Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Chloe
Driving home on Friday afternoons is a bitch in Boston.
Especially when I feel an irrational sense of urgency.
The urgency has nothing to do with the football season.
We’re only at game two of the preseason coming up on Sunday.
The game will be inconsequential except for the bubble players—the ones close to being cut—and Sarina is covering that angle.
I won’t have much to do since none of the starters are playing.
But I’m happy that Sunday’s game marks my return to live coverage after being relegated to the studio doing nothing but research all week. On the upside, I’ve gotten to know people at the studio.
And I’ve gotten to know a lot more about what makes Tate Fontanna tick. The scary part of that is that I’m even more fascinated than before. And heartbroken.
My conscience gives me a little squeeze every time I picture his face with those sad eyes, knowing what’s behind them.
Once I finally get home, I focus on dressing and the job at hand. Anticipation revs me up. After putting the cap on my tube of lipstick, I toss it into my makeup bucket and turn away from the mirror.
There’s no reason I should be this excited about attending tonight’s benefit gala.
It’s not my first black-tie event, more like my hundredth.
If anything, I should be dreading it because I’ll be on the job, won’t even be able to enjoy a drink, and I’ll be lucky if I get any food.
Henry gave me strict instructions to interview as many players as possible about their auction items and their charity—except one.
Under no circumstances am I to talk to Fontanna.
Feeling the heat explode through me like it does every time I think about it, I feel like a third grader who just got spanked.
Another thing I ought to be used to since it’s not the first time this has happened in my adulthood.
I pointed out to my boss that I can hardly avoid Fontanna forever since I’m doing background on him for the Perspective piece—that’s what he’s calling it now since he’s skewing it more to a thought piece, human interest rather than an exposé.
But he’s leaving all the teeth in it—so the label is just pretense.
It’s a sneaky move. My conscience gives me another pinch as I slide on my sparkly silver round-toed pumps with just enough heel to be sexy, but not enough to be vampy—and I’ll be able to wear them standing on my feet all night without pain.
My theory is that Coach Marini gave Henry a call after the interview and that’s what got me banned from talking to him tonight.
Henry won’t confirm or deny, but he did say that my moratorium on talking to Fontanna will be lifted after tonight if I behave.
I wonder if Fontanna complained to Marini and that’s why Marini called Henry.
No matter, I pick up my silver clutch to match my silver heels and my silvery dress.
One last twirl in front of the full-length mirror I nailed to the closet door and I’m satisfied with the way the dress both drapes and clings, the way the hem skims my thighs a couple of inches above my knees. Eat your heart out, Fontanna.
Stop it, Chloe. Get over him. He’s your subject, not your crush.
Tell that to my lady parts every time I look at film of him.
He’s so . . . normal and decent and humble and funny and clever.
Slapping my forehead to knock the useless thoughts of him out of my head, I pull the door shut behind me and turn my key in the lock.
Clicking in a staccato beat down my stairs, I get into the car and call Maguire to tell him I’m on my way. We’ll meet at the back door of the Boston Harbor Hotel waterfront ballroom, which I’m told is spectacular when it’s lit up at night. He’s my date tonight, him and his camera.
Some of our footage will go on tonight’s show with Sarina and the rest of it will go online on the NESH website.
Sarina is going to be here tonight, but as a paying patron, not working.
She’ll need to duck out early for her show, but still, for once in my life, I wish I was here for the fun rather than the job.
I still haven’t heard from Cat about that dinner party blind date and I make a mental note to call her, but then I realize she’ll be here tonight.
There’s no traffic on the bridge into town as dusk falls over the city and the dark water glitters with reflections of the lights.
There’s not a star in sight above the skyline, all obscured by the manmade glow.
Tempted to valet park, I don’t and pull into the nearest parking garage since I’m going in the back door.
There’s a green room of sorts set up there for media with phones and computers and backstage access—a stage was installed for the occasion for the main event, where they’ll auction off a couple of Boston’s most eligible bachelors.
Some hockey star named Ryan O’Rourke and a restauranteur whose name I don’t remember because, let’s face it, a girl only has so much room in her head for details and I need to save it for sports.
It’s called professional focus, I tell my conscience, who’s accusing me of laziness.
It’s not laziness, it’s being distracted that has me in less than top form, ever since this afternoon when I’d learned those things about Fontanna’s past that explain a few things about his present, things that leave me feeling disturbed.
And guilty, almost ashamed for my profession.
Things that make me want to make him understand who I am—and who I’m not—things that make me want to console him and make it all up to him somehow.
Not in the cards, Smitty. Keep your nose clean, do your job, and cause trouble another day.
Checking in at the back door with my media card, I see Maguire consorting with our competition at Beantown Sports Broadcasting.
I wave him over. It’s early, but looking out at the room, I see some people already checking out the auction items set up around the perimeter.
There’s a buffet and bar in the middle of the space surrounded by small tables, leaving plenty of room for mingling.
“First time you’ve been here?” Maguire asks. I nod.
“Let me show you around. With any luck, we can do some interviews outside overlooking the water.”
“Think again, old man. We need to stick to the auction items.” I shrug. “May as well get started now. We need a dozen spots, according to Henry.”
Maguire lets out a whistle. “Doesn’t leave a guy much chance to eat.”
It doesn’t take much convincing to get Maguire on board for fast and furious spots, but by the tenth one I’m dizzy with details and struggling to find inventive new ways to get the same information from each auction donor about their item and their favorite charity.
Mindful of avoiding the bland, I try to prod stories out of each one of them about what led to their charity choice.
Having done my homework helps—that and the cheat card that I have tucked in my purse.
“Let’s go for number eleven,” I say checking the time.
It’s nearing eleven p.m. and the place shuts down at midnight.
Glancing around the room, not for the first time, until I find Fontanna in the crowd, I watch him briefly and look away before he can catch me.
Craning my head to survey the crowd, I spot our next interviewees.
“There’s Cat Marini and Hunter Quintanna. ”
Maguire follows me as I wind my way to where they’re encouraging competition for bids on their auction item. It’s a good one.
After we exchange hellos and a brief hug, I go into professional mode.
“You would expect a special auction item from this power couple of the Boston Militia, and you wouldn’t be disappointed. Tell us what you’re auctioning off, Cat and Hunter Quintanna.”
“Four tickets to each and every Militia home game, including the playoffs and Super Bowl this year,” she says. “On the fifty-yard line high above the stadium in a luxury box with full catered meals and open bar.”
“Wow—a dream come true for a die-hard fan and I bet we have a lot of those in attendance here. Tell us about your charity.”
Hunter says, “All proceeds to go the foster care foundation of greater Oneonta, New York.” Cat goes on to talk about what they do and her passion complements her husband’s steely reserve perfectly.
They’re so in sync, yet so opposite, and that fascinates me.
We shoot over five minutes with only a few breaks, giving us plenty of content.
Before I go, I can’t resist my reminder. “Still looking forward to that dinner party.”
She laughs. “Don’t worry, the deal is almost closed. You won’t be disappointed.”
Hunter says, “After all Cat’s efforts to match make you, don’t go and get married between now and then.”
“I think we’re safe. I’m a casual relationship kind of girl.” I am, right? I should be. I have too much ambition for a serious relationship.
He frowns and I hate disappointing him, but I am who I am, right?
“I’ll be in touch one day next week,” Cat promises. “If you have time when you sign off tonight, have a drink with us.”
“We have one more interview to do, so it’s possible.”
Moving aside to give potential bidders room, I take Maguire’s arm and look around, but I don’t see Tate.
Maguire yawns and says he needs a break.
I watch him head outside to the patio where I know he’s going for a smoke.
That gives me a chance to do the one thing I promised myself I would do tonight, by hook or by crook.