Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Chloe
“So what can you tell me about Tate Fontanna?” I say.
I’m not usually so blunt about my ulterior motives for talking to a subject, but Sean Patrick seems affable and interested and besides, I’m desperate.
I need a story, and not the run-of-the-mill canned quotes of optimism everyone seems to be spewing as if they’ll never lose another game again.
He laughs. Okay, I deserve that. Time to get real.
“I hear he has a back problem he’s not telling anyone about.”
“If he’s not telling, then what makes you think you know about it?”
“I see. You’re protecting him too.” I don’t tell him I overheard the team’s trainer in a bar.
And I especially wouldn’t want him to know that it was no happy coincidence I was there.
A reporter has to be resourceful. That’s what my daddy always told me.
Especially a girl reporter and double-damn especially if she’s a girl sports reporter.
“Call it women’s intuition.”
“How about if I let you buy me a beer, get me drunk, and pump me for information later?”
It’s my turn to laugh. “Okay, you’re on.” Because I have no alternatives at the moment. He tells me the name of a bar.
“Seven p.m.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be in training?”
“I am. But I’m a kicker. We train differently than the rest of the guys.
” He lifts his brows up and down comically.
He’s cute, but I don’t feel it. Not that I’m looking, and especially not for a pro athlete, heaven forbid.
I know from long skillful observation that professional athletes make the worst boyfriends and shudder to think what the hell kind of spouses they might make.
I’m happily single and on my way up the sports broadcasting career ladder with things to prove and a family legend to carry on, so I have more important things to do than find a man to romance, better things to get off on. As far as I’m concerned, romance is highly overrated.
And romance with a pro football player would be the shittiest of the fucking shit.
I mentally scold myself for thinking swear words since I’m supposed to try and clean up my language.
But it’s hard since I was brought up by my dad and lived in news rooms and locker rooms all my life.
If he hadn’t sent me away to Georgia State and insisted I join my mother’s old sorority, I’d still be wearing stained T-shirts and baggy pants and probably be smoking cigars on the regular right now.
As it is, I only smoke them occasionally.
“See you then, big boy,” I say to Sean and move on to talk to the backup quarterback, a seasoned pro who’s not going to give away any secrets, but I have to try.
“Max Devon, I hear you’re looking to get into coaching after this season?
” I see the flicker of surprise before he gives me the game face and though it’s not enough to go with for a spot, I can get away with some tweets about it.
Checking over my shoulder, I make sure my cameraman caught the reaction and he nods.
“I’m not looking at anything but preparing for the season right now.” Then he shows a wise, lopsided smile and stretches out a hand. “Nice to meet you. I hear you’re up from Georgia. Chloe Smith, isn’t it?”
It’s impossible for me to hide my surprise, but I smile for real at this guy, and with great respect.
“Yes. You do your homework. And I thought it was only us reporters who did that. Impressive,” I say, trying to figure how he could have known since half the people at the station don’t know me yet.
My cameraman, Duff Maguire, raises a brow at me and shakes his head, denying it came from him.
I like Maguire after only two days on the job because he doesn’t say much, lets me do my job as I see fit and run the show.
You can’t buy that kind of trust. Or maybe he just doesn’t care.
But I get the sense that he knows what he’s doing and he’s been testing me and likes what he sees.
Plus, I made sure he knew who my father is. Was.
Legendary in the sports reporting world.
Now gone. Damn. Fucking damn. Every time I think about him I want to cry, but now is not the time.
Lifting my chin, I move on. Go for the bold when in doubt—a page from my father’s bible of advice.
I don’t know if he meant it for reporting or life, but I use it for both.
“Who told you who I am?”
“I know a couple of your sorority sisters,” he says. I should have known. He adds, “But I would have known you anyway. I’ve been around the league a while and I remember your dad. You look a lot like him. I think I might have met you once or twice when we were both much younger.”
“Oh my God—that’s right. You played for Chicago and my dad took me to a game or two.
I should have remembered that. My bad.” My smile is genuine now and Duff lowers his camera since I’m off point.
My respect for Duff shoots up and I introduce him to Max as if Max is an old friend.
But anyone with connections to my dad automatically has gravitas with me.
I miss him so much and have a strong urge to trade stories right now but I know that’s all wrong.
Unprofessional. Plus, it’ll make me start crying and I’ve done enough of that to last a lifetime.
Still, the hole gapes that he left in my heart and Max must sense this because he pats me on the back and says, “You must miss him terribly. He was one of those larger-than-life personalities with shoes impossibly big to fill—especially for his cherished daughter.”
And now I want to hug this man like he is my uncle or long-lost brother.
A tear escapes. Fuck. I turn aside, nodding.
Maguire covers for me, blocking me from the view of most everyone, which is important since most everyone on the media side of the line has cameras and the players all have phones with cameras and the last thing I need is any evidence of me with any weakness whatsoever.
Another line of advice from my father. Never show weakness, never let them see your soft side.
Reserve it well for the few and the lucky, like I do for you.
Remembering his words, hearing them in my head, almost makes my knees buckle with sorrow and emptiness.
Until I hear that voice come up behind me, forcing me to stiffen my spine.
A certain cure for showing softness like nothing else.
No way could I allow vulnerability in the company of that horrible smartass. That preposterous hunk Tate Fontanna.
“Max.” he nods, glances my way with unmistakable disdain. I face him, match his disdain and up him one to blatant dislike, hovering on I-don’t-care-what-you-think. But we both know it’s fake, I’ve gone too far, and he gives me a mock smile, seems amused with my discomfort. The dick.
“Introduce me to your new reporter friend,” he says to Max.
Max looks us over and I get my act together, pull up my tattered big girl panties and become the professional Southern belle that I’ve come to resemble, the sheen barely covering the whiskey-drinking, snarling, swearing, hard-nosed sports reporter I was raised to be.
“Meet Chloe Smith,” Max says, “a born-and-bred sports reporter who grew up old-school and has been around professional locker rooms longer than either of us.”
I nod, approving of the intro. My cameraman is itching to turn his camera back on and I give him a subtle tilt of my head.
Being the pro I’m coming to appreciate more every minute, he backs away before he raises his camera again.
I don’t care if Tate knows or doesn’t know we’re back on the record.
My cameraman is behind him, but Max sees the shift and stands straighter, putting his professional mask back on.
The thing is, it looks a lot like his unguarded face: gracious, polished and wise.
Note to self—keep that Max Devon in your back pocket for future reference, potentially as a friend more than a foe.
“That right?” Skepticism drips from Tate and his stupid dimples show. Two of them. Deep and, well, adorable.
“It is,” I say. “Where do you come from?”
“Midwest. Heart and soul of the country. But I’m sure you know that. You would have done your homework since you’re a pro and all.”
I want to smack him, but I smile my Southern belle smile, the one that would be accompanied by bless your heart if I got out of control. But I stand my ground. Nod as if I’m feeling respectful, a gracious person.
“That must be where you got your hundred and fifty percent work ethic,” I say.
He has the nerve to laugh like he means it. Max raises a brow. Maguire lowers the camera, the red light goes out. We’re off the record again. “Tell me about the recovery from your shoulder injury. Any residual effects?” I know full well there are.
“No. I’m healthy. Ready to go.”
“We should get going,” Max says, slapping Tate’s back and I’m reminded where the lines are drawn. He disarms the situation as if we need to be dragged to our corners. But I’m just getting started.
“Where you going?” I ask. “I wouldn’t mind having a couple of beers.”
“Another time,” Max says.
Sliding a look at Tate, I check his reaction.
Suspicion and . . . something else. Could be interest. Not respect.
I’ll earn his respect—and everyone else’s—before I’m finished in Boston.
Everyone told me this is a tough town to crack, filled with parochial connections and secret handshakes screening the successes. But I’m tough and I love a challenge.
I need a big story. An exposé. No empty gossip, no meaningless twaddle about how much money a guy’s holding out for or which record a guy wants to break.
I’m going for the jugular. I want to cover stories about the effect of football on the players’ real lives.
The stories behind the drive, behind what makes the great ones great.