Still, I wish Henry would call the coach now so I can call Tate tonight and taunt him—about the interview. Not about . . . anything else.
Fuck. Him and his fucking dimples have my panties twisted a little too tight. I’ll need to do something about that. Pronto. I think for a second about going out and meeting someone new, like Henry suggested, find a guy who’s interested. Someone who doesn’t think of me as the enemy, as some warped, crass version of a southern belle. Except that’s exactly who I am.
As I shut down the computer, the idea of finding a man for myself, someone I can actually date and have a real relationship with, someone I’m not sparring or competing with, gains traction in my head. By the time I get to my car, my phone is out and I know just the person to call to make it happen.
Starting the car, I tell my dashboard Bluetooth to call Cat Marini. When I got to Boston I was surprised she reached out to me, but it turns out we were in the same sorority and she happens to be the queen of alumni relations or some such. She’s also the perfect person to fix me up with someone in this town since she’s lived here all her life and knows everyone there is to know.
The dashboard rings three times before she picks up and I remember she’s a newlywed. Glancing at the clock, I figure she ought to be finishing with dinner if she has a normal household—but then who does most days in this business? Certainly not me, but I hear tell there’s such thing as a dinner hour. Finally, she answers.
“Chloe Smith, great to hear from you.” She sounds genuine so I smile and relax into the seat as I drive over the Tobin Bridge to my one-room apartment in Chelsea. It’s a dive of a little city on the north side of Boston, making a triangle between the stadium, the studio, and my home. I like it. The neighbors don’t mind if I smoke the occasional cigar on my back deck overlooking the water—a small channel running between Chelsea and Boston. Not scenic by conventional standards, but lots of character with barges being offloaded and smokestacks spewing whatever gives the city air that distinct flavor I’m coming to appreciate.
“I hope I’m not interrupting you at home,” I say.
She laughs, “Not unless you count my attempt at making dinner, but no matter. I hope you called about getting together.”
“Sort of. I was hoping you could help an out-of-town girl meet a nice gentleman without going through fifty dates to sift the golden nugget from the sludge.”
“You just made my night. I’m the perfect person to help you out. Matchmaking is one of my favorite things. Maybe we could have lunch and you can tell me all about your dream man and I’ll see if I can conjure him up for you.”
“It’s a plan. When are you free?”
“Is tomorrow too soon?” Score.
“I knew I liked you for a good reason. No sense wasting time when you have the here and now.” Another thing my dear dad used to say. “I’ll meet you at the stadium at noon.”
“Perfect. You can come up to my office—I’ll give security your name.”
“You sure you’re allowed to let the enemy behind the lines?”
She laughs again. “I’m sure there’s nothing I could tell you that would remotely resemble a team secret. Everything I know goes out on Twitter. Sometimes I envy the reporters.”
“Don’t bother. You’re safer where you are. And in pretty good hands from what I can see. Your husband is a certifiable hunk.” Hunter Quintanna, the strong silent man of immeasurable talent. I’ll need to tread carefully since he may be exposé-worthy at some point. But I’ll cross that creek when I get to it. No sense borrowing trouble. Oscar the Mouth’s saying number thirty-three.
“He is, isn’t he?” She breathes one of those dreamy, woman-in-love sighs and I feel a twitch, something that could be mistaken for a pang of longing if I were a different kind of woman—the kind who cared about home and hearth and—heaven forbid—babies. But I don’t. I would stake my reputation as a lady and a tramp that there’s not a conventional bone in my body. Unlike the uber conventional Midwest suburban place Fontanna comes from.
But what the hell did that matter? Just one more reason we mixed like gasoline and matchsticks.
“Looking forward to lunch, Cat. See you tomorrow,” I say in my most polite southern belle voice and we end the call.
It’s not that I feel like I’m putting on an act when I revert to the gracious girl. My penchant for spike heels is real enough and I love looking my sexy best. I had it pounded into me from a young age that I’d need to make the most of whatever assets I had and I knew from the age of thirteen that I had some valuable ones in the female department.
Lucky for me my dad taught me to take care of myself, take no shit, and never back down. No good old boys were going to make me feel like I had to be one of the guys to fit in—even if I did occasionally enjoy a cigar and a whiskey and wearing grungy jeans and ripped T-shirts.
Shrugging, I pull into the drive leading to the small space I call home for now. The breeze coming off the channel buffets the sheets and clothes on the lines out back as I park in front of an old and fragile-looking garage next to the triple decker where I rent the top floor—one large room with a kitchenette—which reminds me of an old-world-style turret like they have in some areas of Atlanta. As long as I don’t glance out the windows, I might think I’m there, back in the home where I lived with Dad the past few years since I’d graduated Georgia State. Where I took care of him as he diminished to nothing.
Looking up the hill to the new and stately condos named Admirals Hill, I shake my head. They aren’t worth the money, even though I do have it. The grit is good for me, Dad would have said. Besides, I have an enormous walk-in closet in my turret that fits my entire wardrobe and that’s what sold me on the top-floor apartment. Truthfully, I think the closet may be a small bedroom, but I’m happy with the Murphy bed and my office space, my small couch and big TV. It’s not like I plan to entertain. I’m not a dinner party hostess kind of girl. Though I’ll accept an invitation anywhere anytime.
I run up the stairs, in my heels, enjoying the fast clacking sound like tap dancing as I go, and let myself in the hefty door. After I throw a frozen meal into the microwave, one of those low-cal, good-for-you brands, I sit at my desk in front of my computer and get to work on prepping for my interview tomorrow.
Slipping my shoes off, I click on the file of photos. Multiple shots of Tate Fontanna’s face pop onto my screen in neat rows, all gorgeous. The smile, the dimples, the manly stubble on his chin and the magnetic intensity of his eyes, all get to me, shooting straight to the hot spot between my legs. Damn. What the fuck is it about him?
Not his looks, not even his dimples, and certainly not all those muscles—all pro athletes have those and they’re a dime a dozen in my business. Maybe it’s that he doesn’t like me. I can’t deny I find that a turn-on, bringing out my competitive streak.
And then there’s that vulnerability I sense underneath his relentless bad humor, occasional real smile, and sharp intelligence. He’s got a soft underbelly, something that makes him sad. I know this, I recognize it because it mirrors my own blanket of permanent sadness layered over and under everything else in life now that my dad, my mentor and my hero in life, is gone.
I’d bet my entire collection of Christian Louboutin shoes that Fontanna lost someone important along the way. Same as me. I feel the connection, that deep-seated sense of sadness and emptiness lingering at the edges of everything. And like me, he doesn’t let it stop him—the opposite—it drives him. But who is it? He still has his parents, his brother, so no one obvious. I have some homework to do, background research to tackle that I would have gotten to if I hadn’t just moved here from Georgia. Hadn’t just lost my dad. But I can’t let that interfere, not even when my concentration is shit every time I sit quiet in front of a computer screen.
The microwave bings and I shut down my computer. I know no matter what intriguing background I might dig up, tomorrow I have to stick to the script and all I need to know are his stats and the team’s s
tats. Done and done.
I sit in my lounge chair with my miniature dinner that I know would have made Dad cringe if he saw it, and turn on the TV to watch all the sports shows that I’ve DVR’d all day. Homework. Reconnaissance on the competition. Zeroing in, I forget about the sadness for a time and immerse myself into the world of broadcast sports reporting. One of these days, I’ll have a show of my own on a national network.
Tomorrow I’ll talk to Tate and confirm his interview. But tonight I’ll fantasize about him to my heart’s—and lady parts’—content. Pour grease on the fire. My style of cooking up life.
Chapter 5
Chloe
Before I get out of bed, before I brush my teeth or pee, I snatch the phone off the charger on my bedside shelf and, sitting up, watching the sun rise over the murky water out of the sliding glass doors across from me, I dial up Tate Fontanna. It’s only six a.m. and I smile like an evil kitten as I stretch. I have to call him early—to make sure I catch him before practice, right? Not because he’s a living dream and I can’t get him out of my head.
The phone rings on the other end twice as I sit up against my pillows. Tapping my fingernails against the back of the phone as I wait through rings three and four, I make a mental note that I need to make an appointment for a manicure. Problematic since I’m new to town and I have nowhere to go. I’ll ask Cat at lunch today.
After ring five, Tate’s voicemail comes on. I listen to his voice through the whole message because it’s as gorgeous as the rest of him. Dear God please give me an aneurism to get these lusty thoughts of him out of my head—not really. I don’t leave a message because what’s the point? He’s not going to return my call. I wouldn’t if I were him.
He hates me. I’m used to putting people off, and I’m also used to winning them over. But this guy? He has me unsure and it’s a foreign and uncomfortable place, especially since I’m already a fish out of water getting used to a new environment.
Think like a shark. This mantra didn’t come from Dad. It was something Grandma used to say—my mother’s mother, surprisingly—the original southern belle. She hid an iron core underneath a pretty layer of ruffles and refinement. I loved and lost her too.
Tossing the phone, I jump from bed and get ready for the day, inspired by Grandma and all the ghosts from my past guiding me through life now. How could I possibly feel alone when I have so many memories haunting me?
I didn’t want to chance an in-person confrontation although my girlie parts are titillated at the prospect of seeing him because now I have no choice. I have to resort to ambushing him at the stadium. It should be easy since Cat is having the guards let me in. Smiling at the traffic as I drive to the studio, I plot. The ambush will happen in the team dining room where they’ll most likely be. I’ll catch him before I go to Cat’s office—as long as the security guard doesn’t escort me.
Tate Fontanna will be very surprised, the poor devil. But I need every advantage I can get since we’ll be on his home turf with all his teammates backing him up. Or witnessing his submission. I want to purr, my panties feeling moist as I turn the corner to arrive at my building.
I sit at my computer and it’s business as usual until Sarina Wallace, NESH’s top on-air talent, aims herself straight for my desk. I want to turn around to see if Henry’s standing behind me because I don’t know what she wants with me.
Fuck, no. There is one reason she might want to see me. But Henry wouldn’t do that to me—Sarina can’t be the one he’s given my story to, the one who I’m supposed to assist by doing all the grunt work. I hide my horror even as my gut pitches around my insides like a curveball gone wild. She reaches my desk and extends her hand to shake mine. I have no choice, so I do.
“You’re Chloe Smith. I’m Sarina Wallace. Thank you so much for agreeing to assist me with the NFL player injury exposé. Henry told me you volunteered. We’re calling it Project Perspective,” she says.
Popping a smile into place through my gritted teeth, I promise myself to wait at least a day before I talk to Henry about his fucking Project Perspective. Because it should be my so-called project and if anyone was going to give it a name, it should have been me. And I would have given it a snappier name than that for damn sure.
“Nice to finally meet you,” I say. “I’ve been in and out of the studio these past few days since I got here.” Doing the work to set you up for my damn exposé. But it’s not her fault, so I unclench my jaw and sit back down in my seat. When Henry put Sarina in the middle of this, I’m sure he didn’t mention to her that the project was my idea. Taking a breath, I let go of the animosity. I could use some friends around here.
“Oh, I totally get it,” she says. “It’s tough when you’re new to town and figuring things out.” But she doesn’t follow up with any offer to show me around or introduce me to anyone. For instance, she does not introduce me to the young man she says hello to when he pauses as he’s walking by my desk.
Sarina is gorgeous and hosts a popular nightly show covering the Militia, teamed with a couple of ex-players. Dislike plumes up again, knowing she’s going to be the one zeroing in on Fontanna, but I instantly roll my eyes at myself—inside my head. Cliché jealous woman much? No way she’ll be talking to Fontanna or doing any of the grunt work on this. She’s the sit-in-the-studio talent to be spoon-fed the story, strictly a narrator. I need to get my head out of my pussy. Maybe I need some serious vibrator therapy.
More likely I need a hunky man not part of the Militia, but someone manly enough to take my mind off Tate fucking Fontanna, someone who will make me scream in a cosmic climax until I don’t even remember my own name, let alone his.
“So I hear your father was a legend? Oscar Smith?” She snaps my attention back to the moment at hand.
I nod, not liking the direction of this conversation even if I do expect it. I expect to have the same conversation with every last person at this studio. Probably why I haven’t gone out of my way to meet or engage with anyone, why I refused to allow Henry to introduce me at a meeting like he’d planned to do. Although avoiding the elephant in the room is a losing strategy and I’m behaving like a teenager in denial of her crazy parent. And I was never that girl. Ever.
“Must be hard having to live up to—”
“It’s a blessing really,” I interrupt. “I loved my father and learned a lot from him. The only hard thing is having lost him.”
“Oh—I’m sure. Sorry for your loss—I didn’t mean—”
“Did you need anything in particular right now, Sarina? Because I have some calls to make.”
She cools off now, but she has a way to go before she reaches my temperature at about a hundred and fifty below zero. Why not two hundred below? I smile at my silly mind-reference to the line I gave Tate. I’d underestimated the level of difficulty it would take to throw him off.
“Of course,” Sarina says. “I’ll email you my list before the end of the day. Once again, I appreciate your taking point on the background research.” She turns and walks off, leaving a wake of insecurity behind her swaying ass. I feel kind of sorry for her and make a note to let her off the hook. Later. I don’t want to be her enemy and even though I didn’t start the patronizing banter, I know I can put an end to it. Disarmament is my specialty.
I’ll reassure her, ease her discomfort at the legendary status which has been unjustly bestowed on me. But my generosity flags when I check my e-mails later. She’s sent me a list of tasks and detailed special requests like she’s the queen of all mother-fucker micromanagers. As I skim the list I’m surprised pick up my dry cleaning isn’t on it. Not giving my blood a chance to boil over, and with relish, I stab the delete button with the chipped nail of my index finger. List gone. Problem solved. I know how to do my job and I’ll make her look damn good in spite of herself.
After parking in the employee lot at the stadium as Cat instructed me to do, I get out and walk through the entryway to be greeted by a receptionist and two security guards. After checkin
g in, one of the guards shows me to the door and makes like he’s coming with me.
“I know my way, sweetheart. No need to take you away from your post on my account. I’m sure you have far more important things to do.” I lay on the southern accent thick with a big smile. I look harmless. He nods and glances back and forth between the television screen showing some kind of sports show and the long corridor ahead of us. I pat his arm and give him a wink to push his decision over the edge. He nods.
“You sure you know where you’re going?”
“Absolutely. Cat is an old friend of mine,” I say. This mollifies the uniformed man and he goes back through the door. Trying not to skip for joy, I move fast through the corridor in the general direction that I think leads to the players’ dining area. It’s a long way around, but a quick check of my Apple watch tells me I have about ten minutes before I’m scheduled to meet Cat. But that’s all I need to set a metaphorical bomb.
The smell floors me when I arrive at the team’s dining room. It’s a glorified cafeteria, well appointed and oversize. And currently filled with the scents of sweat-soaked men and broiled meat combining to create a scent stronger than anything I’ve ever encountered in a locker room.
Moving past the threshold, heart pounding because this is bold even for me, I head into the heart of the loud bustling room, spot Tate Fontanna three tables away, and head in his direction.. For whatever reason, I have a particular nose for him, a sense of where he’s at. The general din in the room gets quieter as I approach, as some of the men notice me, stop what they’re doing and stare. A man I don’t know sitting next to Fontanna nudges him and he looks up.
Priceless. It’s worth whatever hassle I’m going to get—because I know there’ll be hell to pay on some level somewhere for this stunt—just to see that open-mouthed look of shock on his face. Before two blinks the surprise is gone and a tick of pleasure replaces it when he sees the Judas smile on my face. Warmth shoots through me, floating my belly unnaturally.
Playing for Keeps: An Enemies to Lovers Sports Romance Page 5