Playing for Keeps: An Enemies to Lovers Sports Romance

by Stephanie Queen

  “Stay, Tate.”

  I don’t know how I have it in me to say no, to stand up and walk out her door, to leave her raw and needy. Those violet eyes of hers pleading and hurting. I do what I don’t want to do, what I didn’t realize I’d be doing—hurting her, hitting her while that soft underbelly of hers is vulnerable and open. Fuck, fuck, fuck. I’m the worse kind of SOB.

  But standing in her doorway, looking at her, unmoving as she gathers her wits, my survival instincts are too ingrained when it comes to media and protecting myself, my team, and my family from the enemy. So I go. Feeling like a piece of shit as I see her close her eyes, head back on the couch, shedding a tear, before I pull the door shut behind me.

  Fucking damn shit. Am I really this much of a bastard? But I don’t stop as I walk down the stairs and out to my car. I am a full-fledged fucking bastard. But I’m whole. No piece of me bitten off by any reporters today.

  Human beings. Reporters are human beings.

  That’s what my dad, of all people, tells me when he’s in a philosophical mood, away from my mother. Chloe is flesh and blood and I know it, know exactly how vulnerable she is and that’s what makes me question everything: my truths, my fears, and my judgment.

  That’s what drives me to the edge of exploding.

  Chapter 13

  Chloe

  The door clicks closed behind him and I take a deep shuddering breath. How could I be so shockingly stupid? So easy? So trusting? I had to be out of my mind. Or maybe it’s the loneliness that’s getting to me. Shoving that notion aside because I want no part of a pity party, I let anger, raw and hungry, supplant any sad self-pitying feelings I have that might dare to leak out. Bad enough I let him see me cry. Technically I wasn’t crying—it was only a tear or two, wasn’t it?

  Damn. Fucking damn. I throw a pillow from the couch and it lands on my messy bed. I then pace around my apartment, giving full vent to the anger. Enemies? Maybe we are enemies after all, but not because I want it to be that way. It’s his choice.

  So what if he had that horrendous experience a few years ago? It’s time he gets over it. But if he wants to hold it against me and all media for the rest of his life, well then . . .

  Well? I don’t know. I throw myself onto my bed again and close my eyes. I want to rid him from my head, but his scent is fresh on the bedclothes, and I can still feel him touching me, holding me, saying all those fucking wonderful things to me.

  What else am I supposed to do but give into the glorious replay filling my mind and my senses, touching myself with anger fueling the lust and winning the war over sadness?

  With only a slight headache plaguing me because I’m ignoring any other kind of pangs in other affected body parts, including my heart, I get to the studio early to work. Alone at this hour, I’m glad because this research is solitary work. Reviewing old clips, finding photos, and tracking down sources can be tedious, but not this time. With Tate Fontanna as the subject, I’m voracious for any small or mundane fact or photo.

  It’s all fair game and once I compile the exhaustive summary of his football life, I will distill it into a story, a human-interest exposé, a cautionary tale of a hero with clay feet. A man who drives me crazy enough to let down my guard and let him see all the sadness that haunts me. Something that can’t come to any good.

  Something I could kick myself today for doing. You wouldn’t be kicking yourself if he’d stayed the night, if he hadn’t walked away.

  Fuck. I push the hair off my forehead and pay closer attention to the screen in front of me. Hours later, the clips from the cemetery play slow and I capture the most heartrending, most gut-punching seconds. Putting it together with his past and present will weave a visual backdrop for the voice-over story. That’s what I need to work on. I showed Henry the outline last week and now he’s drooling for it. He’s already bugged me for it a half dozen times, true to his form of the past five days. He wants the story finished, the whole enchilada, and he wants it yesterday.

  He loves the cemetery clip, knew about it when it happened, but it had less teeth then when it was about a prospect and not a legit star player. It’s been all over the airwaves for four years, so I tell myself there’s no sense trying to hold it back now—the horse and the barn door story applies.

  There’s no sense holding any of it back. But that’s not what my conscience is telling me, so I stop listening, clamping down.

  My conscience surprises me with a shout back loud and clear. There was no sense in my ever dreaming up the story in the first place. A human-interest exposé? What the hell had I been thinking? Human interest means human being.

  But Tate is a man who lives his life in the spotlight, a big boy who gets the score, who knows how to be tough. He won’t be hurt by this. Although he may feel betrayed by me.

  And whatever we have between us will be destroyed. Am I supposed to let my girlie notions of romance get in the way of my lifelong career dreams? WTF, Smitty?

  What the fuck am I worried about? Tate made it clear last night he still thinks of me as the enemy, so what could there possibly be between us? Besides inexplicable lust. Nothing else, and nothing worth worrying about destroying.

  Pushing through my pain point, ignoring whatever passes for my conscience, I put together the clips with the narrative for the first ten minutes of the show. Ignoring Henry and Sarina and everyone else when they come to work, I shut myself in the archive room most of the day.

  And now it’s two fucking o’clock in the morning but I know I won’t be able to sleep anyway. I finally stand, finished for the night, and look for the sense of satisfaction.

  It’s a good product so far, thoughtful, gripping, tells a compelling story and makes a statement. The statement you hear may vary, depending on who you are. If you’re Henry, the statement is great ratings for a story with just the right amount of sensation mixed with empathy. If you’re Tate Fontanna, I cringe at what the statement is to him.

  Most likely that statement is that Chloe Smith is a fucking backstabber. To him, the story will be all about betrayal. And I have no argument for him, no defense. I feel like fucking shit.

  Before I turn off the computer, I download the draft file including the outline and all the clips and put it in a zip file, then I hide it in a locked file in the archives. The story needs to sit. I need to let it simmer, get some separation before I finalize it.

  Henry and Sarina will have to wait.

  But facing Tate can’t wait. Tomorrow is the season opening football game and I’ll be there. I’ll have to face him then.

  It feels good to be back in the locker room after a game, a real game. It had been exhilarating to watch the Militia win. And, if I’m honest, a real kick to see Fontanna play so well. I still can’t believe he jumped over that line of players two and three deep like a hurdler and blocked that punt at the end of the half. It was the key play of the game because the Militia got the ball back on the eight-yard line and scored with two seconds to go to put them up by four at the half.

  Now that meant he was in demand in the locker room and the coaches were pushing back at the media asking them to wait and hold their questions for the postgame press conference. But I don’t let that stop me even as the others retreat and I sneak in an end-run, letting Foley unwittingly block for me.

  Getting past the gatekeepers is easy, but I know I only have a few seconds before they catch up with me, so I rush to where I know his locker is, keeping my head down, avoiding eye contact and not stopping. A few heads turn, but no one calls me out, so I make it to Fontanna where he’s sitting half naked. I stop short, meeting his surprised eyes.

  The surprise quickly turns to cynical resolve as if he’s resigned to my antagonism and game to up me one.

  “How’s your shoulder?” I ask, my hands up showing I have no mic and no camera. Nothing except my good memory.

  “It’s fine.” He adds, “I won’t bother asking how you got in here.” If I didn’t know better, I’d swear there was a ting
e of admiration in his less than enthusiastic voice, and the absence of anger. But I know that won’t hold as soon as I ask my next question.

  “How’s your back?”

  He stares me down for a few beats because the subject is off-limits.

  “Fine. How’s yours?”

  “Seriously,” I say, letting real caring encroach, but not enough for me to say off the record.

  “Seriously? You mean off the record?”

  I don’t say anything. He takes my silence to mean what it does.

  “That’s what I thought. There is no such thing as off the record with you, is there?”

  “Let’s go get some Italian. At Louie’s.”

  He looks at me like I’m crazy, like I’m a delicious temptation until I can practically feel him licking my pussy and I realize I want him, want to finish what we started. Bad.

  “Promise I won’t bite—unless you want me to.” I give him my sultry look, reserved for special rare occasions, rare enough that I don’t remember the last time I used it before I met him.

  “You leaving your reporter pants at the station?”

  “I’ll leave all my pants behind if you want.” In case I haven’t made my position on how much I’m hot for him perfectly clear.

  “What the hell are you doing in here?” A security guard comes through and I stand up from the small bench I’d been sharing with Tate. I realize there are men in various states of undress around me, some eyeing me, some nodding hello, and when Sean Patrick sees me he lets out a whistle and comes over.

  Tate waves off the security guard, saying it’s okay, shocking me to the core, giving my swooning lady parts hope. Whatever enmity he feels, whatever threat I pose, he seems certain he can handle it. Seems certain that he’s willing to risk it for the sake of sex.

  The question is, what am I willing to risk? And is it really all about the sex?

  “How the hell are you, Smitty?” Sean says. “What do you think of our boy Tate playing like a maniac, turning around the game for us today?” He slaps my back and Tate stands, close, towering over us both. Without saying a word, Sean steps back from me and I feel like I’m in the middle of some macho jungle chest-beating, staking-of-claims play. And it sends all kinds of tingling sensations through me, floating my gut like it’s turned effervescent.

  “She’s coming to Louie’s with us,” he says, his voice low for our ears only. He turns to me. “No camera, no reporter friends.”

  I salute him. He rolls his eyes, then takes my elbow and escorts me to the nearest exit. I almost think he’s going to lean in and kiss me and I hold my breath. But that would be insane considering we’re in his fucking locker room and I’m part of the working press. He opens the door and shoves me out saying, “Later.”

  It’s just as well because I need to find Maguire and get to the press conference.

  In the hall outside the press room, I pace around after it’s over, but I don’t see Fontanna. Maguire’s gone and sent in the clips though they’re all monotone except for a few choice jokes from Gabe Wyatt talking about Fontanna. Every single reporter there asks every player and coach that takes the podium what they think of Fontanna’s spectacular play, and they all of course agree that it’s stupid crazy good and of course they expect nothing less of him.

  Foley stops me mid-pace. “What’s with you?”

  “Waiting.” I shouldn’t even say that much, but what the hell. Foley already knows the score—or as much as anyone knows.

  “Let me guess, for Fontanna?”

  I resume pacing without an answer.

  “Me and a couple of others are going over to Louie’s tonight. Maybe I’ll see you there,” he says. I stop, hiding the panic rising in me. Fuck. Tate’ll kill me if he thinks I’ve invited them.

  “Don’t go on my account,” I say without expanding. Foley shrugs, playing my too-cool game. What I really want to do is beg him to go somewhere else, but I’m fifty-fifty on whether that would backfire. Fontanna’s right not to trust the media. Not with things you want kept quiet, anyway.

  And Fontanna and me isn’t something I want blasted all around. I know his friends aren’t going to spread it around, but I’m not so sure about Foley, et al., since it’s their business to spread news around. My only angle is that it’s far from news. Too bad in this social media age, gossip is news and anything goes in tweets and Instagram posts. I don’t even want to think about YouTube.

  “I thought you wanted to hang out with us reporters? Now we’re not good enough for you?” I know he’s teasing, but maybe not completely. He may be looking to make me part of a story. Am I getting as paranoid as Fontanna now or what?

  “Don’t you ever take time off the record, Foley?” It’s as good as an accusation, assuming he’s grilling me to write about it or use it in a story.

  “Get over yourself, Smitty.” He puts his hands up. “This isn’t an interview. You’re safe with me.” I nod, letting him off the hook as he walks away. I owe him an apology and if I see him, I’ll buy him a drink. I need friends in this business. I need friends, period. So far I have Maguire, Henry—sort of, Cat, Max, and Sean. Maybe Gabe. Foley if he’s still talking to me.

  Fontanna I can’t count as a friend. Lover is a whole different category than friend and too close to being on the enemy side. Fontanna and I are definitely riding that edge. All the fucking time. Maybe that scary exciting edge is what has me hooked.

  Speaking of the devil, my phone beeps and I check it. Fontanna sent me an email telling me to meet him “there.” As if someone’s going to hack into his text messages to find out where we’ll be.

  I shove my phone into my bag and dash for the door, my heels clacking on the industrial tile of the hallway as I head for my car.

  The parking spot I find is a block and a half away and, when I arrive, my suspicion is confirmed. Louie’s is hopping, crowded with diners and a full bar. Glancing upstairs, I see that the balcony lounge is full too. After a few seconds of standing back to observe, sight unseen, I find what I was afraid of. Foley’s sitting at the end of the bar with a couple of other guys and a woman who I recognize. Guess I can count myself lucky Sarina’s not here.

  Louie approaches, playing host for the night, and welcomes me. Putting a hand behind my back, he says, “We’re expecting you. Come right this way.” And he escorts me past the bar, through the packed main dining room, and around the corner to a private room. I manage to keep Foley from noticing me in the crowd. Fucking crazy shit.

  “They’re waiting for you,” he says and leaves me on the threshold of a room with an enormous table filled with Fontanna’s friends—and a few of mine, including Cat, Hunter, Gabe, Mia, Sean Patrick who appears to be dateless, and Max Devon who appears to be with a woman about my age. Way to go, Max.

  Tate stands amid the chorus of hellos and welcomes and comes over to me, dragging me inside as if I’m reluctant, but I’m not. I may be overwhelmed, like I’ve just been admitted to an exclusive club after a long arduous initiation test. But the feeling is a good one. Better than good as I feel my grin stretching to ridiculous proportions and a bout of giddiness coming on. He pulls out a chair next to his and sits me down. He whispers, “Took you long enough, Smitty.”

  Max, sitting across from me, lifts his glass in greeting. “Good to see you, Chloe. I’ve been enjoying your spots on NESH. When are they going to give you your own show?”

  “He’s a glutton for punishment,” Tate says. “No one else in their right mind watches that trash.” He turns to me, a teasing challenge in his eyes, and I laugh. Then I smack his shoulder.

  He feigns injury and I really laugh.

  “What is your deal, Fontanna?” I whisper. “Are we enemies or not?” The table around us is loud and it reminds me a lot of the dinner party except Cat is much more relaxed and she waves at me from her end of the table. I wave back, waiting for Tate to answer me. He’s taking a swig of ice water as if that’ll give him courage or wisdom or whatever it is he needs to answer me.


  “Is there such thing as enemies with benefits?” he finally says, still under his breath, very close to my ear, tantalizing me with his hot breath and his words.

  “Maybe we’re living proof of the myth,” I say, feeling a need for a drink, something much stronger than ice water.

  We finish dinner without much in the way of PDAs aside from his arm around me and a close whisper here and there. Theoretically no one knows he has his hand on my thigh half the meal and I have my hand on his the other half. At one point, I try moving it up to his crotch to test his manhood, but he clamps down severely enough that I gasp. Lucky for us, Max is the only one who notices, based on the smirk he gives me. I want to tell him it’s not what he thinks, but what would be the point? It’s not like we haven’t fooled around. Not like we’re not going straight back to his place or mine to fool around tonight.

  Because we’re eating an Italian meal, I settle for sipping red wine instead of whiskey and it warms me, making me horny as hell. Though honestly, it could be the scent of Tate, his hard muscle under my hand, his heat and his very masculine presence or his playful sense of humor among his friends that’s turning me on. He’s relaxed—or most of him is—but I can sense the underlying sensual tension. Hell, maybe the whole table can sense the sparks between us. Or maybe not.

  Most of the other couples have their own sparks flying. Dessert is served and I never ordered a thing. Plates have been magically appearing in front of me all evening. I whisper to Tate, “Who’s running this dinner?”

  “Gabe. He runs after-game dinners as often as he can, inviting as many of us as he can every time.”

  “He foots the bill?”

  Tate looks at me. “Does it matter?”

  He’s shutting down my reporterly curiosity and I shake my head and make a zip my lips motion with my hands. It’s so strange being a good little girl, playing by the rules. Guess I’ll do anything for a night of those promised benefits from Tate Fontanna.