Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
Tate
Tomorrow is game four, a Monday night prime time game against our toughest opponent.
Big stage and bigger game. If we win, we’re first in the league and the only team left undefeated.
I don’t remember when I’ve looked forward to playing a game more.
My parents are flying in and I’m driving to pick them up at the airport.
Amazement sizzles through me as I hum along to the fucking radio because I don’t remember the last time I’ve even turned the radio on.
Normally I avoid it so I don’t have to listen to the media intrusion, but now I couldn’t give a fuck.
Chloe’s done this to me. She’s responsible for the foolish grin I see in the mirror. Because she’s amazing and she’s mine. I don’t remember when I’ve been happier.
After only one time around the arrivals circuit at Logan, I see my parents and greet them with warm hugs. We load their luggage into the car and my dad sits up front with me.
“You going to get more playing time this week?” Dad asks as we drive through the back streets of East Boston heading toward my condo building. It’s only a ten-minute drive once we get out of Logan Airport.
“Yeah. They’re easing me back into the lineup,” I say. “This game will be one of our most competitive of the season. They’re planning to use me sparingly unless we get down by more than three points in the second half, then all bets are off and I’m in whether my back is in one piece or not.”
Mom has the usual reaction and I say to her in the rearview mirror, “Don’t worry, Mom. You raised a tough SOB.”
“That’s what I’m worried about,” she says and I laugh. She continues, “Will we be seeing Chloe?”
“I’m planning for us to have brunch Tuesday morning. We have the day off since next week is our bye week.”
“That sounds perfect,” she says.
I look at Dad and he gives me a triumphant look. He’s obviously done something magical to calm down Mom’s worrying about Chloe being an evil reporter. I owe him.
After dropping my parents at the condo, I head for the stadium.
At the end of the second round of walk-throughs I come off the field, ready to call it a day once the films and squad meetings with the coaches are over. Foley meets me at the bench and asks me for a comment on the recent developments.
“Comment? What developments are you talking about?” I would normally hide my confusion, but Foley is a decent guy and he looks serious.
“NESH has been running trailers all day, for a show they’re airing tonight called Perspective: Why Tate Fontanna pushes himself past the edge of no return.”
“What the hell does that mean?” What could they possibly have? NESH? Fuck. My chest tightens and my gut does a nosedive. I take a deep breath to calm down before I puke right here on the sideline all over Foley.
I must have paled with all the blood rushing to my feet making me dizzy because he asks, “You okay?”
“Fine.” I lie my ass off and try to get a grip, try to get my mind back on track, to re-engage the rational thought process as I take another deep breath.
Cat rushes onto the field from the tunnel, heading right at me at a dead run. She looks panicked and for some reason that calms me.
“Tate,” she says, out of breath, then turns to Foley. “Did you tell him?”
“About the upcoming story NESH is airing?” Foley asks.
Cat scoffs, “It’s not a story. It’s more like a load of gossip.”
“It’s okay, Cat,” I say because her face is all red and she looks like she’s going to smack poor Foley. I lead her away.
“Let’s get inside,” she says, catching her breath. “We need to get you away from the media for now.”
“You know the story Foley is talking about?” I refuse to think the worst. Not until I see it with my own eyes. Or hear about it from Chloe.
We get inside the tunnel and take the first door to a long corridor heading to the elevator to the team offices. She takes a deep breath and stops.
“The news previews I’ve seen for tonight’s show includes teasers with clips of—”
“Don’t tell me.” I put up a hand to stop her. I know the clip. It’s that long-ago moment at the graveside with the reporters hurling accusations and then outside my home the next day with my mother collapsing into my arms. Days after Frank died.
“Whose story is it?” I say. My gut churns, my chest is almost too tight to talk, to even breathe.
“Sarina’s hosting the special.” I nod. We both know that doesn’t mean Chloe isn’t involved.
Cat looks away from me and I know she knows something she’s not telling me.
My gut roils again, but I calm it instantly with the memory of making love with Chloe.
It’s not just sex anymore, not about dancing around the edge with an exciting enemy.
It’s all about loving a strong, fierce, caring woman with the sweetest vulnerable underbelly I’ve ever seen, a woman brave enough to show her hurt to me, to bare all on a chance we might have something.
“You should talk to Chloe,” Cat says, biting her lip, looking unhappy as she touches my arm.
“Oh, I will.”
My phone pings and I check it to see a text from Chloe to meet me at my condo. I text back that I’ll be there in twenty minutes. “Thanks for the heads-up, Cat. I need to go home. Right now.”
But my parents are there. Fuck. As I walk back down the hall, I call Chloe.
“We can’t meet at my place. My parents are there.”
“Come to my house.”
“On my way now.” I punch off. It feels strange to be so curt, without emotion.
We just made love this morning and it felt like real lovemaking, as in real love.
Now? I feel like a brick, like I’m holding back, in some state of suspended animation.
But that’s going to end the minute I walk through her door.
She lets me in and backs away from me, but I follow her all the way until she’s backed up against the wall that holds her Murphy bed. I give her a foot of space, forcing my arms to stay at my sides because I can’t stand the tragic cast of those violet eyes as I stare her down.
“Talk,” I say.
“It was all my idea, but I took it all back.” She stops and I can feel the tic in my jaw as my muscles tense. I wait for her to continue because there has to be more.
Her eyes glitter and I know she’s trying not to cry and I’m trying not to care.
“I did all the research, all the background, put everything together. My concept was a human-interest exposé.” She laughs and I can taste the bitterness in it, want to smother it with my mouth, but I don’t dare. I can’t touch her. I’m too angry.
“But that was before . . .” She waves a hand between us to signify what we have—or had. “I’ve come to realize how unfair this would be to you—with your contract negotiations and all.”
“Fuck the contract.” It’s how I feel. Because who gives a fuck about a contract when you’re being fucked over by someone you care about.
“I pulled the file and wiped the computer clean. I swear it. I took all my files and zip drives. Or I thought I did.”
Panic is rising in her voice, tears streaming down her face, and she goes on. Numbness starts to overtake me, mercifully, as the unequivocal fact of her betrayal thunders to life.
“I tried calling the studio, about a million fucking times after I saw the first teaser. They won’t take my calls and now my number is blocked. I bought a burner phone and called again and got through to Maguire. He told me they’re triumphant. They grilled him for intel but he had nothing.”
“Then how did they resurrect your story so quickly?” I ask, calm banking the storm rising inside me as I keep my hands on her, keep the feel and knowledge of the woman I’ve fallen for in the forefront of my mind.
But I can’t. The story is hers. And it was about me.
And the best I can do is try to keep from feeling anything.
“When I saw the first teaser this afternoon, I went through everything in a panic and counted the zip drives. One is missing. Maguire says they found it under my desk. It must have fallen when I scooped everything up. I was in a hurry—too hasty. Fuck.” Tears glitter in her eyes and I grip her tighter.
“They called Duff into the office, told him to clear out his desk and take early retirement. He told them, ‘It’s not early retirement. It’s late by about twenty-four hours.
’ Duff said to me, ‘I’m on the outs now, babe, same as you, but I feel good and so should you.
’” She sniffles, swipes her arm across her nose, her hand across her cheek, and I notice it’s shaky.
She’s crying for her friend getting fired when she’s in more hot shit than he is. But I’m still numb, still betrayed.
“None of this would have happened if you—”
“I know, damn you. Don’t you think I know that?” She launches herself at me and I catch her automatically, the sensations of having her in my arms, against my body registering in a part of my brain that doesn’t care about trust or betrayal.
“It’s not your fault, Chloe. It’s mine,” I say into her hair. “I should never have trusted you.”
I push her away, feeling the loss, the aching pain of the hole in my heart that she’s managed to fill in like no one else with her bullshit.
When I get home my parents are watching the special, huddled together on the couch, my dad comforting my mom who is weeping inconsolably.
On my behalf or for her brother Frank, I’m not sure.
There’s a lot of old wounds opened up. As soon as I take in the scene, I walk straight for the television and yank the cable from the wall.
Enough of this fucking bullshit. I don’t say the words aloud out of respect for my mom.
I stand in front of them, forcing myself to meet their heartbroken stares.
“I’m sorry you had to see that,” I say.
“Son,” Dad says, but I put up my hands to stop him and head for my bedroom, slamming the door behind me. The last thing I want now is sympathy for my broken heart, broken dreams, and the last fucking disillusionment I hope to ever suffer in my life.