Knew I’d need it someday. Someday is today. Gathering up the files and flash drives, I grab my bag and sweep the rest of the paraphernalia on the desk that’s mine into it. Taking one last look around, I breathe in the air, push my eyes past the studio set to the exit where I head now. Hitting the stairs, I concentrate on the sound of my heels clicking as I make my escape.
Fully aware Henry could claim all the information I’d gathered belonged to the station because I was on the job, and that he could sue me and make life otherwise difficult, I can’t help the shaking of my hand as I grip the stair rail at the bottom and pause. It wouldn’t take long for Henry and Sarina and whoever my replacement is to piece the story back together and run the show and I can’t stop them from doing that. But fuck if I’m going to be part of it.
I can’t let them run my story, can’t be guilty of a monumental betrayal.
This mean starting over. So what? If I have to start at the very bottom again, I will. I’ll do freelance print reporting if I have to, I’ll turn into a pathetic vlogger and scrape together an audience from the internet masses if need be. Not the station or Henry will stop me from my ultimate dream.
As I get in my car, I wonder if they have any openings at Barstool Sports and laugh out loud as I toss my file and bag on the passenger seat and slam the door. I need to call Henry before Sarina does, if she hasn’t yet. But I’m betting she’s on her way into the studio now. Pulling out of the garage, I tell my Bluetooth phone in the car’s dashboard to call Henry.
“Smitty—what the hell—”
“I resign, Henry. As of now.”
“What the fuck is this about? What are you doing? Don’t go off the deep end about some guy—some player. They come and go, but you and I, we have staying power. I can see you going places—”
“I am going places, Henry. But not with you. Not like this. I quit and I’m taking the story with me.”
He laughs. “You can’t take the files, they’re on the hard drive.”
“I erased them.” He’s silent for a few blinks, the kind of blinks where I’m squeezing the tears, trying to keep them from falling as I drive. Trying to keep my hands steady on the steering wheel, even while the rest of me keeps shaking.
“You can’t know how to do that…”
“Think again. You know me better than that. Dad prepared me for every eventuality in this business. First and foremost, how to protect the work.”
“You—"
“I gotta go Henry,’ I say, because it sounds a lot like his next sentence is going to be a threat, “before either of us says things to ruin a perfectly good niece and uncle relationship.” That quiets him. I end the call, damning hands-free technology because I don’t even have a phone in my hand to throw as I sit at a stoplight.
Without realizing it, I’m driving to East Boston. To Tate’s house. I need him. I don’t know what we have or don’t have, but I need whatever it is right now.
I need this one last untroubled night with him before I confess my sins, before I’m forced to wait for his forgiveness because I know he will. After all, I pulled the plug, didn’t I?
He has to forgive me. Because I’m falling in love with him.
When I get to his underground garage, I realize I can’t get up to his floor on the elevator without a key card, so I call him.
“I’m in your garage. I need to see you,” I say.
“I’ll be right down.” He ends the call. No questions asked. No doubt. No hesitation. I swipe at my eyes and squeeze them shut, demanding that I not shed another tear, not in his company. I want this one last night with him before I tell him. Because I know, my screaming heart knows, that this could be our last night.
The elevator door opens and I rush into his arms, knocking him against the back of the elevator. When his arms close around me, wrapping me tight and he whispers something soothing into my hair as I bury my face in his chest, the anxious part of me calms. And the rest of me gets all excited.
But he has to know something is wrong and I don’t want to tell him what it is.
He reaches a hand out and presses the button to move the elevator.
“Chloe, what is it? You act like someone’s chasing you—”
“No, nothing. I’m fine. Stress at work.” I take a breath before I say my next words, but I’ll tell him the truth tomorrow. “I miss my father.”
He strokes my hair and holds me tighter and I push past my flaring conscience to let his comfort get to me.
It’s so late and I’ve clearly gotten him from bed. Backing up, I look up at his messed hair.
“Were you asleep?”
He smirks, but the tenderness doesn’t leave his expression. “For hours. But it doesn’t matter. Because I’m wide awake now.” He’s shirtless and wearing worn out sweats and no shoes. My chest tightens and a well of strong emotion rushes through me knowing he’s charged to my rescue from a dead sleep. He pulls me back into him as the elevator doors open and he takes me back to his bed. All the pent-up energy in me, the tension, coalesces and regroups into passion and lands between my legs. I can feel my juices flowing as I lay on the sheets, still warm from his body.
Watching him slip off his sweats, I lick my lips at the glorious sight of him, all rippled muscle and hard protruding cock pointing in my direction. Kicking off my shoes, I sit up and shimmy out of my dress.
“Now this is what I call a dream come true,” he says. “You can call me in the middle of the night any time.” He comes to me and helps me out of my bra and panties, then gingerly lays next to me. There’s a gel patch on his back and I’m reminded that he’s still not over his injury.
Kneeling up, I straddle him without prompting or warning, reveling in the hot feel of his cock under my pussy and I can’t help moving back and forth rubbing myself against him.
“Jesus,” he says. “You are a sight.” Reaching up, he palms my breasts, circling his rough hands over my nipples as I rock.
“You feel so good, babe.” His voice is gruff and I can feel his muscles tense and his cock swell.
“We’re just getting started.” I lift off him and take his cock in my hand, caress the length of him, making it jump, making him squeeze my nipples, then move his hands to cup my ass. Then he slips his finger around to my pussy and strokes. He brings his fingers up to his nose and breathes in, then puts them in his mouth, sucking and licking my taste from them.
“You don’t know what a turn on you are,” I say, breathy and moving my hips to rub my clit against his balls while I still hold his cock, squeezing and playing with it, feeling the silky tip for pre-cum.
“I can tell. Your honey is flowing like a river.” He brings his hands back and holds my hips, lifting me. “Put me inside you,” he says. Caught up in that erotic look of want, the sensual quivering of his mouth as his passion rises, I do what he says. As his cock slides home to my center while he lowers me onto him, I let out a long low moan of tense satisfaction, the kind that anticipates so much more to come.
He keeps his hands on my hips and his eyes on mind as I settle against him, leaning forward to feel the pressure against my clit, to feel my breasts against his chest, my nipples against the rough hair. I move my hips up, raising on his cock, slow and easy, feeling every bit of the tight slick pressure inside me. When I’m almost at the tip, when he’s about to come out of me, he tightens his grip on my hips and plunges me down hard until our bones crash together and my ass slaps against his balls and my pussy cries out in pleasure.
“You are so amazing,” he says as we move up and down again, his voice tight, barely in control, so beautiful, inside and out.”
I cry out and I don’t know if it’s his words or his thumb finding the sensitive swollen nub and circling, caressing as I ride him. He circles his hips, his breathing rough and I feel like I’m on the sexiest bronco in the rodeo, riding, wild and spiraling to a pin point of pleasure as his cock gets so hard and big, so tight inside me, that I feel like he’s part of me.
T
he bursting release of my orgasm clenches my muscles and he groans loud.
“Chloe… I’m cumming…”
I love his words, revel in them, revel in the feel of the warm hot spasming as he pumps inside me, love the feel of the hot cum as it leaks, spilling out of me and the waves of orgasmic clenching again and again as he pulls me down on top of him, holding me close, murmuring my name, whispering into my ear tender words. Words of love.
The morning is a hot scramble because we’ve slept later than we should. The contentment of waking in his arms is abolished when he sees the time.
“Fuck. You’re dangerous, lady. I need to get out of here.”
“I have something I need to talk to you about,” I say without thinking because desperation has me panicked. I can’t let him find out from anyone else but me. I know Henry is going to air the show at some point. Sarina will put it together, put something together. Neither of them is going to let it go now.
Tate jumps from the bed, only a slight wince from the sudden movement and throws on some gym shorts and a jersey. I find my clothes from last night and dress as fast as I can while he’s in the bathroom.
He comes out and takes me in his arms, “Whatever you need to talk about will have to wait until later. He has not a flicker of worry on his face, confident that he can handle whatever it is and that gives me hope, banishes that sense of dread. Partially. Because I know betrayal is the farthest thing from his mind.
We leave the condo and ride down in the elevator. No coffee and I’m still fitting my foot into my heels.
He says, “We have a walk-through and films today—”
“I’ll see him after that.” He shakes his head
“Mom and Dad are coming in. I’m picking them up. Then Monday is game day and I’ll be tied up. How about if we have brunch on Tuesday morning? This is a big game and I need to focus.”
He sounds so reasonable and his dimples are showing. I nod because what else am I going to do? He’s out the elevator door and getting in his car and I can see him going into game mode. If I tell him now how messed up would that be? He hauls me into his hard body, kissing me and I kiss him back like there’s no tomorrow. Reluctant to let go, I finally do. His face all happy, his dimples deep, he gets in his car and I run to mine. Those dimples haunt me as I drive away, the blissful state he’s in because we’re falling for each other, is so fragile. I’m so afraid that I’m about to bring it all to a crashing end when I tell him about the story.
But I need to do it. I figure it can wait until Tuesday after brunch, after his parents leave. There’s no way Henry and Sarina can put the story together before then.
I go home because that’s the only place I have to go now that I’m jobless. Pacing around is only winding up my tension. But I can’t eat and even though I could use some sleep, there’s no way that’s happening.
There are things I need to do. I need to call Maguire and I need to call Cat. Maguire is the easy call so I take out my phone and tap in his number.
“What the hell’s going on, Smitty? The shit’s hit the proverbial fan around here today,” he says. “Henry’s called an all-hands-on-deck and gave me the third degree in a closed-door meeting.”
“I’m sorry, Duff. I should have called sooner.” But it was only nine in the morning on a Sunday. Henry is in a hurry. “Let me guess. He asked you about my research for the Perspective feature.”
“I told him I didn’t know a thing. Because I don’t. Not really. Not officially.”
“Thanks.” Even though Maguire wasn’t officially involved in my research, I’d picked his brain and run some things by him. “You’re good people.”
He grunts at that. “I’ll keep you posted about what they’re up to. As much as I can.”
We end the call with me telling him I owe him my first born and him saying that’ll never happen. The idea of me having a first born, or not having one, is disquieting. But I move onto my next call. I owe cat an apology even if she doesn’t realize it.
I tell Cat the whole story of the feature, how it started out as a grand idea but ended up tasting bad. I told her how I erased the computer drive and stole the file and thumb drives and brought them home. Chloe understands but she’s not sure about Tate, that he made need time to adjust.
“He doesn’t understand the business, the media, like I do,” Cat says.
“No kidding,” I say. Feeling better. The confession to Cat is like a no-pressure dress rehearsal of the performance to come where the stakes are higher than any I’d ever played for before, higher than career stakes. My heart is involved in this and stakes get no higher or scarier than that. I shudder.
“Thanks for listening, Cat. It’s been swell working with you.”
“Don’t leave town yet. There’s always room for a good sports reporter around Boston.”
In truth, I’m surprised when she says this because I have no intention of leaving Boston. It would be the equivalent of leaving Tate.
“I’m not giving up on Boston,” I say, knowing she’ll understand what I’m saying, that I mean everything, using Boston for a short hand way of saying sports reporting, broadcasting, my dreams, my friends and most of all Tate.
Chapter 18
Tate
Tomorrow is game four, a Monday Night prime time game against our toughest opponent. Big stage and bigger game. If we win, we’re first in the league and the only team left undefeated. I don’t remember when I’ve looked forward to playing a game more. My parents are flying in and I pick them up at the airport. Amazement sizzles through me as I hum along to the fucking radio because I don’t remember the last time I’ve even turned the radio on. Normally I avoid it to avoid the media intrusion, but now I couldn’t give a fuck.
Chloe’s done this to me. She’s responsible for the foolish grin I see in the mirror. Because she’s amazing and she’s mine. I don’t remember when I’ve been happier.
After only one time around the arrivals circuit at Logan, I see my parents and greet them with warm hugs. We load their luggage into the car and my dad sits up front with me.
“You going to get more playing time this week?” Dad asks as we drive through the back streets of East Boston heading toward my condo building. It’s only a ten-minute drive once we get out of Logan Airport.
“Yeah. They’re easing me back into the line-up,” I say. “This game will be one of our most competitive of the season. They’re planning to use me sparingly unless we get down by more than three points in the second half, then all bets are off and I’m in whether my back is in one piece or not.”
Mom has the usual reaction and I say to her in the rearview mirror, “Don’t worry, Mom. You raised a tough S.O.B.”
“That’s what I’m worried about,” she says and I laugh. She says, “Will we be seeing Chloe?”
“I’m planning for us to have brunch Tuesday morning. We have the day off since next week is our by-week.”
“That sounds perfect,” she says.
I look at Dad and he gives me a triumphant look. He’s obviously done something magical to calm down mom’s worrying about Chloe being an evil reporter. I owe him.
After dropping my parents at the condo, I head for the stadium. We have extra films and coach’s meetings this afternoon.
It’s at the end of the second round of walk-throughs and I come off the field, ready to call it a day once the squad meetings with the coaches are over. Foley meets me at the bench and asks me for a comment on the recent development.
“Comment? What developments are you talking about?” I would normally hide my confusion, but Foley is a decent guy and he looks serious.
“NESH has been running trailers all day, for a show they’re airing tonight called Perspective: Why Tate Fontanna pushes himself past the edge of no return.”
“What the hell does that mean?” What could they possibly have? NESH? Fuck. My chest tightens and my gut takes a nosedive. I take a deep breath to calm the instant reaction before I puke right here on the s
ideline all over Foley.
I must have paled with all the blood rushing to my feet making me dizzy because he asks, “You okay?”
“Fine.” I lie my ass off and try to get a grip, try to get my mind back on track, re-engage the rational thought process as I take another deep breath.
Cat rushes onto the field from the tunnel, heading right at me at a dead run. She looks panicked and for some reason that calms me.
“Tate,” she says out of breath, then turns to Foley. “Did you tell him?”
“About the upcoming story NESH is airing?” Foley says.
Cat scoffs, “It’s not a story. It’s more like a load of gossip.”
“It’s okay, Cat,” I say because her face is all red and she looks like she’s going to smack poor Foley. I lead her away from Foley.
“Let’s get inside,” she says, catching her breath. “We need to get you away from the media for now.”
“You know the story Foley is talking about?” I refuse to think the worst. Not until I see it with my own eyes. Or hear about it from Chloe.
We get inside the tunnel and take the first door to a long corridor heading to the elevator to the team offices. She takes a deep breath and stops.
“The news previews I’ve seen for tonight’s show includes teasers with clips of…”
“Don’t tell me.” I put up a hand to stop her. I know the clip. It’s that long-ago moment at the grave side with the reporters hurling accusations and then outside my home the next day with my mother collapsing into my arms. Days after Frank died.
“Whose story is it?” I say. My gut churns, my chest is almost too tight to talk, to even breath.
“Sarina’s hosting the special.” I nod. We both know that doesn’t mean Chloe isn’t involved.
Playing for Keeps: An Enemies to Lovers Sports Romance Page 19