Page 42 of Playing for Keeps

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 slightheadache 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. Althoughhe 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 feelsgood 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.