Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
Tate
Sean and I don’t talk about it. There’s a tacit agreement between us that we keep the incident at Louie’s to ourselves. I owe him for saving my ass and I owe Louie. I’ll need to have a talk with Louie as soon as I can get out of this locker room and get over there.
Hunter and Gabe expect to go to Louie’s for the usual postgame dinner tonight and I need to get there before them to make sure everything is cool. To make sure I’m still welcome. To promise Louie that Chloe won’t be returning any time soon.
Stripping off my jersey, I’m not sure how I’m going to make good on that promise, but have to try.
“Good game,” Hunter says, leaning against my locker with his pads still on. I decide he’s not trying to be ironic even though I only played four snaps in the second quarter.
“Sure, if by ‘game’ you mean less than five minutes of one quarter.” But I smile because we won and the torture of preseason is over.
Next game is official and it’s only four days away.
Thursday night football, game one of the season.
Hunter looks around the locker room, not going anywhere.
It’s blessedly media free tonight. The press has been limited to the postgame press conference and catching up with whoever they can in the tunnel.
Coach Marini has a postgame speech planned to transition the team with the final roster into the official start of the season.
“What’s on your mind?” I sit and take off my cleats.
“The dinner is on. Friday night.”
It takes me a beat to realize he’s talking about the matchmaking dinner, my blind date that Cat promised to fix me up with. Finally. I’d almost forgotten about it. Relief and a mix of other feelings simmer up, but I know I need this. Need someone to take my mind of damn Chloe Smith.
“Great.”
“We timed it so there would be plenty of time for recovery with the extra days after the Thursday night game.”
“Recovery from what?” I snort a laugh. “It’s just dinner. I’ll be drinking water.”
He wiggles his brows up and down comically and says, “In case you get lucky.”
I laugh full-out. “I’ve never been that lucky in my life. Not enough to miss practice the next day.”
Sean comes over dressed in his street clothes already because he probably didn’t bother with a shower, having never stepped on the playing field after the initial run from the tunnel.
“I heard the matchmaking dinner is on for Friday night.” He gives me a look.
“Quintanna just told me,” I say.
“You still cool with it?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
Sean shrugs and Hunter says, “Does this have something to do with the fiasco last night at Louie’s?”
I shoot a look at Hunter, who crosses his arms over his chest and smiles one of those I got you smiles.
“Who told you?”
“It’s all over social media, man. Don’t you ever check your Twitter feed?” Hunter shakes his head, still smiling so it can’t be that bad.
I turn to Sean and he shrugs.
“I didn’t want to say anything before the game. In case you wigged out.”
“Should I be wigged out?” I don’t want to see what’s out there, but at the same time I don’t want to be blindsided.
“No—I think it’s okay,” Sean says.
“You’re fine,” Hunter says. “You made Sean look like a hero and you made off with the girl.”
“Fuck.”
“Don’t sweat it,” Hunter says. “No one cares who you’re dating. You’re nothing but a second-rate middle linebacker, right?” He’s grinning, enjoying it all too much.
Damn. I finish undressing down to my shorts.
“If Marini hears about it, this could affect my contract talks.”
“Don’t worry—next week’s the start of the season. Clean slate.”
“You’re right. It’ll be my performance that’ll win me a fat contract. Not a few tweets about a nonevent at an Italian restaurant.”
“So we’re all set for Friday?” Sean says, “The bet is still on?”
“The blind date is on and it couldn’t have been timed better.” I turn to Hunter and Sean. “In fact, I can’t wait to meet my blind date and I hope to hell Cat can work some magic.”
Outside in the parking lot, Mike Foley catches up with me and I’d almost forgotten he was there last night. I wonder what the hell he wants and stop when he calls out my name.
He says, “That was quite a night. We got away with one.”
“No thanks to you.”
“I would have taken care of her if I had to, but she’s a tough cookie.”
I don’t say anything, don’t give even a nod or a blink.
“What were you doing there?”
“I’m a regular at Louie’s,” I say. It’s true even if it’s not an answer.
“Is there something between you and Chloe?” he has the audacity to ask. I eye him, holding my game face in place.
“Why do you ask? Aren’t you a little old for her, Foley?” I’m not smiling or joking, though I should at least be pretending it’s all a joke, that I could care less if he’s interested, that there’s nothing at all between us except a deep abiding enmity that even the sparks of Hades can’t burn down.
“Whoa, there. I’m not saying that. I think she’s special, but not like that.”
“Like how?” I can’t stop myself from asking in an unfriendly voice.
“Like a big brother.” He backs up a step. “I don’t know what you two have going on, but—”
“We have nothing going on, not that it’s any of your business. Your kid sister is safe from me. But frankly, I’m the one who probably needs to worry, judging by last night.”
He laughs nervously and I let him off the hook with a smile, a real one, and a slap on the back.
“But don’t worry about being my big brother because I can take care of myself.”
I leave before I say another word, mindful that Foley is a reporter, and even though he’s been decent for the three years I’ve known him and has a sterling reputation, I don’t want to give him ammunition he can’t resist.
The short fast week couldn’t have gone any better, with a win last night, playing well with a sack and a half dozen tackles and, not least of all, no confrontations with Smitty.
She’s steering clear of me and I’m steering clear of her.
We’ve finally come to an understanding. Whatever connection or chemistry we have is better left unexplored.
Coach didn’t give us the day off, but it’s an early out on a Friday afternoon. After films, we’re done for the day and I catch up with Hunter as we’re leaving the room.
“Hey, you know anything about my blind date tonight? Cat’s not answering my texts.”
“No. She won’t tell me a thing. Says we’ll find out who the special lady is when she shows up.” He slaps me on the back. “You only have a couple of hours to wait. Excited?”
I give him the finger. “I’m not a school kid. I was just curious.” In truth, the fact that Cat’s keeping it all secret scares me, makes me think she’s up to no good. But what the hell.
“It’s dinner. Who cares? She’s good, you go home with her. She’s not, you go home alone—like you have been anyway.” He gives me a pointed stare like I’m a loser for being single.
“True,” I say. We head through the dim hallways in the bowels of the stadium and I tell him I’m bringing a bottle of Maker’s Mark for him to hold onto for the Super Bowl celebration.
I need to pick up flowers too. It’s cornball as hell, but I don’t know a woman alive who wouldn’t melt ten degrees for a dozen roses.
Except maybe Chloe. I wonder what she would think about getting flowers from a blind date.
It’s impossible to say what her reaction would be—she could go either way and guessing would be half the fun. I mentally scoff.
In a rush to get out of the stadium to my car and rid myself of all thoughts of Chloe, I trot through the hall and out of the exit.
I need this blind date bad. Real bad.
First to arrive at Hunter and Cat’s East Boston home, I hand over some flowers and chocolate covered strawberries before I sit at the island in their slick kitchen.
Watching them cook, I sip my mineral water and relax.
It’s about time. I’ve been looking forward to this reprieve from media hurricane Chloe who’s turned my head and hormones into a chaotic warring jumble.
Cat is valiantly making an effort to put together her version of chicken parm.
Growing up in the family’s restaurant business, I know all about cooking, especially Italian, but I’m not about to interfere, not even if she asks.
Of course, she asks. “Tate, can you taste this sauce for me?”
“I’m sure it’s fine.”
“No really, I need an expert opinion. Tell me if it needs anything and be honest.” Cat holds out a spoonful of sauce in front of my face and I have no choice but to take it from her, so I do. Tasting the marinara, I maintain a smile.
“It’s good.” I’m not lying.
“What does it need?” She sees right through me, her hands on her hips and a threatening look on her face. She’s holding a wooden spoon and I’ve been hit by one of those in a kitchen more than once as a kid.
“The only thing it might need is a couple more hours on the stove simmering.”
“Shit. We don’t have time for that.”
Hunter says, “It’s only six o’clock. We leave it on the stove and serve appetizers and salad and it’ll be done by the time we serve dinner.”
“Problem solved,” I say, giving her my most encouraging smile. My fingers tap the countertop and I ask, “What time is everyone getting here?”
Cat puts her hand over my fingers to stop the tapping and says, “She’ll be here at six thirty. Sure you don’t want some red wine?”
“The thing about having a glass of red wine is that it’s never just one glass. I’ll end up drinking three more glasses with my meal and I’ll wake up dehydrated tomorrow.”
“Sounds like this wisdom has come from experience, so I won’t tempt you again,” she says.
“Fontanna never could hold his liquor,” Hunter says.
I raise my middle finger at him.