Playing for Keeps: An Enemies to Lovers Sports Romance

by Stephanie Queen

  He laughs. “Don’t worry. I’m well aware you could probably out-tough me if it came to that. Even wearing four-inch spikes and hot pink nail polish.”

  Raising my hands from the keyboard, I wiggle my fingers. “Aw, Henry, you noticed. I’m flattered.” Returning my hands to the keys, I resume the fine tuning of the final trim, leaning in to hear the last quip from the interview because I hadn’t bothered to put on the headphones.

  Henry stands and knocks a couple of my files to the floor, along with a flattened PBJ sandwich that I never got around to eating. I probably came to my senses and sent out for a salad. Nostalgia only went so far. My dad used to pack a PBJ for me whenever he had to take me into the office, which was often enough for the ritual to stick, for the memory to spiral into a wave of longing for the man.

  “In the meantime,” he says, in a voice that promises a boss-like pronouncement, “I want you to do those in-studio human-interest interviews of a couple of players, preferably three of them. Let’s get them scheduled pronto before the season starts up. I also want you to cover the upcoming Boston Awards Night Benefit. A lot of the players will be there.”

  “Live?”

  “No. Get us a few clips for the nightly show. You’re still working your way into the lineup, remember?”

  “What is this, a sports team or a newsroom?”

  “Sports news. Same thing.” He bends and picks up the sandwich with two fingers, gives me a look, but I remain calm, no smartass remark because I don’t want to explain with my emotions so close to the surface. I need to keep my cool-as-a-chic-cucumber persona going. He throws the flattened baggie in the trash. I release my breath.

  Chapter 3

  Tate

  Walking out of the stadium to the parking lot with Sean Patrick as I always do, I notice his grin is slyer than usual. Who’d have thought it possible?

  “What’s up with you? You look like you swallowed the proverbial canary whole and you’re about to burp up the feathers.”

  He grins, but I see a nervous tic and know something is up, so when we get to his car, a black supercharger he’s driving to compensate for the fact that he’s a kicker and not a tackle, I stop and fold my arms, indicating that I plan to wait him out for an explanation.

  “Hot date,” he says.

  “Where?”

  He stares me down.

  “Fine, you know I’m not above following you.” Because I have a damn good idea who his hot date is, the image of him flirting with the southern belle from hell flashing painfully in my head.

  “What the fuck, Fontanna? Find your own date. I know you’re more than capable.”

  “You’re fucking meeting that reporter chick, aren’t you?”

  “What if I am? And her name is Chloe.”

  “I don’t give a fuck about her name. She’s a fucking reporter. A devious—”

  “Hot-as-hell young woman who happens to be new to town.” He folds his arms across his chest to match my determination and in spite of all his frat-boy bluster, I know he’s tough and has ice in his veins when it comes to do-or-die time.

  “Where are you meeting her? She’s playing you. All she wants from you is a story.”

  He shrugs. I grit my teeth, wondering why I’m so bothered, why I don’t let him go, let him get himself into trouble, let him learn the hard way. I’d learned the hard way, hadn’t I?

  He studies me for a few beats and, just when it looks like he’s going to say something, Max comes along and joins us.

  “Hey how about if we hit Louie’s tonight?” Max says. “I’m buying.”

  “Shit.” Sean’s face falls and now I know where he’s meeting Chloe.

  “Sounds great to me.” I grin at Sean and he flips me the finger.

  “What the hell am I missing here?” Max asks.

  “I’ll tell you on the way over,” I say. “Let’s take my car.” Max goes along and I fill him in on Sean’s date with the poisonous reporter. In typical Max Devon the cagey sage form, he says nothing, though I know he’s thinking something. He never judges and never interferes. If you want advice from Max, you have to ask for it. No, beg for it. He’s the one on the team who has the most wisdom, like our godfather, but he doesn’t go around spouting off. The exact opposite. That’s what makes his words all the more valuable and sought after.

  But I’m no rookie, so I’m not begging. I can figure things out for myself. Like why the hell am I so bothered by Chloe fucking Smith when I’ve learned well to handle all the media Boston’s thrown at me so far?

  What makes her especially threatening?

  Good looks? No. Gorgeous women are a dime a dozen and I’m pretty much immune by now after four years in the league and two years in Boston at the top of my game. Since Gabriel Wyatt and Hunter Quintanna are off the bachelor market, I’ve been on the home page of no less than seven media outlets touted as the most eligible bachelor in Boston.

  It’s not even fun anymore. Which is a fucking hard thing for me to admit since it used to give me a hard-on to walk into a club and have a horde of gorgeous women throw themselves at me. Not so much anymore. That’s not something I’m admitting to another living soul, but it bothers me. I’m restless where women are concerned and not sure why except maybe my Midwest roots are sending up shoots, prompting me to start looking for Mrs. Right, the future mother of my theoretical children. I shudder. What the fuck?

  Max shakes his head and snorts like I’m ridiculous for thinking Chloe is poison, as if I’m paranoid. “What makes you think Smitty is dangerous?”

  “Smitty?”

  “That’s what her father used to call her when she was a kid.”

  “You really are an old man, aren’t you?” I say.

  “Don’t change the subject. What did she ever do to you?”

  So I tell him about her sneak attack and our exchange of words and he can barely hold in his laughter.

  “I don’t agree with your apparent assessment that the situation was in any way humorous,” I say, but I’m backpedaling on my attitude—or at least on sharing my concern. “She’s setting me up for something. I can smell it in the way she zeroed in on me.”

  “You really are paranoid.”

  Shrugging, I don’t answer him as I turn into the small lot and park the car. The bar and restaurant, our usual hangout, is a couple of doors down, but it doesn’t have its own parking. It’s a Tuesday, but based on my experience, the place will be half full of regulars.

  “We’re getting something to eat, right?” I ask as we get out of my car and head for the front door. The lettering above the door is starting to fade and I can barely make out the name Louie’s.

  “You shittin’ me? Would we come here and not eat?” He slaps my back as he follows me through the door. Though it’s still bright outside, the place is perpetually lit low like it’s midnight at a secret getaway. The cloud of scents that pervade the place are enough to put a person into a food coma before tasting a bite, adding to the sinful atmosphere.

  Louie’s is a gem of a neighborhood establishment, unspoiled by our celebrity ever since we’d started frequenting the place. Gabe Wyatt introduced me and Quintanna and we brought others and it’s now an unofficial Militia hangout—and a well-kept secret. Until now. Fuck.

  Chloe Smith—Smitty—could and likely will change all that. Spotting Sean sitting near the end of the bar, alone, we head for him and sit on either side of him. The bartender comes over before Max raises a hand.

  He slides three glasses in front of us and pours from a bottle of Henry McKenna bourbon whiskey.

  “Compliments of a couple of fans.” He nods his head in the far direction of the room holding no more than a dozen tables, most of them filled. We turn and a familiar couple wave at us. Max and Sean wave back and I salute. It’s a Militia thing.

  “The rest is on me,” Max says “We’re ordering food, too.”

  “Of course you are,” the bartender says with a grin.

  “Why don’t you assholes get a tabl
e?” Sean says.

  “She’s not here yet,” I say. “She might not even show.” I don’t bother hiding my hope.

  Sean picks up his glass and takes a healthy gulp. I don’t know if it’s us witnessing him get stood up that’s making him nervous or the prospect of us witnessing his date if he doesn’t get stood up. Either way, my sympathy doesn’t go far enough to back off.

  “She’ll show,” Max says. “I’ll bet a hundred bucks.”

  “Only a hundred?” I ask, gauging how confident he is and wondering why, but deep down I know he’s right. She’ll show. She’s ambitious and wouldn’t give up the chance for a scoop of some kind from a vulnerable player. My blood boils thinking about it.

  “Sean’s still on his rookie contract. I don’t want to bankrupt him.”

  “Fuck you,” Sean says to Max as he glances at the clock. It’s well past seven.

  Keeping in a laugh, because money is the one thing Sean has no sense of humor about—not even a little, I say, “Okaaaay.”

  Sean raises a middle finger at me, drinking down most of his glass of whiskey, eyes back on the door.

  “What the hell do you see in this woman? Seriously?” I ask. “She’s a reporter. She could crucify you, ruin your reputation, crash any promotional deals you might have a shot at with one bad story if you say the wrong thing. Or heaven forbid—if you break her heart.” I mock shudder.

  Max laughs, refusing to take my side or take the risk seriously. Does he know something I don’t about this chick? Sean flips his finger at me again, signaling I’m wasting my breath because his brain has checked out and his dick is in charge. It’s the exact state that could get him into more trouble than this chick is worth—mesmerizing violet eyes or not.

  “Don’t worry, Tate,” Max says. “She has more scruples than—”

  “She’s here,” Sean says and slams his hand on the bar and his smile goes feral. Maybe I ought to be more concerned about Chloe than my friend. Dismissing the idea the instant it pops into my head, I scoff at it, at myself for thinking it.

  “Time for you two to get the fuck out of here,” he says under his breath. I don’t budge, and to his credit, neither does Max. They’re both facing the door, both with smiles as they watch her. I turn around.

  And now I know what breathtaking really means, because she knocks the breath out of me the second our eyes meet, as I take her in like I’m eating her whole. Then my mind goes there, thinking about eating her and the idea of having Italian food for dinner disappears, replaced by a juicy vision of—

  Fuck.

  “How did I get so lucky?” she says as she saunters up to us. The three of us swivel our stools away from the bar to face her. She looks us up and down and ends with me, pinning me with her gaze. I don’t flinch even though every molecule of me is hyper aware of her womanly charms—and a hell of a lot more. There’s a strength, an energy that surrounds her like a force field and I think it has nothing to do with sex appeal, but I’m in no position to make that judgment since my dick is hardening as I meet her scrutiny and scrutinize her right back. I want to screw her silly.

  “Three for one,” she says, still giving me her attention.

  “Not—”

  Max cuts Sean off, “Good to see you again, Chloe. Being from out of town, you might not have realized this place has the best Italian food outside of Italy.”

  Relieved he doesn’t mention that this is our hangout—naturally, because Max is a very smart man—I break eye contact and pick up my whiskey, signaling to the bartender for another one.

  “These two gentlemen were just leaving,” Sean says, but no one is convinced, not even him.

  “Let’s get a table,” I say and Sean elbows me, but Chloe and Max are on board. He grabs the glass as soon as the bartender slides it over, before I can, and hands it to Chloe.

  We get off our stools and Sean wraps an arm around Chloe, staking his claim as we move to a table for four in the corner of the room where we can see everything, including the television showing the local sports, NESH, her channel. In spite of me I watch, wondering what the hell she came up with from the afternoon’s exchange.

  The clip isn’t too bad. She leaves out her why not more than 150% comment and even though I feel like there’s an anvil somewhere above that will drop sometime right on my head, I relax. Or it could have been the second whiskey. A couple of women come in and steal Sean away after he gets tired of sharing Chloe’s attention. His attention span when it comes to women is notoriously short. He goes back to the bar and has his food delivered there.

  The glass of wine I have with my homemade pasta completes the job of relaxing me, though I tell myself I’m on guard. The meal makes me think of home and my family’s restaurant and I mention it. Chloe picks up on that and asks me about my family. I say it’s out of bounds, off the record and she laughs.

  “As if anyone cares, Fontanna. Don’t worry, I would never inflict such a boring story on our viewers.”

  Max laughs. He’s finished his meal. We’ve all inhaled the food, even Chloe. Max stands.

  “I need my beauty sleep. I’ll grab an Uber.”

  “Admit it, Max,” I say, “You’re an old man and you’re out way past your bedtime.” He slaps my head on his way by me, but there’s no sting in it. Max leaves and I look for Sean, but he’s disappeared along with the two women he’d been flirting with at the bar.

  I turn back to a pair of intense violet eyes.

  “Looks like it’s you and me, kid,” I say to dispel the intensity.

  The slow smile she gives me is anything but lighthearted, bringing home the fact that I’m at the table alone with her. The intimacy strikes me like an offensive lineman knocking me to the ground. Doesn’t happen often—if ever. But I feel that way now, taken by surprise, stunned and reeling. I have no fucking clue what to do or say or how to behave. This is the one position I didn’t want to be in with her and I feel stuck, trapped in the web of a deadly spider—a black widow.

  Showing her nothing but my game face, I pry loose a smile and take another sip of wine, needing to loosen up all over again, get a grip, even knowing I should probably get up and leave. But my need to figure out her agenda is greater than my need to escape her clutches. I do an internal eye-roll at my ridiculous paranoia. I can handle her. I know what to say and not to say to a reporter.

  All I need to do is remember that’s who she is. A reporter, not a beautiful fascinating woman.

  “He’s a class act,” she says.

  It takes me a few beats to realize she’s talking about Max because my head is stuck on her. I can tell in spite of the whiskey and wine and pasta she’s consumed that her mind and face reading skills are still sharp.

  “He thinks highly of you,” I say, recovering my bearings, “I wonder why?”

  She sighs, measures me, and shrugs. “It’s my father. As long as I don’t do anything wildly imbecilic or outlandishly illegal, because I’m his daughter and he made it known how proud he was of me, introduced me to everyone starting at a young age, as a chip off the old block, I get credit for everything he’s ever done, for his reputation, for who he was.”

  Her voice is heartbreakingly wistful and sad. But I watch her face and in the space of a few heartbeats it goes from sad, to annoyed to resentful with a full-blown chip the size of a football field on her shoulder ready to do battle.

  “So now you need to prove everyone right?”

  “Or wrong as the case may be,” she says flashing a disarming smile.

  “Now I know you’ve had too much to drink. Because that sounded a lot like an admission of potential failure to me.” And I know, even though I never heard of Chloe Smith at all before today, before a few hours ago, I know that she is one tough S.O.B. not inclined to conceding a spec of ground in any fight.

  She puts up her hands, “You’ve got it all wrong. I’m not conceding failure. Only admitting that people can be stupid.” She arches her brow at me, ready for an argument, but I laugh spontaneousl
y and I could slap myself for it. I can’t afford to be amused by her, not even for a millisecond. Not even for the space of one flirtatious round of repartee.

  She’s covering for her moment of vulnerability when she leans forward, showing some cleavage. It has the desired effect because my dick is like putty in her hands for whatever reason. Putty that’s hardening by the second.

  “What about you, big boy? What’s driving you besides the obvious? What makes you tick?” She’s asking like she’s a woman out on a date and I struggle mightily to remind myself she’s a reporter and everything I say can and will be used against me in the media. Immediately, most likely via twitter. And I cannot afford to have any blemishes because I need a multi-year contract, need to solidify my career and make the money now while I’m still whole. Linebackers generally don’t last past seven years in this league and I’m already in year four.

  The next contract is my life. My uncle’s words as he talked strategy with me—the night he died, come back. Whatever you do, once you’ve proven yourself after the first few years, when you’re in your prime, get the fattest, longest contract you can squeeze from those mother-fuckers. Because that next contract is your life.

  Flexing my fingers, I want to pick up my glass and finish the last of my wine to wash away the memory, to wash away the sadness and guilt. I don’t dare. Along with the sadness, any more wine would wash away the rest of my sanity, the rest of my resistance to the forbidden fruit of Chloe the reporter—the ambitious, too-smart-to-trust and too-beautiful-to-ignore woman.

  Leaving my half-filled glass of red wine—the same color as Chloe’s lips, not that I’m noticing—I move back from her gravitational pull, using the strength of every muscle in me to do it.

  “You dating some lucky woman?” she says out of left field. Or maybe she thinks there’s a woman behind me, motivating me. No such luck. Only a dead uncle.

  “You dating some unlucky man?” I smile, having no intentions of talking about my personal life with her.

  She flips me the finger and laughs. Maybe she does belong with Sean. I grab her finger because there’s too much cognitive dissonance in seeing her perfectly polished finger flipping me off. As if she’s too much a lady for that gesture—or at least looks that way. But I know full well that any ladylike parts of her persona are laced heavily with the whiskey-drinking sports aficionado with a loud, bold streak.