Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Tate
Walking out of the stadium to the parking lot with Sean Patrick as I always do, I notice his grin is slyer than usual. Who’d have thought it possible?
“What’s up with you? You look like you swallowed the proverbial canary whole and you’re about to burp up the feathers.”
He grins, but I see a nervous tic and know something is up, so when we get to his car, a black supercharger he’s driving to compensate for the fact that he’s a kicker and not a tackle, I stop and fold my arms, indicating that I plan to wait him out for an explanation.
“Hot date,” he says.
“Where?”
He stares me down.
“Fine, you know I’m not above following you.” Because I have a damn good idea who his hot date is, the image of him flirting with the Southern belle from hell flashing painfully in my head.
“What the fuck, Fontanna? Find your own date. I know you’re more than capable.”
“You’re fucking meeting that reporter chick, aren’t you?”
“What if I am? And her name is Chloe.”
“I don’t give a fuck about her name. She’s a fucking reporter. A devious—”
“Hot-as-hell woman who happens to be new to town.” He folds his arms across his chest to match my determination and in spite of all his frat-boy bluster, I know he’s tough and has ice in his veins when it comes to do-or-die time.
“Where are you meeting her? She’s playing you. All she wants from you is a story.”
He shrugs. I grit my teeth, wondering why I’m so bothered, why I don’t let him go, let him get himself into trouble, let him learn the hard way. I’d learned the hard way, hadn’t I?
He studies me for a few beats and, just when it looks like he’s going to say something, Max comes along and joins us.
“Hey how about if we hit Louie’s tonight?” Max says. “I’m buying.”
“Shit.” Sean’s face falls and now I know where he’s meeting Chloe.
“Sounds great to me.” I grin at Sean and he flips me the finger.
“What the hell am I missing here?” Max asks.
“I’ll tell you on the way over,” I say. “Let’s take my car.
” Max goes along and I fill him in on Sean’s date with the poisonous reporter.
In typical Max Devon the Cagey Sage form, he says nothing, though I know he’s thinking something.
He never judges and never interferes. If you want advice from Max, you have to ask for it.
No, beg for it. He’s the one on the team who has the most wisdom, like our godfather, but he doesn’t go around spouting off.
The exact opposite. That’s what makes his words all the more valuable and sought after.
But I’m no rookie, so I’m not begging. I can figure things out for myself. Like why the hell am I so bothered by Chloe fucking Smith when I’ve learned well to handle all the media Boston’s thrown at me so far?
What makes her especially threatening?
Good looks? No. Gorgeous women are a dime a dozen and I’m pretty much immune by now after four years in the league and two years in Boston at the top of my game.
Since Gabriel Wyatt and Hunter Quintanna are off the bachelor market, I’ve been on the home page of no less than seven media outlets touted as the most eligible bachelor in Boston.
It’s not even fun anymore. Which is a fucking hard thing for me to admit since it used to give me a hard-on to walk into a club and have a horde of gorgeous women throw themselves at me.
Not so much anymore. That’s not something I’m admitting to another living soul, but it bothers me.
I’m restless where women are concerned and not sure why except maybe my Midwest roots are sending up shoots, prompting me to start looking for Mrs. Right, the future mother of my theoretical children. I shudder. What the fuck?
Max shakes his head and snorts like I’m ridiculous for thinking Chloe is poison, as if I’m paranoid. “What makes you think Smitty is dangerous?”
“Smitty?”
“That’s what her father used to call her when she was a kid.”
“You really are an old man, aren’t you?” I say.
“Don’t change the subject. What did she ever do to you?”
So I tell him about her sneak attack and our exchange of words and he can barely hold in his laughter.
“I don’t agree with your apparent assessment that the situation was in any way humorous,” I say, but I’m backpedaling on my attitude—or at least on sharing my concern. “She’s setting me up for something. I can smell it in the way she zeroed in on me.”
“You really are paranoid.”
Shrugging, I don’t answer him as I turn into the small lot and park the car. The bar and restaurant, our usual hangout, is a couple of doors down, but it doesn’t have its own parking. It’s a Tuesday, but based on my experience, the place will be half full of regulars.
“We’re getting something to eat, right?” I ask as we get out of my car and head for the front door. The lettering above the door is starting to fade and I can barely make out the name Louie’s.
“You shittin’ me? Would we come here and not eat?
” He slaps my back as he follows me through the door.
Though it’s still bright outside, the place is perpetually lit low like it’s midnight at a secret getaway.
The cloud of scents that pervade the place are enough to put a person into a food coma before tasting a bite, adding to the sinful atmosphere.
Louie’s is a gem of a neighborhood establishment, unspoiled by our celebrity ever since we’d started frequenting the place. Gabe Wyatt introduced me and Quintanna and we brought others and it’s now an unofficial Militia hangout—and a well-kept secret. Until now. Fuck.
Chloe Smith—Smitty—could and likely will change all that. Spotting Sean sitting near the end of the bar, alone, we head for him and sit on either side of him. The bartender comes over before Max raises a hand.
He slides three glasses in front of us and pours from a bottle of Henry McKenna bourbon whiskey.
“Compliments of a couple of fans.” He nods his head in the far direction of the room holding no more than a dozen tables, most of them filled. We turn and a familiar couple wave at us. Max and Sean wave back and I salute. It’s a Militia thing.
“The rest is on me,” Max says “We’re ordering food, too.”
“Of course you are,” the bartender says with a grin.
“Why don’t you assholes get a table?” Sean says.
“She’s not here yet,” I say. “She might not even show.” I don’t bother hiding my hope.
Sean picks up his glass and takes a healthy gulp. I don’t know if it’s us witnessing him get stood up that’s making him nervous or the prospect of us witnessing his date if he doesn’t get stood up. Either way, my sympathy doesn’t go far enough to back off.
“She’ll show,” Max says. “I’ll bet a hundred bucks.”
“Only a hundred?” I ask, gauging how confident he is and wondering why, but deep down I know he’s right. She’ll show. She’s ambitious and wouldn’t give up the chance for a scoop of some kind from a vulnerable player. My blood boils thinking about it.
“Sean’s still on his rookie contract. I don’t want to bankrupt him.”
“Fuck you,” Sean says to Max as he glances at the clock. It’s well past seven.
Keeping in a laugh, because money is the one thing Sean has no sense of humor about—not even a little—I say, “Okaaaay.”
Sean raises a middle finger at me, drinking down most of his glass of whiskey, eyes back on the door.
“What the hell do you see in this woman? Seriously?” I ask. “She’s a reporter. She could crucify you, ruin your reputation, crash any promotional deals you might have a shot at with one bad story if you say the wrong thing. Or heaven forbid—if you break her heart.” I mock shudder.
Max laughs, refusing to take my side or take the risk seriously.
Does he know something I don’t about this chick?
Sean flips his finger at me again, signaling I’m wasting my breath because his brain has checked out and his dick is in charge.
It’s the exact state that could get him into more trouble than this chick is worth—mesmerizing violet eyes or not.
“Don’t worry, Tate,” Max says. “She has more scruples than—”
“She’s here,” Sean says and slams his hand on the bar and his smile goes feral. Maybe I ought to be more concerned about Chloe than my friend. Dismissing the idea the instant it pops into my head, I scoff at it, at myself for thinking it.
“Time for you two to get the fuck out of here,” he says under his breath. I don’t budge and, to his credit, neither does Max. They’re both facing the door, both with smiles as they watch her. I turn around.
And now I know what breathtaking really means, because she knocks the breath out of me the second our eyes meet, as I take her in like I’m eating her whole. Then my mind goes there, thinking about eating her and the idea of having Italian food for dinner disappears, replaced by a juicy vision of—
Fuck.
“How did I get so lucky?” she says as she saunters up to us.
The three of us swivel our stools away from the bar to face her.
She looks us up and down and ends with me, pinning me with her gaze.
I don’t flinch even though every molecule of me is hyperaware of her womanly charms—and a hell of a lot more.
There’s a strength, an energy that surrounds her like a force field and I think it has nothing to do with sex appeal, but I’m in no position to make that judgment since my dick is hardening as I meet her scrutiny and scrutinize her right back. I want to screw her silly.
“Three for one,” she says, still giving me her attention.
“Not—”
Max cuts Sean off, “Good to see you again, Chloe. Being from out of town, you might not have realized this place has the best Italian food outside of Italy.”
Relieved he doesn’t mention that this is our hangout—naturally, because Max is a very smart man—I break eye contact and pick up my whiskey, signaling to the bartender for another one.
“These two gentlemen were just leaving,” Sean says, but no one is convinced, not even him.