Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
Tate
Waking up with Chloe is like a dream and a nightmare. Once we get past another round of mind-blowing sex and I take her back to her car, I’m not sure how to handle her.
I’m not comfortable having a relationship with her—fuck no—but I’m not comfortable with the whole enemies with benefits thing either, though that’s where we’re at. That’s what I tell her. I feel like a fucking jackass saying it.
“If that’s the way you want it,” she says. “You got it.” I’m too much of a coward, or maybe too concerned about self-preservation, too cynical, to ask her what other way there is, what way she wants it.
“Look, I have a busy week this week. With the game on Thursday night.”
“No need to explain to me. I’m right there with you—on the other side, of course—behind enemy lines.”
“You’re a troublemaker,” I say, no heat, giving her half a smile.
“Notorious,” she says. Then she leans in and kisses me, quick and easy and hot, and gets out of my car.
I watch her as she drives away. I’m not sure where she’s going, to the studio or to her attic lair.
I throw my car into gear, wishing it were that easy to get myself into gear because my head isn’t where it should be for this game and I’m going to need to catch up fast. It’s a big one with our main division rival. Fuck, fuck, fuck. I am so fucked up.
Can I really have a relationship with a sports reporter? A woman who hounds me for intel about my injury status as if she wants me to be injured to make a good news clip?
If I thought the locker room was going to be my solace, my escape from Chloe-on-the-brain, then I’m seriously delusional or I forget what my friends are like.
Because the first thing I hear on the way to my locker is a wolf whistle loud and clear from Sean Patrick and a mile-wide grin as he slaps me on the back.
“We had bets you’d be late, but you did me proud. I knew even a woman like Chloe couldn’t keep you—”
“Shut the fuck up. And what do you mean a woman like Chloe?”
Hi grin doesn’t diminish one iota. “You know—someone special.” I take that in and don’t know how to respond, how to explain that she’s not special when my gut and my heart know otherwise.
When that’s the exact thing that has my insides in fucking knots and my head messed up.
Because if she weren’t special, I’d have dismissed her after that first day we met.
But how does Sean know she’s special when he doesn’t even know what I know, that she’s the kind of woman who makes crazy anonymous donations and lives in a fucking tenement while she devotes herself to preserving her father’s legacy by carrying on in his footsteps.
That she’s the kind of woman who’s endured in spite of losing everyone she’s loved and still moves ahead, bent but unbroken and brave.
Fuck. I look away from him only to hear Gabe and Hunter snorting with laughter and heading my way.
“Here he is,” Gabe says, too loud for my comfort, as I throw my things into my locker and pretend he’s no more than a pest. “The man with biggest, bravest balls of the day. Gutsy enough to parade around with a sports reporter in front of her fellow reporters. The least likely—”
“Fuck off,” I say, attempting a smile, knowing it’s more of a scowl.
Predictably he laughs, as does everyone else in earshot.
Taking a deep breath, I know I’m being a fool letting this all get to me.
Gabe has no idea how messed up I am. He probably thinks it’s a casual fling. It should be a casual fling.
Or maybe he thinks it’s more and truly thinks I’m crazy. Maybe I am, because I know damn well it’s more than casual between me and Chloe, no matter how much I say the words enemies with benefits. No matter how much I warn myself not to go anywhere near a relationship with a reporter.
Gabe slaps me on the back and says in a much quieter voice, “Don’t worry, man. We’ve all been there.” I wonder what the fuck he means by that and he must read my mind because he says in a low voice I can barely hear, “We’ve all had what we thought were . . . inappropriate relationships.”
My mind clears, and for a flicker I see he’s right.
Mia was his girlfriend’s best friend when they met and I thought Gabe was crazy.
Hunter married the fucking coach’s daughter.
Max comes over to our huddle and we let him in because he’s the one man universally respected as the veteran sage, the wise old man.
He takes in the situation and sizes it up.
“You ready to play, Fontanna?”
“Sure. The guys were just schooling me on how fucked up we all are when it comes to women.” He quirks his mouth and nods.
“I’m right there with you. I’m with a woman young enough to be my niece.
” Everyone cracks up because in truth, he’s not exactly an old man and Natalie is a formidable woman underneath her hot-as-sin exterior.
I know there’s all kinds of complications going on in his life, but he never lets it get to him, plays it cool always, and even Gabe admires him though Max is his backup QB.
The men around me are more than my teammates and, looking around at them, I nod.
“Let’s go get ready,” I say, putting my fist in the center of the huddle.
Everyone follows suit and Gabe makes the call and we break.
I’m not usually in huddles with Gabe, neither is Sean or even Max, but we have a bond within the team’s close-knit community that I fully appreciate at this moment, that motivates me, elevates me above whatever else is going on, to play with everything I have.
That makes me remember who and what I’m dedicating my career to, the memory of my mentor, my uncle Frank.
After films, we’re on the field breaking into our groups and I’m with the linebacker group.
My role is to run the defense on the field, communicate reads and shifts and make sure we stay in sync.
I’m working with the defensive coordinator on a scheme to disguise our QB spy for Thursday’s game.
We run through a play with the offense with Max in at QB because he’s less predictable than Gabe.
The switch-out disguise works perfectly as I catch up with Max when he tries to scramble outside of the pocket and I end up on the ground with him under me. Ignoring the shot of pain through my back, I roll off him.
“Fuck, sorry man.” Jumping to my feet, I reach out a hand to help him up. He’s laughing and he lifts his helmet off.
“Shit, I think I have grass in my mouth.” Everyone laughs as he pulls chunks of turf from his facemask. He’s only slightly exaggerating.
“Let’s break.” Marini calls from the sidelines. It’s time for films of our opponent and then a team supper before more scheming and a team meeting. Today’s a long day in a short week where we’re trying to cram six days of prep into four. I walk with Max off the field and back to the locker room.
“Are you serious about Chloe?” he asks me point blank.
“No.” My kneejerk response kicks in before I think. “We’re not an item.” I search my head for the right words to say and all I come up with after rattling around in confusion is the safe words. “She’s more like an enemy with benefits.” Max looks skeptical.
“You sure she’s cool with that?” he says, sounding like a protective father—or uncle. Then I remember he knew her father, or at least had met him, and had met Chloe when she was a young girl, so maybe he does have a soft spot for her.
“That’s what she tells me. And why wouldn’t she be? She’s a big girl, more worldly than most. She knows better than most women what players are about.” I almost have myself convinced by my speech.
“Except you’re not a player. At least not that kind of player.” Max sounds sure of himself and it’s no use trying to con the wise old man of the locker room. So I don’t bother. I shrug it off and trot ahead of him inside where I lose him.
Not even a conversation with Max is going to help sort out the mess in my head and my gut. So I do what I always do when emotions overwhelm me, I focus on football, let the energy channel into playing the game.
It’s after nine p.m. by the time I get home and I walk inside, the lights off, the place only lit by the twinkling Boston skyline across the harbor.
My mind automatically goes to last night, but I shut it down.
Before I can turn on the television for a distraction, my phone rings and, slipping it from my pocket, I see it’s my mother. Grinning, I answer the call.
“How’s the woman who’s spoiled me for all others?” She laughs. It’s good to hear. My tension sheds a layer and I lean against my kitchen island looking at the serene night view.
“Same as always. Busy with the restaurant and enjoying the football season.”
“Not too busy to come to next Sunday’s game as planned?”
“Wouldn’t miss it. Though we can only stay the one night and I so would have liked to stay longer.” She pauses and I know she has something on her mind. “I would like to meet your new girlfriend,” she says. My head explodes in confusion like she’s talking Chinese.
“What new girlfriend? What are you talking about, Mom?” Then it hits me as I’m asking the question. Chloe. The flashes of cell phones at Louie’s. And I groan out loud.
“Don’t pretend with me. One of my friends from book club came into the restaurant today and says her daughter saw you on Twitter.
She showed me photos of you with a lovely young woman.
Tell me about her, Tate.” She seems genuinely pleased and I cringe, knowing if my mom finds out Chloe is a reporter, she’ll have a fit and worry about my mental well-being for real.
Fuck, I’m worried about my mental faculties.
“No one special, Mom.” Guilt grabs me by the balls as soon as I say the words.
“Don’t lie to me, Tate. I can tell when you do.” She uses that half teasing, half accusing voice that always gets me.
“I mean it—she is special, but we don’t have that kind of relationship where I would introduce her to my mother. You know what I mean?”
“So it’s still new?” Hating myself for it, I agree with Mom, unable to explain my relationship in a coherent way to her—or to myself, for that matter. We confirm plans for her and Dad to visit and stay with me at my condo.
“Maybe we can have dinner with this new young woman—what’s her name?” There’s no sense not telling her.
“Chloe.” I leave it at that, unwilling to share anything else about her because I know it would upset my mother and I’m not even sure if whatever we have will last until game three when my parents get here.
“Lovely name. I look forward to meeting her, honey.”
“We’ll see how it goes, Mom.” This is the most honest thing I’ve said. We say our goodbyes and end the call.
Fuck. One more layer of fucked-up confusion to put on my relationship with fucking Chloe Smith.
My mom would be horrified if she knew Chloe is a reporter.
Because no matter how paranoid and cynical about reporters I am, my mother is a hundred times worse.
I’m her son and she’s a fierce mama bear when it comes to reporters ever hurting me again.
Kind of like the way I feel about protecting my mother from the media.