, trending in Boston ahead of everything else? No, but since it is and I’m keeping it up, even Henry notices and calls me into his office.
“I see you’re getting a massive response on Twitter to your clickbait.” He waves his hand, not exactly sure of his lingo because he’s no aficionado of social media and at an age that puts him squarely in the dinosaur category.
“Yeah, it’s still going. Cat’s helping with the back and forth.”
He nods. “Good work. You keep it up—all the hard work—and you may get a regular spot on the nightly Militia show instead of a remote cameo here and there.”
“Thanks, Henry.” He nods and dismisses me, so I leave, checking my watch on the way out of his office.
“It’s quitting time,” he calls after me. “Go out. Find yourself a nice young man.”
I head back to my desk to shut down my computer and grab my bag. This is break number one and couldn’t have happened at a better time with the last preseason game tomorrow. Duff comes by to touch base about tomorrow’s game plan and I tell him about Henry’s comment.
“Good news.” No smile. He’s an understated guy.
“Good enough to celebrate,” I say. “Let’s go out to Louie’s for whiskey and pasta.” I have a feeling certain players are regulars there and I wouldn’t mind seeing them, though chances are they’re not going to be out the night before a game—even a preseason game.
“It’s premature to be celebrating, but I’ll go along for a free shot of whiskey.”
Checking the clock, I say, “How about now?” I reach over and shut down my computer and pick up my bag.
“It’s what I like about you, Smitty,” he says. “You’re a no-nonsense kind of gal.”
“If you’re saying I don’t care what I look like, you’d be half right.”
“Nah. You know you look fine.” I don’t tell him I’ve already freshened up. In the elevator on the way to the parking garage, I tweet out an invitation to let people know I’m having a drink if anyone wants to talk Militia football tonight.
Yes, I did. Bold, but appropriately me. I just invited a couple of hundred thousand Twitter followers to an establishment that holds a hundred fifty tops. Not that most of my followers are on Twitter right now, or that many of them are in the area, or in a position to up and go out at the drop of a twenty. But I figure some will and that’ll make the night interesting. Maybe we’ll get some clips and pics. At the very least, more fodder for the Twitter feed. I’m good at it and picked up some great tips from Cat who’s even better at it. Duff glances over my shoulder at my phone.
“You sent that tweet? You’re crazy. I hope you know what you’re doing,” he says.
“Why? Chances are no one shows, but if they do, I’ve got you to protect me from the mob, don’t I?”
He grunts and nods. We take my car and I pull up to the curb out front of Louie’s. We walk in the door and my knees almost buckle from the aroma. Mental note: I need to eat at this place again sometime. Soon. Looking down the bar, I see it’s a slow night and I don’t mind. It’s okay with me if it stays slow, but a not-so-small part of me hopes that the main man shows up, the reason for the tweet, the object of my current journalistic obsession, Tate Fontanna.
We order our whiskeys, tweet a few photos of our antics, and an hour later we have a good-size crowd assembled for a lively whiskey-fueled discussion. The bartender and Louie, the restaurant’s owner, remember me and they join in the discussion about the efforts of several of the players and whether they go too far. I concede the argument because I have a really well-honed sense of self-preservation when I need to. Especially on the professional front, I keep things purposefully friendly.
Right up until Sean Patrick walks in the door with a furious Tate Fontanna not far behind him and gaining as if he’s in a race. Sean tries to hold him back, but there’s no way. Tate barrels right at me where I sit at the far end of the long bar, perched high and proud and grinning silly. What do I care if he’s mad? He’s here isn’t he?
As he reaches me with his full head of steam, I lean back, not sure if he intends to bowl me over. Maguire must think the same thing because he jumps off his stool and Sean
catches Fontanna from behind as he gets in my face. He does a good job of ignoring the greeting from the crowd of fans and Sean does a good job of running interference, high-fiving and smiling as he hangs onto Tate’s arm with an impressive grip.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
Steeling myself, I stay on my stool, heart pounding so hard I hope my breezy, nothing-is-amiss act holds out.
“I think I’m having a drink with some football fans.” I turn to the bartender. “Another whiskey—Maker’s Mark straight up.” I turn back to Tate’s seething face as he calms himself, pulling from Sean’s grip and sidestepping Maguire who backs off.
In a low tight voice, so tight I can see the veins in his neck pulsing, his jaw muscle jumping, he says, “Are you fucking crazy?”
I laugh. “I thought you knew that.” The bartender puts the shot of whiskey in front of me and I hand it to Tate. “Looks like you can use this. But honestly, I don’t understand what the fury is about. We’re all adults here, just having drinks and talking football.” I’m so calm now, I’ve convinced myself that I’m innocent, that I wasn’t purposely taunting him and goading the most rambunctious fans into a controversial lather.
He knocks back the whiskey, slams the glass down on the bar in front of me, then insinuates himself into the tight space between me and Maguire, up close and personal now. He whispers to me, “You’re gonna get yourself into trouble with people you know nothing about, who may or may not be above punching a woman in the face.”
“You have no confidence in me whatsoever, do you?” I shake my head. He snorts.
“Let’s get out of here,” he says. Every nerve ending in me lights up and vibrates, especially the ones between my thighs
“I’m not finished with my drink.” I manage to sound normal, but I don’t know how I keep the tremor from my voice.
Playing for Keeps: An Enemies to Lovers Sports Romance Page 10
