Page 54 of Playing for Keeps

“You need to heal and I… didn’t want to tempt you—tempt myself—make it worse.”

My grin feels silly. I’m turning into an imbecile. “Is that right? So you didn’t call me for my own good?”

She laughs. “When you put it like that it sounds—”

“Nice,” I say, knowing it’s a lame thing to say, but my head is haywire with re-living her lips around my cock—both pairs of lips or either of them. I’d take anything from her right now.

“I’m glad,” she whispers, but she sounds more sad than pleased and I wonder if she misses me that much, wants me that much, or if it’s something else. Shoving the paranoia aside, I believe she deserves the benefit of the doubt.

“You working the game Sunday Night?”

“Yes. On field color. No post game press conference.”

“Good,” I say, my heart stuttering with the largeness of what I’m going to say. “Because I want you to meet my parents after the game.” A breathy pause for a beat, then two without a word has my heart thudding faster, waiting with impatience.

“Wow, Tate. I… I don’t know what to say.” She pauses again and when I’m about to tell her to forget the whole fucking shit idea, she rushes her words like they’ve been logjammed.

“I’d love to meet your parents. It would mean a lot to me. I wish I could return the favor.”

“Chloe…” I close my eyes, realizing this is tough for her and I’m a dick for my impatience, my clumsy invitation.

“I’ll see you after the game then.”

“Meet us in the anteroom near the press room. It’s set aside for relatives and friends waiting for players.”

“I know that room. I don’t think I’ve ever been in there officially.”

“No big deal,” I say. “If it wasn’t such a late game, we could all go out to dinner, but maybe it’s better to meet for a few minutes before I make you sit through a dinner with my family.”

She laughs. “Maybe.” Her tone tells me most definitely.

With my heart still pounding too fast with pleasure, excitement and dread we end the call.

Now all I need to do is let my parents know about the plan.

This is where the dread starts. Even though Mom has been haranguing me to meet Chloe, I know she’s going to freak as soon as she finds out that Chloe is a reporter. But there’s no way to keep it from her, not for long. And I’m done waiting for my mother’s patience to outlive my relationship with Chloe.

* * *

In spiteof all the treatment, the rest and the super-charged shots, my back isn’t ready for prime time and after the first three snaps in the first quarter, coach takes me out of the game. Disappointment is a weak word for how I feel but when the final second ticks down and we win, sending the team to a record of three and 0, I get over it fast.

Post game I change and skip the press conference because coach doesn’t want me to deal with the barrage of questions he knows are coming about my injury status. He’s an expert at shutting down topics and handles it. I go out to the ante-room to meet with my Mom and Dad and it’s bad enough fielding their questions about how I’m feeling.

“Honestly, Mom, I’m okay. I can walk and sit and move around, so I’ll live.”

“But can you play football?” She says.

“You’ll have to come back next week to find out,” I say.

“It’s a deal,” Mom says at the same time as Dad says, “I don’t know if we can get away .”

She elbows him and he shrugs. “Guess we’ll leave your brother in charge two weeks in a row,” he says.

The clock is ticking and I know I’m out early, but Chloe should be here by now. I can see Mom looking at the door every time someone opens it as Dad talks about Gabe’s QB play and I half listen. The crowd in the room diminishes, leaving Mia and her mom waiting for Gabe and a few others.

Mom whispers, “Are you sure Chloe said she’d be here—” Before she finishes her sentence, the door flies open and Chloe rushes in, decked out in a Militia blue business suit with a white frilly blouse like she’s trying out for the part of our team mascot. All she needs is a hat and a flute. Her only concession to normalcy is the shiny red spike heels that don’t stop her from tapping across the room in our direction at top speed.

“So sorry I’m late. Henry had some questions on the clips we sent into the studio for the broadcast.” She beams an innocent smile, unaware that she’s let a very dangerous cat out of the bag. I should have fucking told her my mother hates reporters more than I do.