He stands. “What the hell are you doing here, Smitty? You know you’re not—”
“I have an appointment with Cat Marini and thought I’d stop in.” No way I’m giving him a chance to accuse me of interloping even if—technically—I am.
He snorts and comes around the table and the noise starts up again, including a few whistles and ribald calls aimed at me. Tate reaches me in no time because he’s fast, as advertised, and grabs me by the arm.
“You’re in the wrong place. You can’t be here.”
“Don’t sweat it, Fontanna. I only wanted to say hello. Check in on my favorite player.” I glance in Sean Patrick’s direction and give him a wink. His grin is wide and he gets out of his seat in spite of a withering stare from Tate.
Under his breath, as he walks me back a few steps, Tate says, “What the hell are you up to? You trying to get into trouble? You could have your media privileges revoked.”
“You almost have me convinced that you care.” I let him walk me back toward the door. “But no, I’m trying to get you into trouble, not me.” I smile. Watching his jaw muscle tic up close and personal is an unexpected turn-on. I see the coach coming up behind him and pull myself from Tate’s grip because, contrary to my natural antagonistic instincts, I don’t want to get him into trouble. Not really.
“Actually, I wanted to confirm that we have an interview set at the studio for Saturday, Fontanna,” I say. He scowls and turns as the coach approaches. Marini walks toward us, leaving a subdued murmur in his wake like the principal walking through the school cafeteria. He nods at me, not smiling, but not showing anger either.
“That’s right—you two have an interview coming up. Ms. Smith, your presence here is unexpected.”
“I’m here to meet Cat for lunch.”
He nods and whips his phone from his pocket and places a call, summoning his daughter to meet me.
“Cat will be down in a minute,” Marini says, looking between me and Tate. I can feel Tate’s anger simmering below the surface, or at least I think it’s anger, based on his scowl.
“You can wait for her—outside in the hall,” Coach Marini says, and I nod.
“If you insist.” I look around and give a wave at the mass of staring faces, some annoyed, some surprised, some appreciative, including and especially Sean Patrick, who offers to show me the way.
“Patrick,” the coach says. Sean sits back down in his chair with a wink, mouthing the word later. I can’t help my smile because the man is truly amusing in a stereotypically macho, overcompensating-for-being-the-kicker kind of way. But even my amusement with Sean’s antics isn’t enough to cool the simmering in my gut or the crackling in the air between me and Fontanna. He’s staring, mostly in disbelief mingled with anger, and something else that could be appreciation. I’m dressed to irritate his appreciative streak.
“See you later, boys.” I turn and walk out, the satisfying click of my heels making the statement eat your hearts out in a subtle enough way that it doesn’t compromise my professional integrity. I need to be who I am. Tough shit if someone can’t handle it. Someone named Tate Fontanna.
Cat greets me with a hug and no questions about what the hell I’m doing at the team dining area. Probably because she knows exactly what I’m doing and gets it, obviating Tate’s paranoia and almost irrational dislike for media—because I know it’s not just about me. I don’t suffer from paranoia. Shit, I should have done my research last night. Something is up with Fontanna, something’s causing his more than the usual disdain for media, and I need to find out what it is. I doubt he’ll tell me straight up if I ask.
“You look fabulous,” Cat says with a wink after she lets me out of the hug. It’s genuine and I didn’t realize how much I needed it until she steps away. I squeeze her arm before I let go.
“So do you. In fact you look blissfully happy. I’ll attribute that to the enigmatic hunk of a husband you have in Mr. Ooh la la Hunter Quintanna.”
She laughs, a sweet pink shadowing her cheeks and a silly grin confirming my assumption. We take off through some long anonymous corridors along the ground floor to an obscure exit seemingly on the other side of the world—or at least on the other side of the building. Stepping outside to the streets of East Boston, we go through a gate and cross the street heading to a hole-in-the-wall pizza joint. It’s the kind of place I live for and I’m quickly falling for Cat as my new BFF.
“This is my go-to lunch place—whenever I have a chance or when I have company. Luckily that doesn’t happen often enough for me to turn into a fat lady—not yet any way,” Cat says.
As if. She’s a stick, in a petite feminine way that’s not scrawny, and I feel like an Amazon next to her. But I’m very fit and shapely and I don’t have a problem with eating all the food I want, especially at places like this.
Inside we sit in a brightly lit booth with a Formica-topped table and plastic leatherette padded benches with cracks that would run my stockings if I were wearing any. But I’m not, because who wears stockings anymore—except in the bedroom when playing show and tell? I’m definitely starved for a man’s attention and way past the point of giving a shit about pride or embarrassment about asking for Cat to fix me up—not that I get embarrassed about much. I can’t even remember the last time I was embarrassed. My Dad being Oscar the Mouth cured me of that early on in life.
Cat sits across from me and, with that shit-eating grin of marital bliss aimed at me, says, “You have no idea how happy I am that you asked me to fix you up. I love playing matchmaker and haven’t had a chance to do it since college. Hunter isn’t a fan of fix-ups, but since you asked for it, he can’t argue. So let’s jump in—what are you looking for in a man?”
“What? No small talk?” I laugh. Cat’s a girl on a mission and she blushes again.
“I’m sorry—you’re right. I should at least tell you how sorry I am about your father’s recent passing. Dad says he was a character and a half and a decent human being. I bet you miss him.”
“Don’t make me cry. Let’s go back to my requirements in a man.” She reaches out a hand and touches my arm with a sincere, kind look, not sympathy, but more like empathy and warmth. Whether she knows it or not, we will be fast friends from now on.
“It goes without saying, but I’ll say it, I want a hunk, but I don’t want complications—”
“I understand completely,” she says. I figure we’re on the same wave length and she knows I don’t want a player—a football player that is—and I hope she knows some hunky non-football players, but then again, I bet she knows everyone of consequence in this town.
“I don’t mean to sound superficial.” I pause. “Okay, I confess, I don’t care if I sound superficial because I want a guy who can turn me on, someone I have chemistry with, someone not boring, a sharp guy. A man with strong opinions. Strong character too. A guy who doesn’t back down, who’s relentless about what he does no matter what. Someone who maybe had to overcome obstacles or struggles in his life, who knows what it’s like to lose something or someone special and survive and thrive.” I stop, wondering if I’ve described my perfect man or the male version of myself. I shrug. It is what it is.
“Wow. Tall order.” She gets a gleam in her eyes. “But I think I can fulfill it. Give me a little time to work on it.”
“Sure.” I’ve waited this long.
The waiter delivers a giant pepperoni pizza and a pitcher of red wine and I know we never ordered. I laugh.
“Grazi,” I say, exhausting my Italian, and the kid smiles and spouts off a whole paragraph of incomprehensible Italian as I nod and laugh. Cat shoos him away as if she knows him.
“The little lech,” she says to me after he disappears behind his counter. I laugh.
We demolish the pizza as if we’re two guys, except we leave a couple of slices that get boxed up and I insist she take them for Hunter. The wine we finish down to the last drop, and I plan on stopping for coffee on my way back to the office as a doze-preventing me
asure.
When we’re ready to leave after she’s insisted on paying the bill and I insist on leaving an extravagant tip—cementing the young man’s adoration forever—Cat says, “I’ll set up a dinner party in a few weeks—still during preseason—that way there’ll be less pressure with other people around the first time you meet your blind date. Then you can arrange to see him again, just the two of you if you hit it off. Or not.”
“Sounds painless. Possibly fun.”
“Definitely fun,” she says and I wonder if I’ve gotten myself into something difficult.
Of course I have. I always do. The grin pops onto my face of its own accord and I give Cat a big hug before I leave.
I love getting myself in and out of spots. It’s what makes life interesting.
It doesn’t occur to me until I’m in my car halfway back to the office that Fontanna, from what I know of him, has the characteristics I described to Cat. But I’m not sure how that’s possible. He’s the opposite of me, isn’t he? He’s conventional and I’m unconventional. But deep down I know there’s more to him, more similarities to me. We’re both competitive, like challenges. That comes with the territory for any pro athlete. But it’s more. I can sense his disdain for the easy and simple. Of course we’re both hard working or else we wouldn’t have gotten to where we are respectively. And I know, with certainty, that he’s a decent, loyal person. Like me. Fuck.
Gunning the gas pedal out of a stoplight on Tremont Street isn’t smart, but I’m angry. At who, I’m not sure. Or maybe it’s a cover for the small droplets of fear spreading in my gut. Taking a deep breath, I ease my grip on the steering wheel. It doesn’t matter if I might have possibly described Fontanna, because I still don’t know him well enough to be absolutely sure about my assumptions—and I am absolutely sure that he’s a paranoid antagonistic bastard. That’s mostly based on my very first impression of him and the Miss No-Name Reporter crack. Besides, it doesn’t matter, because Cat doesn’t know my hang-up over Fontanna and we agreed she wouldn’t fix me up with a player.
I force the calm through me, and as a result I’m left with an unsettled feeling, like there’s unfinished business, something just out of reach, that I can’t reconcile. Like a disturbing dream that you can’t for the life of you remember in the morning, but it still haunts you all day long.
That’s how I feel about Fontanna. That’s why I’m hoping and counting on Cat to find me someone to rid me of that feeling.
In the meantime, I’m going to dig into some heavy-duty research on him before I return to the stadium for the coach’s post-practice Q&A session.
Chapter 6
Tate
“What the fuck was that all about?” Sean says when I return to the table. I don’t bother sitting down again because I’m done with eating. My gut is too riled up and I’m angry that I let that woman—Chloe fucking Smith—get to me.
“She set up a studio interview with me at NESH. Saturday. Mandatory, according to Coach.”
Sean shrugs. “No big deal. What’s the scowl for? You’ve done a million interviews by now.” He’s right and I don’t even know what to say to him, how to explain that I feel like she’s out to get me, to somehow exposé me, except I haven’t done anything worthy of being exposed.
“I’m not worried. I’m fucking annoyed.” I look around to see Hunter and Gabe heading our way as we make for the exit. None of us will be getting any playing time this week, so our practice will be light, more like a tutorial for some of the rookies and walk-ons, many of whom will no longer be on the team in three weeks.
Hunter says, “What’s up with that reporter chick?”
“I don’t know. She’s crazy.” I swipe my hand through my hair. “Let’s get out of here.” What I really mean is that I don’t want to talk about it.
We walk through the exit into the tunnel to the stadium and Gabe says. “You ever notice how many hot babes they have in sports broadcasting these days?” He’s talking to no one in particular, but Sean picks up on it, of course.
“Every last one of them is hot, but I’d really love to hook up with Chloe Smith.”
“No hooking up with sports reporters,” I say, sounding like a schoolmaster or someone’s matron aunt.
They all laugh at me. “Don’t worry,” Hunter says. “She’s not interested in Sean. She has her eye on you, Fontanna.” Even Sean nods in agreement.
“Too bad for her,” I say. No sense in disagreeing with them since it’s as plain as day, except I know her interest isn’t in hooking up. We reach the field and join our respective units. I’m with the linebackers and I join them, quickly getting my head into football. It’s easy because I love it. The game makes all the bullshit worthwhile.
Later that afternoon, practice starts to break up and I head for the sidelines for a drink, taking my helmet off because we’re finally done for the day. My back is happy not to do one more search and destroy drill, let alone a run and rush drill. I can’t afford to look like an old lady out here. Working hard at practice is important to Coach and therefore important to contract negotiations. Hunter and Gabe join me at the Gatorade bucket and we all drink, sweat pouring from our faces.
The water boys and girls come over and I let them squirt water at me, ducking to let the stream hit my head instead of my mouth. Sean Patrick trots off the field, helmet in hand, and even he looks drenched and dirty. He grunts and takes the bottle of water from one of the girls with a friendly smile. An innocent smile for him. The girl darts off anyway.
Shaking my head I slap him on the back. “Even the water girl knows your reputation.”
“What the fuck are you talking about, Fontanna. You’re no better.”
Gabe laughs and I don’t bother arguing because they’re right. Lately I’ve had nothing but a string of single dates. Not the same as one-night stands, but it feels close enough when I can’t remember the women’s names a week later, when it’s onto the next one.
“The difference between me and you is that I’m trying to find someone. You’re happy to never repeat a night with the same girl. I want to find someone special enough to spend more time with.”
“It’s tough. Especially when you’re looking for it,” Hunter says. I’m about to agree when Cat, Hunter’s new bride and the team’s PR assistant director comes over. She’s wearing a blissful smile and a lady-like sundress, looking like the life really is a bowl of cherries.
“Hi guys. Practice over or you going back out there for more punishment?”
“Not tonight, Hunter says, attempting to take her in a hug. But she squirms away, laughing.
“No touching until you’ve showered, honey. You’re not that irresistible.” She looks around at us watching the exchange and I know I look amused and maybe wistful. Because I am.
“You all suddenly got quiet—don’t let me interrupt. What’s so tough when you’re looking for it?” Damn.
“You caught that, did you?” Hunter says. “We were just talking about women and Tate’s love life.”
“Or lack thereof,” Sean puts in.
“It’s true, I say. Can’t seem to find someone I click with. Haven’t had a second date in months.”
“Since you dated my fiancée,” Gabe says, his devilish grin belying his very real territorial jealousy.
“You’re the one who fixed me up with Mia—“
“Let’s not argue about that debacle again,” Cat says. “Clearly Gabe is a total fail at matchmaking.”
We all laugh at this and I don’t pretend to myself that I’m not envious of Gabe, but it’s because of what he’s found with Mia, not of Mia herself. She’s everything I’m looking for, except not quite. Not that explosive spark I need. An inappropriate image of Chloe pops to mind before I dismiss it with a derisive admonishment. Note to self—don’t waste a thought on the likes of Chloe Smith who, even if she were not a reporter, would most definitely not be my type. She’s too wild and bold and if she weren’t a reporter, she’d be something else totally unconv
entional—maybe a circus performer or something and then I make the mistake of picturing her—
“On the other hand,” Cat says, poking a finger in my chest to get my attention. “I am the best at matchmaking. Used to do it all the time in college and I have a fabulous record of success.”
“Is that right? What’s your winning percentage?”
“It doesn’t exactly work like that—“
“Of course not,” Hunter says, laughing. “How does it work?” He’s teasing her but I can tell she’s serious and I’m betting on her in any conflict between the two of them. Hunter is notoriously pussy whipped, though no one would dream of saying this to his face because he’s also notoriously tough and would think nothing of whipping each and every one of our asses. I’d be the only one in this group who’d have a shot at putting up a fight, but it would be touch and go. He comes from a far tougher place than I do. It’s what drives him.
Me? I have the guilt demon driving me, on top of my sheer love of the game. Gabe? He’s all about being in love with the game. I don’t even know how Mia puts up with him, but she does. As for Sean Patrick, he’s still young and excited and has something to prove for reasons I don’t know about. Maybe he doesn’t either. But the important thing is that he’s highly motivated. We all are.
Cat eyes him and when Gabe and Sean stop snickering, she says very reasonably, “Almost every one of my customers was extremely satisfied. Eventually.”
“To this day? Did they all get married and live happily ever after?” I’m joking, but I’m curious too because she seems to be truly proud of herself.
“Not exactly. Too soon to tell for most of them, but one of the couples got married and another couple is living together.”
“What about the couple that wasn’t satisfied?” Gabe says, teasing.
Playing for Keeps: An Enemies to Lovers Sports Romance Page 6