Page 49 of Playing for Keeps

Chloe

“It’s a gorgeous Thursday night on the field here in East Boston at the Militia stadium as the team warms up for the game against their major rivals, the New York Wild Cats,” I say to the camera as I hold the defensive coordinator at my side for a pre-game comment. I’m hoping for something pithy, but I can spin whatever he says.

I’m excited to do the pre-game color on the sidelines and post-game too. But I’m extra jittery because I haven’t talked to Tate all week and, in spite of his warning that he wouldn’t have time because of the condensed schedule, I don’t feel right about it.

Because I don’t feel confident about our relationship. Whatever the heck relationship means in this case other than a confused jumble that includes a heavy dose of lusty chemistry.

Coach gives me a funny quip and I run with it, then wrap up the spot. Maguire turns off the camera and lowers it.

“We have time for another one?” he says. I’m listening to the director in the truck and he’s telling me we’re finished until the next time-out. They’re back at the studio now. Then they’ll go to the guys in the game booth. I’ll take my direction from them throughout the game, to get color commentary on the field as things unfold, like if they want a comment on a controversial call or an injury. In this role, I have to play close attention to the game, to the guys in the booth and to the director. Maguire has a screen with the show set up under a tarp along with the other media outlets and we head over there now.

By the beginning of the fourth quarter, the Militia had a substantial lead and because NESH is a hometown station, Henry encourages me to lighten it up. I’m dying to get Tate on camera for a one-liner about his two and a half quarterback sacks, but he hasn’t been cooperating, outmaneuvering me for the third time-out in a row. But after a three-and-out by the offense, he’s back in the game again. “Damn,” I say aloud.

Maguire says, “Don’t worry, this’ll probably be his last set of downs. We’re ahead by twenty-one with under ten to play. They’ll take their starters out if they keep New York scoreless here.”

Giving him a sideways glance, I’m pretty sure he knows I’m after Tate even though I haven’t said, because I haven’t exactly hidden my obsession from him. I’ve decided what I feel for Tate is obsessed. It’s less intimidating than being infatuated—or, heaven forbid, sin of all sins, in love. That’s never happening.

We watch the play from the thirty yard-line, not exactly front and center of the action down at the opposite forty-yard line. It’s a scramble play and Tate goes for the QB. He’s about to tackle when an offensive lineman comes out of nowhere to collide with Tate, bringing him down to the ground in a bone-crushing hit. The QB escapes the collision and throws the ball, but I don’t pay attention, because Tate’s still on the ground under the lineman and they’re both slow to get up. Since I don’t have the best view, I’m waiting for the replay on the jumbotron, but they don’t replay the hit because the fucking QB completes a freakish fifty-yard pass to their third-string walk-on wide receiver, catching everyone by surprise as he jets into the endzone for a touchdown.

My eyes dart back to where Tate was leveled and he’s still on the ground, but he’s getting attention. Gravitating in that direction, Maguire follows me and Henry yells in my ear to talk to someone about it for the next time-out, a ten-second clip. I run toward the defensive coordinator as he trots off the field ahead of Tate, who’s being escorted by a couple of medical staff—a trainer and a physician.

Waving my hand for Maguire to roll, I stick my mic out and ask the coach, “Is it a concussion?”

“No. It’s not.”

“What’s the injury?” I ask while I watch Tate walk awkwardly toward the sideline, but he doesn’t stay there, he keeps going toward the tunnel to the locker room with the medical staff, his steps slowing. And just before he disappears from sight, I see the two men lift him from the ground and half carry him into the darkness of the tunnel. Riveted and horrified, I almost miss the coach’s answer to my question.

“We’re not sure. Could be shoulder or back. We’ll wait and see what the medical evaluation is, but he’s out for the rest of the game.”

“Back to you in the booth, Sarina.” We cut the camera and I trot back to where our equipment is to get my bag, Maguire at my heels.

“You following up on the injury?” Maguire says.

I nod and grab my bag, looking for the most likely person I can ask how Tate’s doing, the one person who will find out for me and tell me. I see Sean Patrick on the sidelines, with his helmet in his hand. They won’t need him to kick anything for the next few minutes, so I head in his direction as inconspicuously as I can.

“Sean, do me a favor and find out how Tate is, will you?”

He looks at me, registers the question, and then nods. Dropping his helmet, he jogs twenty yards down the sidelines, but he doesn’t go through the tunnel. He talks to the defensive coordinator, who has earphones on and must be communicating with the team’s medical staff. Sean is heading back to me, but he’s walking and so I meet him halfway, deep into the sidelines behind some cameras. He may not feel any urgency, but I sure as fuck do.

“What the hell is going on, Sean?” My heart is beating out of my chest like impatient fists against my rib cage.

“He’s heading to Mass General for an MRI. Nothing earthshattering—diagnostics.”

“Fuck.”

“He’ll be okay, Chloe.” He puts a hand on my shoulder and I give him a pathetic smile.

“Thanks. Gotta go.”

When I get back to Maguire at our equipment station, I tell him the situation.

“What are you going to do?”

All I know is I need to get to the hospital, to see him. Now. But I’ll need to get out of doing the postgame wrap-up first so I can leave. I have an idea. It’s underhanded, bold, and suits me perfectly.

“Maguire, I need you to disappear,” I say to him as I drag him into the tunnel back toward the exit to the parking lot. He’s listening so I keep talking. “I need people to think you’re with me when I go to the hospital.”

“But I won’t be with you.” He nods, knows I’m going off the record and doesn’t balk. Squeezing his arm, I lean in and give him a quick kiss on the cheek.