Playing for Keeps: An Enemies to Lovers Sports Romance

by Stephanie Queen

  Unable to avoid staring into those man-eater eyes, I wonder what else I don’t know about her. She pulls her finger from my grip and I let go. It was a stupid move on my part to touch her. I don’t want there to be any flirtation between us. But as I think the thought I realize that ball’s been fumbled, recovered by the opposition, and scored. Way too late to take it back.

  “No man has measured up—so far.” She pauses, leans in again and touches my hand, just a brush of her fingers against mine. Enough to spark the air like a random lightning bolt. My fault for initiating contact, for giving her license to do the same. I keep my hand still, shift the sudden tension in every muscle to concentrating on not grabbing onto her hand and pulling her across the table so I can test those plump red lips of hers, see if they’re as kissable as they look. Knowing that’s what she’s tempting me, daring me to do.

  “Maybe you’re the one, big boy.” She whispers the words, raising the hairs on my neck, raising my dick and spiking my pulse rate.

  “You can dream,” I say, my eyes refusing to look away from that juicy mouth, except to drown in her deep-purple eyes.

  It’s a test and I have no idea why I’m bothering, why I say anything. Except maybe it’s the alcohol and her impossible to avoid eyes sucking me in. Fuck. I should know better. Even if she wasn’t a reporter, she’s so not my type. Too bad my dick didn’t get that memo.

  But I can control my dick, even in its current drunken, indiscriminating state. This is a rare night out only afforded the veteran players because we have films and the weight room tomorrow as long as we make the time in the mile run—meaning we’d better be in shape. Rookies have classroom, coaching drills, and running. Tonight is a one-off event midweek. I promise myself and my dick I’ll never again find myself in a bar drinking with her, or flirting with her ever, or staring into those damn eyes. My dick protests with a twitch as she pushes a blond curl from her forehead.

  “I just might dream of you, Fontanna,” she says, her voice still low until she clears her throat. “In the meantime, how about if you come into the studio for an interview next week?”

  “With you?” Surprise mingles with disbelief. She has iceberg-size balls and I’m torn between admiration and disgust, until she parts her lips and lowers her lids to half-mast in nothing short of a sultry look.

  “You’re hurting my feelings now, Tate.”

  “No.” I force the word out before I forget myself, before I start believing the vulnerable female act. She’s the tough SOB, not some soft, easy woman. Definitely not the kind of woman I’d want to be the mother of my children.

  What the fuck am I even thinking? Running my hands through my hair, I stand, nearly knocking my chair over—and it’s a sturdy chair—while I get out my wallet and throw down a couple of twenties for a tip. Max paid the bill with his credit card before he left, but I can’t help over tipping, a holdover habit from being in the family’s restaurant business all those years. Until I escaped by way of football with my uncle’s help.

  “You leaving, Fontanna?” She doesn’t bother standing, doesn’t seem to care if I come or go. I don’t know if it’s a genuine shrug-off, but I can’t afford to care.

  “It’s that time.” She’s a big girl and can take care of herself, got here on her own, but as I step away from the table, I feel guilty. It goes against every grain in my body to leave her here alone at this hour of the night. My mother would throttle me and then my father would kill me.

  “You’ll be all right?” I turn and say over my shoulder.

  She stares at me, filling my veins with racing blood, her slow smile too enigmatic to puzzle out.

  “I’ll be just fine, Fontanna. Go.”

  Her soft voice and ironclad confidence chase me out the door as the spark in those unfortunately unforgettable eyes burns a permanent impression in my brain. As I get in my car, I know I’m going to dream about her tonight.

  And I’m not sure if it’s going to be a wet dream or a nightmare. Probably both.

  Chapter 4

  Chloe

  In spite of my restless night that was punctuated by hot dreams about my new nemesis—who I want to slap when I’m not drooling over him, or getting off to the memory of him staring at my lips like he wants to eat me—I’m still energized after spending half the day at the stadium lurking around, talking mostly to players and a couple of trainers. My heart went into palpitations of excitement at the prospect of getting some inside info when I was introduced to one of the team physicians.

  It’s almost four p.m. now and I park my car in the overpriced garage under the downtown building where the studio stubbornly resides in spite of outrageous rent according to my real-estate lady and no particular need to be there. Grabbing my ass-saving ice coffee, I rush up the stairs for exercise and to satisfy my hardwired impatience, listening to the reassuring tapping of my heels on the cement.

  Naturally, when I arrive at the newsroom I’m out of breath and I can feel a sheen of perspiration on my face. The room is bustling and I don’t know eighty percent of the people yet. Lucky thing I don’t give a crap about what impression I’m making because I probably look like I was just laid. I wish. My mind darts to Tate Fontanna and I almost groan. Will he never leave me alone? Thank God that’s a rhetorical question because I don’t have an answer. Unloading my bag and my files and my coffee at my desk, I flick on my computer, then rush to Henry’s office to talk to him about my idea—about my angle for an interview with Fontanna and about his lack of cooperation.

  “Why the hell do you need to interview him anyway?” He shrugs from behind his computer, unmoved by my request for his assistance to convince Fontanna to come in. “There’s fifty-odd other guys or coaches on the team you can pick on. Find one of them to cooperate.”

  “You weren’t listening, Henry. He’s hiding something, I just know it.” I wasn’t willing to part with my secret spying mission, how I overheard my unwitting source from the team’s athletic training department. Knowing Henry even as little as I do, I sense a protective streak. In fact, I’m lucky his protective streak doesn’t slap me in the face every day, it’s so obvious.

  “Yeah?” He eyes me. “What’s your source?”

  Fuck. Of course he asks. “I’m not at liberty to say, but it’s close and reliable. Fontanna is hiding an injury and he’s doing it because this is his big contract year.”

  Henry shrugs again. “This isn’t a new story, Smitty. Happens all the time. What’s so special about this one?”

  Million-dollar question.

  “I’m going for the long angle, human interest meets exposé. Players and teams exploiting their own health in the name of the game. We all know why the teams do it, but why do the players do it? What’s their story?”

  Henry nods, considers as he stares at his computer screen. His eyes may as well be closed because I’m sure he’s not reading a thing. The hamster wheel in his brain is moving. But I wish it would move a hell of a lot faster because I want to call Tate today to arrange the interview for next week, before anything else gets scheduled.

  Hank looks up, his face purposely neutral. “You realize I’m paying you to do the arranging. If I have to make the call it defeats the whole purpose.”

  “I told you, he’s not going to do it unless he gets leaned on by the organization.”

  He sighs. “I could call Marini. He owes me. On one condition.”

  He stops talking and I know I’m in trouble. Fuck. Conditions are never a good sign. Jeez, I have to stop swearing, even in my head. Because this newsroom isn’t the same as the old local hometown studio I came from. And in spite of my innate need to be accepted for who I am, I know there’s room for adjustments at the edges, that I need to adapt a smidge for the sake of my career ambitions. Even Oscar the mouth adapted—sometimes.

  Except with him people came to expect the color, were disappointed when he didn’t deliver. Me? I’m still finding my way, establishing myself. The needle is bouncing around on the bold and unconven
tional scale and I’m not sure where I’m going to end up yet. My range is fucking broad, spanning a very wide spectrum.

  “Spill it.” I don’t swear, but I know he sees it on my face because his expression grows satisfied with evil intent. He’s a typical boss. What do I expect?

  “You keep the interview polite. Nothing controversial.”

  “What the fuck, Henry? The whole point—”

  “Is to get him in the door. No way in hell I’m pulling strings with Marini for a blindside.” He pauses to let that reality sink into me. I truly hadn’t thought this through, had I? Shit. Shit is okay. It’s a lesser swear word than fuck. I can think shit and say shit. Glad I established that line.

  “Okay. Let’s hear your big plan.” Because I can see he has one hidden behind his evil self-satisfaction.

  “We soft play him. And . . .” He stands from his desk and comes around like he has to deliver some bad news up close and personal to catch me in case I fall over. I’m still standing in the doorway, barely over the threshold, and he closes the door behind me. Fuck. No—double fuck. To hell with not swearing.

  “I give the exposé assignment to—”

  “No. Fucking. Way.” My voice is quiet and adamant and very reasonable, almost professional except the fucking part. He folds his arms and softens the evil master look.

  “You’re new, Chloe. Low man—woman—on the totem pole in here. You’re a looker and not half bad on air, but you’ll have to be patient. Pay your dues.”

  He pauses and I’m absorbing his words as if I’m in a heavyweight bout, a hundred-pound weakling being pummeled by a gorilla. I don’t say anything, don’t bother to raise my fists in self-defense because, let’s face it, he’s got lead weights in his mitts and it was never a fair fight. He’s the boss. And he’s right.

  I can hear my father’s words. But don’t let that stop you from getting back up and fighting your way to the knock out. Oscar the Mouth liked the fights, in the ring and in real life. My dad truly enjoyed the struggle to win the battle. Said it was the best part of living. Nothing was any fun if it was too easy. And I’m a chip off that old block. So I grit my teeth and raise my chin, daring Henry with my silence to hit me again.

  “I have all the confidence in the world in you, but I got a couple of other reporters ahead of you in age and experience who know the score. You need to stay in your lane for now, make nice, and get player interviews on the show. We’ll leave the controversial stuff to our veteran broadcasters for now.”

  “For now? How long?” I seize on the sliver of hope he tosses out, no doubt thoughtlessly.

  “I don’t know. We’ll figure it out.”

  “I’m disappointed, Henry. I thought you wanted something more than the usual banal shit from me.” Throwing his words back at him, I arch a brow.

  “You can be better than banal, but you’re not handling a big show exposé. At least not on air. You can help with background. Do some investigating since you seem to have an inside line.”

  “Behind the scenes crap?” It’s better than nothing. I like the old investigative reporting kind of gig, but if I were satisfied with that, I’d be working at a paper. The only way to get ahead in the broadcast business is to be the one on air. Not someone’s backstage assistant getting her feet dirty in the muck.

  On the other hand, I really do enjoy the dirt and the muck. Especially when it includes digging deep into the likes of Fontanna. Shit, I’m pathetic. But I want both, I want everything. I know I’m impatient as sin, like I have a devil on my shoulder telling me to hurry up all the time, go for broke, because it really is a race. Especially this race, the one to make my career worthy of being the daughter of the legendary Oscar Smith, the Mouth. Worthy of paying tribute to my hero.

  Before I make myself cry I stop pacing, not even realizing I’m walking a tight circle in the cramped office.

  “Settle down, Chloe. You’ll get your chance. Besides, I know you like getting into the weeds with a good investigation. Have that on good authority and it’s the one thing we’ve been weak at in the station. Part of the reason I brought you in over more experienced on-air talent.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  He laughs and pats my arm. It feels fatherly, but I’m not in the mood. There’s a reason the station’s short on investigative talent. Because no one wants to do it, and if they do, they sure as shit don’t want to share their scoop with someone else, let alone give it away. And that’s what he’s asking me to do.

  “Call Fontanna for the interview. Schedule it for the next available time slot—probably next week—and play nice. Strictly softball. That’s the condition before I make the call to Marini. Are you in?”

  “I promise I’ll interview him about his puppy and his favorite bubblegum, just get him to come in.” I could soften Fontanna up for the kill. Or harden him up for something else, my girly parts are whining.

  “You swear on your mother’s grave you’ll go easy?” he asks, knowing I can’t worm out of this one because it’s my mother. He doesn’t bother with my father’s grave because it’s in hell and swearing to do anything and everything was his stock in trade—whether he meant it or not. He would do anything for the job—including break promises. Occasionally even promises to me. But my mother’s grave—that was a whole other matter and we both knew it.

  “Yes fine.” Rushing my words because I hate conceding anything, he gives me a pat on the back and walks me out the door to my desk. I sit at my computer. Leaning over my shoulder, he looks at the clip that pops up on the screen.

  “You’re not going to babysit me now, are you?” I look up at him. “Because I swear I don’t need a suicide watch. I’m fine. I’ll win the war.”

  He squints and says, “This for tonight?”

  “Could be.” It’s not much from the day’s practice, clips of each and every one of the players I managed to corral saying the exact same thing in response to one question. How are you feeling? I was planning to entitle the spot “The Militia—or the Yes Men?”

  It’s almost comical and all too obvious that they’re coached what to say in response to anything injury or condition related. It’s almost silly as it stands, but it’ll be the perfect backdrop for my exposé—rather the station’s exposé. It sets up the audience to distrust whatever we hear from the team later.

  “No one’s live for an hour yet. Why don’t you go home? Or better yet, go out. Aren’t there any nice young gentlemen who would fall all over themselves to show you around?”

  There’s no way I’m telling him anything about my personal life, thinking about my pseudo date last night. I give him a shrug in response. He doesn’t back off, still looking at me expectantly as if he has some stake in my love life. That protective fatherly streak that I’m trying not to resent especially since it falls so far sort of the real thing.

  Maybe I should give him something to placate him, tell him I had a date with Sean Patrick. It was only a half-lie. It started out as a date with him. Then again, I don’t want to risk Henry giving me a lecture about getting myself in trouble. It would be useless because I love trouble and tight spots, love working at the edge of a cliff.

  “I have planning to do,” I say, for once taking the less bold route. “You make the call to the coach tonight and I’ll have Fontanna in the studio sitting in a make-up chair by next Friday.”

  “We don’t make those guys up—”

  “Don’t you dare tell him that.” I smile an evil smile and he laughs, pats my back once again and walks off, shaking his head. Henry’s starting to grow on me—if I put aside the fact that he just sabotaged my big exposé, giving it away to someone else in the name of dues-paying. In spite of that, I know his caring is genuine, know he’s doing his job. All in all, I like him for an uncle-type and figure I’ll start calling him Uncle Henry tomorrow so he knows his lane. Not a father replacement.

  The pleasant warmth about Uncle Henry is chased down by a shiver of fear, a shadow, until I shake it off. There’s no way
I can avoid relationships, even close ones, and live my life, no matter how great the danger and pain of loss may be. More words of wisdom from Dad. After I asked him how he could stand it without Mom. How he could go on and know he could lose any one of us, the people he showered with his own gruff brand of affection and unmistakable love and caring.

  Fuck. I swipe at my cheek. It’s hard to control the memories and the tears that inevitably follow when they pop up randomly like this. I don’t mind looking like a girl and taking advantage of my girlie good looks, but I absolutely hate crying like a girl more than anything in the world.

  With my head down, close to my screen, I take a surreptitious look around the room. It’s almost empty now, most of the filming done for the day. People are home for dinner. A new shift starts later for the end of the day, closing out the live games and wrap-ups.

  Confident I’m past my emotional hiccup, I straighten. My dad raised me to be tough as nails and that’s what I am. Damn it. Pushing my hair back with both hands, I take a deep breath and turn my mind to the task at hand.

  To Tate honey-buns Fontanna. He is one sweet piece of meat. Scrolling through my shots of him, I ignore the alarm bells ringing hollow in my chest. This is all in fun. He’s the enemy through and through and I’m not about to forget that when I talk to him or meet with him. But at night, alone in my bed, anything goes. I’ll fantasize about him later tonight. Maybe he’ll fantasize about me.

  Whoa there—where did that come from? Who cares if he fantasizes about me? If he has my photo hanging on a wall, it’s most definitely to throw darts at. And I wouldn’t have it any other way—except in my fantasies of course. Not in real life. Not even when we flirted. It was all for the cause. The edge of enmity never left us, I’m certain.