Playing for Keeps: An Enemies to Lovers Sports Romance

by Stephanie Queen

  Cat looks away from me and I know she knows something she’s not telling me. My gut roils again, but I calm it instantly with the memory of our lovemaking. It’s not just sex anymore, not about dancing around the edge with an exciting enemy. It’s all about loving a strong fierce caring woman with the sweetest vulnerable underbelly I’ve ever seen, a woman brave enough to show her hurt to me, to bare all on a chance we might have something.

  “You should talk to Chloe,” Cat says, biting her lip, looking unhappy as she touches my arm.

  “Oh, I will.”

  My phone pings and I check it to see a text from Chloe to meet me at my condo. I text back that I’ll be there in twenty minutes. “Thanks for the heads up, Cat. I need to go home. Right now.”

  But my parents are there. Fuck. As I walk back down the hall, I call Chloe.

  “We can’t meet at my place. My parents are there.”

  “Come to my house.”

  “On my way now.” I punch off. It feels strange to be so curt, without emotion. We just made love this morning and it felt like real lovemaking, as in real love. Now? I feel like a brick, like I’m holding back, in some state of suspended animation. But that’s going to end the minute I walk through her door.

  She lets me in and backs away from me, but I follow her all the way until she’s backed up to the wall that holds her Murphy bed. I give her a foot of space, forcing my arms to stay at my sides because I can’t stand the tragic cast of those violet eyes as I stare her down.

  “Talk,” I say.

  “It was all my idea, but I took it all back.” She stops and I can feel the tick in my jaw as my muscles tense. I wait for her to continue because there has to be more.

  Her eyes glitter and I know she’s trying not to cry and I’m trying not to care.

  “I did all the research, all the background, put everything together. My concept was a human-interest exposé.” She laughs and I can taste the bitterness in it, want to smother it with my mouth, but I don’t dare. I can’t touch her. I’m too angry.

  “But that was before…” she waves a hand between us to signify what we have—or had.

  “I’ve come to realize how unfair this would be to you—with your contract negotiations and all.”

  “Fuck the contract.” It’s how I feel. Because who gives a fuck about a contract when you’re being fucked over by someone who you care about.

  “I pulled the file and wiped the computer clean. I swear it. I took all my files and zip drives. Or I thought I did.”

  Panic is rising in her voice, tears streaming down her face now, and she goes on. Numbness starts to overtake me, mercifully, as the unequivocal fact of her betrayal thunders to life.

  “I tried calling the studio, about a million fucking times after I saw the first teaser. They won’t take my calls and now my number is blocked. I bought a burner phone and called again and got through to Maguire. He told me they’re triumphant. They grilled him for intel but he had nothing.”

  “Then how did they resurrect your story so quickly,” I ask, calm banking the storm rising inside me as I keep my hands on her, keep the feel and knowledge of the woman I’ve fallen for in the forefront of my mind. But I can’t. The story is hers. And it was about me. And the best I can do is try to keep from feeling anything.

  “When I saw the first teaser this afternoon, I went through everything in a panic and counted the thumb drives. One is missing. Maguire says they found the thumb drive under my desk. It must have fallen when I scooped everything up. I was in a hurry—too hasty. Fuck.” Tears glitter in her eyes and I grip her tighter.

  “Then called Maguire into the office, told him to clear out his desk and take early retirement. He told them it’s not early retirement. It’s late by about twenty-four hours. Duff said, “I’m on the outs now babe, same as you, but I feel good and so should you.’ That’s what he told me.” She sniffles, swipes her arm across her nose, her hand across her cheek and I notice it’s shaky. She’s crying for her friend getting fired when she’s in more hot shit than he is. But I’m still numb, still betrayed.

  “None of this would have happened if you— “

  “I know, damn you. Don’t you think I know that?” She launches herself at me and I catch her automatically, the sensations of having her in my arms, against my body registering in a part of my brain that doesn’t care about trust and betrayal.

  “It’s not your fault, Chloe. It’s mine,” I say into her hair. “I should never have trusted you.”

  I push her away, feeling the loss, the aching pain of the hole in my heart that she’d managed to fill in with her bullshit like no one else.

  My parents were watching the special, huddled together on the couch, my dad comforting my mom who was weeping unconsolably. On my behalf or for her brother Frank, I’m not sure. There’s a lot of old wounds opened up. As soon as I take in the scene, I walk straight for the television and yank the cable from the wall. Enough of this fucking bullshit. I don’t say the words out loud out of respect for my mom. I stand in front of them, forcing myself to meet their heartbroken stares.

  “I’m sorry you had to see that,” I say.

  “Son,” dad says, but I put up my hands to stop him and head for my bedroom, slamming the door behind me. The last thing I want now is sympathy for my broken heart, broken dreams and the last fucking disillusionment I hope to ever suffer in my life.

  After the game, they drive me after the game to Gabe’s house in Gabe’s big SUV. The media is camped out at the stadium’s gate and Gabe manages to lose the tail when he calls the police to escort him to his house. He has security surrounding his house in paid police details to keep the media away.

  “That was a close call,” Max says as they pile into Gabe’s house where Mia is waiting with a late-night dinner.

  “Which?” I say, “The game or the escaping the media mob?”

  Max laughs and slaps my back. “Both when you put it that way.”

  Cat says they can handle this with their own spin. Asks how bad his back is. I was worried after that hit, especially because they carried you off.”

  He shrugs. “It was just a precaution.”

  “I know that now, but it was scary from the stands. So how is it now?”

  “Fine. I got a booster shot and I’m juiced on pain meds. Nothing heavy duty, but enough so I can walk around without screaming for my mommy.”

  My friends laugh. I try for a smile. The distraction of the game is wearing off as like a shot of Novocain, the numbing effect of focusing on the game and the team and the injury wearing off, leaving a deep trench gashing my soul.

  “Seriously,” Cat says. Everyone turns to me. They all want to know, all care.

  “Honestly?”

  “Yes—off the record.”

  I smile because everyone has an agenda after all. Cat is coach Marini’s daughter, but I trust her not to run to her dad with whatever I say.

  “Lucky for me we have a bye week.”

  “Then take an extra week if you need it,” Gabe says.

  “We’re playing— “

  “We can fucking handle Pittsburgh after a bye-week,” Hunter says. “Their offense is tough, but we’re tougher,” He smiles and adds, “We have your back.”

  I punch his shoulder. “That’s for a bad pun and bad timing. Don’t you know I’m not in the mood?” But I smile because I love the team, love these guys like brothers, like family.

  “Shit. I have to call my family. They’re probably worried about my back too.” My parents didn’t stay for the game once the media crowded the building’s lobby and out front. I had a limo take them back to the airport—the kind with darkened windows for the passengers. Pulling my phone from my pocket, I turn it back on to find a jazillion fucking missed calls and texts from everyone I know, from every dam person who ever had my number. Including Chloe. Shit.

  “Before you call Chloe, I have to tell you—”

  “Who says I’m calling Chloe?” I think about it, but forc
e myself to get a fucking clue.

  She gives me a look and continues. “She called me two days ago, before the story aired and told me that she stole the file and cleaned out the hard drive and quit the station. I just wanted you to know that--”

  “I know all about it.” I’m surprised Chloe told Cat about it, but I knew Chloe was telling me the truth about deleting the files and quitting. “I know she stole the file and erased the stations hard drive, but that hardly erases everything leading up to that. The idea for the Perspective was hers.”

  Just because Chloe had a change of heart doesn’t mean she’s trustworthy.

  Or does it?

  Cat talks fast about the media and how they have a job to keep people accountable and give different perspectives from the ones we want to give because everyone has an agenda.

  “Have you seen the show?” she says.

  “No.”

  “We’re going to watch the dam show together tomorrow night. Make sure you’re here. Don’t worry—I’m having dinner catered by Louie’s.”

  Max slaps me on the back and says, “You need to see it, need to get the specter out of your head. Your imagination will make it worse than it is.”

  “Why not. I’ll bring the whiskey.”

  I didn’t plan on spending my free time during bye-week watching a fucking sports news special about my own past, but I think Max is right. Sean drives and we leave from the stadium after treatment for my back. We arrive at Cat and Hunter’s house after stopping for the promised bottle of whiskey and walk in the back door without knocking.

  The first person I see, standing at the kitchen island, looking like frosting on a cake, looking like she’s waiting for me, is Chloe. Fuck. My damn heart races and my cock responds in the usual Pavlovian way. She stands frozen, her damn violet eyes pinning me.

  Cat invited me,” she finally says. Sean walks past me and the kitchen clears out. I don’t even know who was in there, but they’re gone. The lights are bright and I see the sorrow in her eyes.

  “Good trap. Now I can’t trust you or any of my friends.” Part of me feels that way, but not all of me. What I really think is that I can’t trust myself. Can’t trust the feelings I have for her, or the fucking desire I have to go to her and wrap her in my arms right now and kiss her silly.

  “Don’t blame your friends. Cat feels responsible because she fixed us up. She thinks we need closure.” She takes a shuddering breath and gestures for me to come in and have a seat, but I don’t move a muscle because if I get any closer, I’ll reach out for her and fuck if I know if I should or shouldn’t because I’m fucking messed up.

  “I have some important things to say.”

  “Say them. Then I’ll leave. You can stay.”

  “The Perspective was a terrible idea and it was all mine and I tried to undo it, but … that didn’t work out and I’ve never been sorrier for anything in my life.” She pauses. I stand like a stone, trying not to feel anything, letting her words bounce off me. I know what she’s saying, understand it all. And maybe a couple years from now I’ll think it’s perfectly reasonable to forgive her.

  “I don’t expect you to forgive me—”

  “Good.” My voice is too sharp and I clamp my jaw shut when she flinches. Her violet eyes sparkle with tears, but she holds them back because she’s brave and strong. As I’m standing here trying to hold myself together, I have to admire that in her.

  “But I wanted you to know that all my feelings for you are real. You’re the best man I know—that I’ve ever known.”

  I wonder if that includes her dad. Her words bounce around but they don’t penetrate. Not that I don’t believe her, because I know exactly how she feels. But I can’t do anything about it.

  “How is it that you feel?” I say because I’m a sadistic S.O.B. and maybe I need something to haunt my dreams later. Hell, something to haunt me the rest of my life—that spectacular woman who—

  “I love you, Tate Fontanna. I’m madly in love with you and I wish it wasn’t true right now, but it is.”

  “If that’s true, I wouldn’t want to see what you do to the guys you hate.” I’m trying too hard to be mean and she sees through me and smiles. I don’t smile back because there’s too much sadness bubbling up in me everywhere, inescapable sadness. Seeing her doesn’t cure it. Only makes it worse. I want to trust her, to get back to that vulnerable loving spitfire, to the sparring and the heat, but there’s unmistakable distance, an unbridgeable distance between us.

  My silence drags on and she bows her head.

  “I’ll go. You stay.” She picks up her bag and slips past me without meeting my eyes and I know she’s crying as she goes out the door, letting it bang closed behind her.

  I stay and we watch the Perspective without her. I’m mostly numb, but the clips from the funeral scene don’t have the same power over me that they did once upon a time and I realize that’s the key. Even the insinuations of my guilt don’t make me flinch, don’t make me feel any guiltier than I am. When I question whether I really am guilty, all my friends call it bullshit and I find I’m starting to believe them, to believe Chloe Smith’s voice when she called me human, not guilty.

  Chloe is human, not guilty too.

  I’m not certain whether it’s my dick or my conscience talking, but I hear the voice loud and clear just the same. I wonder if she’s going to call me again and whether or not I’ll answer.

  Hell. She doesn’t have my number. I trashed my old one and got a replacement today courtesy of the front office, courtesy of Cat’s office, Public Relations. I know Chloe did the same with her phone and I don’t have her new number, but Cat does.

  No way am I ready to ask Cat for the number. It’s between me and Chloe and I’m still in limbo, still finding a new way to think, to act. And Chloe is still a fucking sports reporter down to her bones and always will be. That much I know.

  That’s what I’m not sure I can ever wrap my arms around fully.

  I make my calls to my parents and brother and eat a late supper with my friends, feeling half there. Half alive. Half broken.

  It’s easy and it’s hard at the same time to let the weeks go by without Chloe, without reaching out or reconciling the unsettled feelings in me. I know I need closure one way or another, but I have no idea what that looks like.

  Chapter 19

  Chloe

  I’m sick and it’s not just because I’m stuck in a crowded newsroom in a station out in Worcester and the air conditioning is on the blink. I have the late-night sports spot and don’t do a lot of in-person in the field interviews except the games. I cover baseball and football so I’m busier than ever every day and even though I need to commute an hour west of the city every night to get to the studio, I don’t mind.

  No way am I giving up my apartment. Besides it’s convenient for the games. Jumping up from my desk with only two minutes until airtime, I rush to the ladies’ room because it’s closer than my dressing room and I don’t have time to worry about privacy right now.

  “What the hell?” The director asks. I put up my hand to indicate two minutes knowing that’s all I have to hurl my guts out, wash and look presentable as I rush back out and take my seat with a big smile as the count goes down to five, four, three, two, one.

  After the spot, the night anchor, an older gentleman who retired from the New York market two years ago, follows me to my dressing room.

  “What is it?” I say, folding my arms across my chest, harder to do with my boobs swelled bigger than usual.

  “When are you due?” he says, pulling no punches, reminding me he’s still a pro.

  “Very funny.” I turn and go inside. He calls out to me something about not being able to hide it forever. Not even from myself. Damnation. I cry. Right then and there, I break down and cry.

  The last sign I needed to let me know the universe is in fact, out to get me.

  A kid is the last thing I ever wanted, but it’s the first and only thing on my mind as I wake up
in the morning after dreaming about the pink line. It’s Saturday, my day off and I should sleep in, need my sleep, but I can’t. I have to tell him. I can’t put it off or my head will explode. And it has to be today.

  No matter how much he hates me, Tate is the father of my baby and deserves to know. We haven’t seen each other except from a distance at games in three weeks. His back injury looks like it’s under control, thank god, after he surprisingly took a week off in spite of a big game, in spite of losing that big game, no one said a thing about him being a crucial missing piece, not even when asked.

  I was careful never to ask or suggest Tate Fontanna’s absence or his injury had anything to do with that potentially crucial loss. It’s only a game. A mantra my father mentioned daily to me, and sometimes to players to mixed reviews.

  Story or no story, contract or no contract, nothing is more important than this baby right now. That much has crystalized in my mind like nothing else. And no lectures by Dad from the grave, or memories of his rules or sayings or words of wisdom are needed for this lesson to take hold and grab me by the throat.

  My dad was a damn good parent and I don’t know if it was in spite of his career or maybe because of it, but I know and always knew I was his top priority. If he could do it, so could I. And there is nothing that would make him prouder of me than if I were a good mother to some lucky little girl or boy—or heaven forbid both at once. Don’t go there Chloe—so what if Tate was a twin—it doesn’t mean a thing—does it?

  What means a hell of a lot more is that Tate will make a spectacular dad—no matter if he hates me or loves me. No matter if he breaks my heart because I am so fucking madly in love with him that I want to cry like a baby. Or that could be the hormones kicking in I hear tell.

  Pulling the covers aside, I jump from bed and take inventory of my body. No nausea, only the same empty hungry stomach as usual, thank god. Going to my kitchenette, I pick up the coffee pot, then I stop. Should I even be drinking coffee now? I’m not sure, so I put the empty pot down and decide I can wait until after I talk to the doctor. My appointment is in an hour.