Some of the fans I’ve incited with my comments are shouting in my direction, but I ignore them. They’re giddy to see Tate and Sean here and goad them to give me shit.
Sean stands behind Tate, looking uncomfortable as a couple of guys rib him about not standing up to me, insisting he should be defending Tate’s honor.
“Fontanna can take care of himself,” Sean smirks.
I’m not surprised, and as I look around, I realize there’s only four of us and a dozen rambunctious half-drunk men with chips on their shoulders and axes to grind who are not friendly or reasonable. There are a few fans at the bar who appear to be rational to be sure, and I think I can count on the bartender and even Louie would jump in if push came to shove, literally, but it could get ugly. Because of the comments I made and the kinds of comments some of the fans made, I know they’re not a wholesome bunch, and based on the increase in volume and foul language as they drink, not fun drunks either. Possibly the kind of drunks who could turn violent.
“Hey, you, girlie,” some guy says with a drink raised over his head, “You gonna fight Tate Fontanna? That I’d pay to see.” Ribald laughter follows that comment.
“You don’t think I can take him?”
“I think you should have some respect.” The man is big and burly and sounds like he’s been drinking all day, possibly all his life. He shoves Sean Patrick out of the way and nods at Tate.
“You’re not going to take shit from a girl reporter, are you?”
I don’t know what Tate would have said in response, because Burly Man reaches his big paw out then and shoves me, knocking me off my barstool. In my defense, he caught me by surprise because I had my eyes on Tate, his tight smile. And his goddamn dimples.
What happens next is a blur. As Maguire grabs my arm to steady me, Tate snaps a fist to punch the obnoxious man, but he misses because Sean yanks the man out of the way. Then the bartender literally jumps over the bar to help, shocking the bystanders into frozen awe. After a beat to thaw from the shock, everyone snaps into action. Foley and the bartender join up to drag the half-drunk guy who shouts but doesn’t have much fight in him against the two men seeing him to the door. I notice lots of cell phones raised and flashing as I process the scene, returning my gaze to Tate.
Standing before him, looking up at his blazing eyes, I realize that he risked a lot going for a punch to protect me, that if he’d been successful in hitting the bastard he would have gotten in deep trouble, arrested and sued and probably put on probation by the team. The scenario of consequences flashing through my head makes my knees weak.
“I’m ready to go now,” I whisper.
Taking my arm, Tate nods at Louie who says under his breath to follow him to the back door.
I toss my keys to Duff and he and Sean Patrick block for us as we leave, covering our flank. Outside, Tate still has my arm as he hustles me to his car, something low and sleek that I can’t identify in the dark. Opening the passenger door, he unceremoniously shoves me inside. As I fall into the seat he shuts the door, and my heart starts pumping like I just swallowed a bucket of crack. I seriously worry, putting a hand to my chest, not about having a heart attack, but about the fact that I’m so turned on by Tate Fontanna right now that I might do something so forward, so bold, that I’ll actually regret it in the morning.
And I’m not in the habit of regretting much. Owning your actions is key when you have the kind of chip-on-your-shoulder boldness like I do, a kind of us-against-the-world, take-no-prisoners attitude that I’d been raised on between my father’s larger than life persona and my pinup girl looks, I’ve had to perfect the bravado until it wasn’t bravado anymore. Until the bombast took root in my personality, right alongside the gracious southern charmer my grandma had taught me to be whenever she had the chance, the persona that flourished during my time at Georgia State.
I feel like I have two people inside me, one of two faces I can bring out to accommodate any occasion, handle any situation. Except this one, right now, as Tate gets inside the driver’s side, slams the door closed and faces me.
Holy shit. His dimples aren’t showing and I find this intense, crazed, worked-up version of the man even more attractive, more exciting than the affable dimpled version. I clutch the seat, curling my fingers over the sides until I have to force them to relax before I puncture the leather upholstery with my red fingernails.
I know he’s going to say something, probably swear at me, so I don’t wait, don’t think or question my instinct for even a breath. Leaning over the stick shift between us, I wrap my arms around his neck and press my mouth to his in a hot, seething, hungry kiss that’s been waiting all night to devour him.
He’s surprised at first, but he goes along. Big time. Kissing me back, his tongue is like a hot explosion in my mouth. He bunches his fist in my hair and punishes me with a hard, passionate response until my head spins from lack of oxygen, my breathing unable to keep up. Then he lets me go abruptly, pushing me away from him.
“Damn you.” He turns away, punches his ignition button, and pulls away from the curb. I’m surprised he doesn’t leave rubber, but he’s totally back under control now, ignoring me like he’s a taxi driver.
After a minute, when we get to the turnoff to the highway on-ramp, he stops at the stop sign and, without looking at me, asks, “Where do you live?”
I give him my address in Chelsea and he instructs his navigation system to direct us there. Since he’s clearly still cooling down, I don’t bother pointing out that I could have given him directions. Even I know I’ve pushed him too far tonight. Or maybe not. Do I really need to mollify him? Hell no. I didn’t invite him to the bar. Not exactly.
“Quite a car,” I say. He ignores me and it seems like it takes only another minute before he’s pulling up in front of the old triple decker house with the ramshackle garage where I live.
“Is this right?” he says, giving a dubious look at the house and neighborhood.
“Home sweet home.” I don’t push my door open because I know he has more to say.
“I can’t believe you live in this part of town. I know you have the money to live somewhere better than this.”
I shrug, feeling the defiance in me kicking up, the pleasure along with it. Then he turns to me and the way he looks deflates all that cool defiance, but not the pleasure.
“I don’t care how tough you are, you don’t have any business living in this neighborhood, looking the way you look.”
“You like how I look then?” He doesn’t answer, just simmers.
“You know I can take care of myself, right? No daughter of Oscar Smith would ever go through life without being well versed in how to take a man down if she had to. You know that right?”
“Not exactly, but I should have guessed,” he says.
I sigh because he doesn’t look happy. He’s really worried about me and that sends my pleasure meter up a few hundred notches. Even though I have no business being pleased.
“Look, I had Duff with me for backup tonight. We were okay. We were about to leave when you came in.” I lie my ass off to placate him and now I furrow my brow because that is plain silly. And unprecedented. Since when do I need to placate a guy, especially a guy who’s a player, not my boyfriend? It’s a waste of time anyway, because his face takes on a darker look than ever.
“I don’t give a shit if you had Duff with you. And you’re a liar because you weren’t close to leaving. Those guys weren’t going to let you leave easy. You put Louie in a tough position. He was seconds away from calling the cops and that would not be good for business.”
Listening to him, watching him, it strikes me he’s not thinking about the trouble he could have gotten into, he’s thinking about me and about Louie.
“What about you?” I say. “I’m sorry you almost got into a brawl—you could have gotten—”
“Don’t even pretend you’re sorry for one minute,” he says. He punches the engine off and that makes my heart tumble around, gives
me a flutter in my gut, the kind I’ve only heard of in fairy tales. Oh my God. I’m in such trouble, the kind I don’t want to be in. The kind where I start thinking too much about a man, so much that it throws me off course maybe.
But my throbbing center forces me to acknowledge it’s something I definitely want. How close to the edge can I get and stay on this side of the line?
“You want to come inside and talk about it?”
“Talk? Is that seriously what you think we’ll do if I come inside with you?” He leans close to make his point scaldingly clear. In spite of the tremble in my voice I keep my chin up and lean in to meet him.
“So? Are you coming inside?”
He stares and I can see the war inside his head, in his gut, and probably in his pants though I refrain from glancing down. The tension radiates from him and it feels delicious, making me itch to touch him, touch his skin, feel it against mine, feel his hands on me—
“No.” He shoves his door open and gets out, comes around and opens my door. I barely have enough time to regroup, emotional whiplash taking its toll. I get out of his car, careful not to touch him as if he’ll incinerate me if I do. I’m afraid to lose my cool, to lose any more of my pride than I already have.
He dogs me up the drive to the door and stands behind me while I unlock it. I don’t ask him again to come inside when I turn to face him, before I push the door open.
“Suit yourself, Fontanna,” I say, the automatic bravado defense kicking in. He smiles—it’s laced with irony, but the dimples are there so what do I care? The lift of my heart is automatic.
“There’s no good outcome for us, Chloe. We’d be a train wreck before the season ended—and that’s the best-case scenario.”
“What’s the worst case?” I return his smile, more mischief in mine, more flirtation. I don’t care what his answer is, I just want to hear him say it.
“One or both of us gets destroyed.”
I don’t bother pointing out that’s what a train wreck is because he’s made his point, made it too serious. I also don’t ask if he’s thinking we’d destroy each other purposefully, because I know the answer to that. He thinks I’m out to get him.
Too bad there’s an argument to be made that he’s right. Except I know I’m not purposely trying to be destructive to him. I’m purposely trying to be constructive for me. And that just makes me a selfish bitch, doesn’t it? Yes. No. Fuck.
Pushing the door open, I turn away from him and go inside without another word. I run up the stairs and look out my window to watch him get into his car and pull away from the curb, slowly. I watch him drive until I can’t see him anymore.
Chapter 12
Tate
Sean and I don’t talk about it. There’s a tacit agreement between us that we keep the incident at Louie’s to ourselves. I owe him for saving my ass and I owe Louie. I’ll need to have a talk with Louie as soon as I can get out of this locker room and get over there.
Hunter and Gabe expect to go to Louie’s for the usual postgame dinner tonight and I need to get there before them to make sure everything is cool. To make sure I’m still welcome. To promise Louie that Chloe won’t be returning any time soon.
Stripping off my jersey, I’m not sure how I’m going to make good on that promise, but have to try.
“Good game,” Hunter says, leaning against my locker with his pads still on. I decide he’s not trying to be ironic even though I only played four snaps in the second quarter.
“Sure, if by ‘game’ you mean less than five minutes of one quarter.” But I smile because we won and the torture of preseason is over. Next game is official and it’s only four days away. Thursday night football, game one of the season. Hunter looks around the locker room, not going anywhere. It’s blessedly media free tonight. The press has been limited to the postgame press conference and catching up with whoever they can in the tunnel. Coach Marini has a postgame speech planned to transition the team with the final roster into the official start of the season.
“What’s on your mind?” I sit and take off my cleats.
“The dinner is on. Friday night.”
It takes me a beat to realize he’s talking about the matchmaking dinner, my blind date that Cat promised to fix me up with. Finally. I’d almost forgotten about it. Relief and a mix of other feelings simmer up, but I know I need this. Need someone to take my mind of damn Chloe Smith.
“Great.”
“We timed it so there would be plenty of time for recovery with the extra days after the Thursday night game.”
“Recovery from what?” I snort a laugh. “It’s just dinner. I’ll be drinking water.”
He wiggles his brows up and down comically and says, “In case you get lucky.”
I laugh full-out. “I’ve never been that lucky in my life. Not enough to miss practice the next day.”
Sean comes over dressed in his street clothes already because he probably didn’t bother with a shower, having never stepped on the playing field after the initial run from the tunnel.
“I heard the matchmaking dinner is on for Friday night.” He gives me a look.
“Quintanna just told me,” I say.
“You still cool with it?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
Sean shrugs and Hunter says, “Does this have something to do with the fiasco last night at Louie’s?”
I shoot a look at Hunter, who crosses his arms over his chest and smiles one of those I got you smiles.
“Who told you?”
“It’s all over social media, man. Don’t you ever check your Twitter feed?” Hunter shakes his head, still smiling so it can’t be that bad.
I turn to Sean and he shrugs.
“I didn’t want to say anything before the game. In case you wigged out.”
“Should I be wigged out?” I don’t want to see what’s out there, but at the same time I don’t want to be blindsided.
“No—I think it’s okay,” Sean says.
“You’re fine,” Hunter says. “You made Sean look like a hero and you made off with the girl.”
“Fuck.”
“Don’t sweat it,” Hunter says. “No one cares who you’re dating. You’re nothing but a second-rate middle linebacker, right?” He’s grinning, enjoying it all too much.
Damn. I finish undressing down to my shorts.
“If Marini hears about it, this could affect my contract talks.”
“Don’t worry—next week’s the start of the season. Clean slate.”
“You’re right. It’ll be my performance that’ll win me a fat contract. Not a few tweets about a non-event at an Italian restaurant.”
“So we’re all set for Friday?” Sean says, “The bet is still on?”
“The blind date is on and it couldn’t have been timed better.” I turn to Hunter and Sean. “In fact, I can’t wait to meet my blind date and I hope to hell Cat can work some magic.”
Outside in the parking lot, Mike Foley catches up with me and I’d almost forgotten he was there last night. I wonder what the hell he wants and stop when he calls out my name.
He says, “That was quite a night. We got away with one.”
“No thanks to you.”
“I would have taken care of her if I had to, but she’s a tough cookie.”
I don’t say anything, don’t give even a nod or a blink.
“What were you doing there?”
“I’m a regular at Louie’s,” I say. It’s true even if it’s not an answer.
“Is there something between you and Chloe?” he has the audacity to ask. I eye him, holding my game face in place.
“Why do you ask? Aren’t you a little old for her, Foley?” I’m not smiling or joking, though I should at least be pretending it’s all a joke, that I could care less if he’s interested, that there’s nothing at all between us except a deep abiding enmity that even the sparks of Hades can’t burn down.
“Whoa, there. I’m not saying that. I think she’s special, but n
ot like that.”
“Like how?” I can’t stop myself from asking in an unfriendly voice.
“Like a big brother.” He backs up a step. “I don’t know what you two have going on, but—”
“We have nothing going on, not that it’s any of your business. Your kid sister is safe from me. But frankly, I’m the one who probably needs to worry, judging by last night.”
He laughs nervously and I let him off the hook with a smile, a real one, and a slap on the back.
“But don’t worry about being my big brother because I can take care of myself.”
I leave before I say another word, mindful that Foley is a reporter, and even though he’s been decent for the three years I’ve known him and has a sterling reputation, I don’t want to give him ammunition he can’t resist.
The short fast week couldn’t have gone any better, with a win last night, playing well with a sack and a half dozen tackles, and, not least of all, no confrontations with Smitty. She’s steering clear of me and I’m steering clear of her. We’ve finally come to an understanding. Whatever connection or chemistry we have is better left unexplored.
Coach didn’t give us the day off, but it’s an early out on a Friday afternoon. After films, we’re done for the day and I catch up with Hunter as we’re leaving the room.
“Hey, you know anything about my blind date tonight? Cat’s not answering my texts.”
“No. She won’t tell me a thing. Says we’ll find out who the special lady is when she shows up.” He slaps me on the back. “You only have a couple of hours to wait. Excited?”
I give him the finger. “I’m not a school kid. I was just curious.” In truth, the fact that Cat’s keeping it all secret scares me, makes me think she’s up to no good. But what the hell.
“It’s dinner. Who cares? She’s good, you go home with her. She’s not, you go home alone—like you have been anyway.” He gives me a pointed stare like I’m a loser for being single.
Playing for Keeps: An Enemies to Lovers Sports Romance Page 11
