Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
Tate
Staying out of practice has me almost as irritated as the pain in my back does.
I’m disgruntled and not myself, sitting in a whirlpool with nothing to occupy my mind except memories of Chloe going down on me.
After we got me dressed and dosed heavily on pain meds, I got an Uber and dropped her off at her car before heading for the stadium.
That was yesterday and I haven’t seen or heard from her since.
After she didn’t answer my first text last night, I haven’t bothered with another. Forget calling her. Next move is hers. Sean Patrick comes into the room with the trainer, holding his phone up.
“What the hell are you doing in here? On another break from your grueling practice?”
He gives me his middle finger, his grin undiminished. I don’t think I’ve ever seen the kid scowl.
“I’m a special teams drill all-star. Just made a killer tackle to save a TD. We’re on a short break and I wanted check in on you. Give you an update on the Twitter feed.”
Trying not to blame the messenger because the last thing I want to hear about is social media, I say, “Sure.”
Social media is the only thing worse than official media and doubly bad when official media resorts to using social media. It’s all a big frenzy of over sensationalized gossip and sometimes pure fiction. But since Sean is doing me a favor, I wave my hand, encouraging him to go ahead with it.
“You’re trending in Boston,” he says and I have a passing awareness that this can’t be a good thing since I’m on the injured list. It’s not like they’re going to talk about me having a great game when they can talk about my injury.
“Do tell,” I say, my encouragement diminishing.
He laughs. “It’s all about your injury, but the part that has interest flaring is talk about you being out for the season.”
“Fuck. Where the hell did that come from?”
“No one reliable,” he says.
The question couldn’t have come from anywhere aside from idle speculation because our team’s medical status is locked up in a vault of secrecy as if world peace depends on it.
The official results of my MRI says I need rest. The doc says I can play with a shot.
None of this is information available for public consumption.
And none of it says I have a long-term problem.
PT, ice baths, stretching, the inversion table, and the shots will all help get me back to one hundred percent far quicker than the average guy would.
“Chloe hasn’t tweeted a word,” he says as if I’m about to accuse her, which I’m not. “I don’t know what you two have going on, but I swear she wouldn’t do that to you. She’s a stand-up lady for a reporter.”
A large part of me, about ninety percent, believes that’s true.
I want to believe in her a hundred percent.
She’s given me reason to believe in her, to go against all my previously held notions about reporters putting stories above decency when it suits them.
I even put aside my initial judgment of her that she might have blind ambition fueled by her father’s legacy to betray a player to get her story.
Caution around reporters is drilled into every player, but I’ve always taken it more seriously than most, lived by the mantra that none of them can be truly trusted, that it’s not worth the risk. But there’s no caution in sight now, none to be dredged up inside me where Chloe is concerned.
Not since she came to the hospital for me and didn’t utter a word to anyone about it.
“Thanks, Sean.”
“You coming out on the field at all today? That might help squash the rumors.”
“I have a therapeutic massage coming up in a few minutes. Then a session on the inversion table. After that I’ll be out there.” No matter what the trainer says.
Every night this week when the phone rings, I check thinking it’s Chloe and instead it’s my mother or father. Even my brother calls to check up on me. I haven’t seen Chloe at practice all week except from a distance. Now it’s Friday and I’m good and pissed.
Game three is a Sunday night game and my parents will be there. Mom is bugging me to meet Chloe and I’ve been putting her off. Lying on my couch with a heating pad, I reach over and answer the phone, without looking at the display.
“Hi, Mom.” I expect her to laugh, but the laugh I hear isn’t my mother’s. Sitting up fast—too fast—I groan. “Fuck—sorry.”
“You okay, Fontanna? Sorry to disappoint you if you were expecting your mother to call.”
“No, I’m not disappointed.” Every nerve in me is lit up and happy, especially the nerve endings in my cock, which is growing by the second just hearing her fucking voice. Damn.
“Hey, don’t ever take your mother for granted,” she says. Then I curse myself for being an insensitive prick because of course she has no mother, never did really.
“You’re right, but it’s good to hear from you.” I’m not pathetic enough to call her on not returning my text, like a needy boyfriend, because that’s not who I am. Not needy and not her boyfriend. I don’t know what the fuck I am, but it’s neither of those two things.
“I should have called you sooner, but . . .” There’s a pause and it goes on too long for me to stay silent.
“But what, Chloe?” I can’t keep the accusation from my voice, proving I’m a fool.
“You need to heal and I . . . didn’t want to tempt you—tempt myself—make it worse.”
My grin feels silly. I’m turning into an imbecile. “Is that right? So you didn’t call me for my own good?”
She laughs. “When you put it like that it sounds—”
“Nice,” I say, knowing it’s a lame thing to say, but my head is haywire with re-living her lips around my cock—either pair of lips. I’d take anything from her right now.
“I’m glad,” she whispers, but she sounds more sad than pleased and I wonder if she misses me that much, wants me that much, or if it’s something else. Shoving the paranoia aside, I believe she deserves the benefit of the doubt.
“You working the game Sunday Night?”
“Yes. On-field color. No post-game press conference.”
“Good,” I say, my heart stuttering with the largeness of what I’m going to say. “Because I want you to meet my parents after the game.” A breathy pause for a beat, then two without a word has my heart thudding faster, waiting with impatience.
“Wow, Tate. I . . . I don’t know what to say.” She pauses again and when I’m about to tell her to forget the whole fucking shit idea, she rushes her words like they’ve been logjammed.
“I’d love to meet your parents. It would mean a lot to me. I wish I could return the favor.”
“Chloe . . .” I close my eyes, realizing this is tough for her and I’m a dick for my impatience, my clumsy invitation.
“I’ll see you after the game then.”
“Meet us in the anteroom near the press room. It’s set aside for relatives and friends waiting for players.”
“I know that room. I don’t think I’ve ever been in there officially.”
“No big deal,” I say. “If it wasn’t such a late game, we could all go out to dinner, but maybe it’s better to meet for a few minutes before I make you sit through a dinner with my family.”
She laughs. “Maybe.” Her tone tells me most definitely.
With my heart still pounding too fast with pleasure, excitement, and dread, we end the call.
Now all I need to do is let my parents know about the plan.
This is where the dread starts. Even though Mom has been haranguing me to meet Chloe, I know she’s going to freak as soon as she finds out that Chloe is a reporter.
But there’s no way to keep it from her, not for long.
And I’m done waiting for my mother’s patience to outlive my relationship with Chloe.
In spite of all the treatment, the rest and the super-charged shots, my back isn’t ready for prime time and after the first three snaps in the first quarter, Coach takes me out of the game.
Disappointment is a weak word for how I feel but when the final second ticks down and we win, sending the team to a record of three and 0, I get over it fast.
Post-game I change and skip the press conference because Coach doesn’t want me to deal with the barrage of questions he knows is coming about my injury status.
He’s an expert at shutting down topics and he handles it.
I go out to the anteroom to meet with my mom and dad and it’s bad enough fielding their questions about how I’m feeling.
“Honestly, Mom, I’m okay. I can walk and sit and move around, so I’ll live.”
“But can you play football?” she asks.
“You’ll have to come back next week to find out,” I say.
“It’s a deal,” Mom says at the same time as Dad says, “I don’t know if we can get away.”
She elbows him and he shrugs. “Guess we’ll leave your brother in charge two weeks in a row,” he says.
The clock is ticking and I know I’m out early, but Chloe should be here by now. I can see Mom looking at the door every time someone opens it as Dad talks about Gabe’s QB play and I half listen. The crowd in the room diminishes, leaving Mia and her mom waiting for Gabe and a few others.
Mom whispers, “Are you sure Chloe said she’d be here—?
” Before she finishes her sentence, the door flies open and Chloe rushes in, decked out in a Militia-blue business suit with a white frilly blouse like she’s trying out for the part of our team mascot.
All she needs is a hat and a flute. Her only concession to normalcy is the shiny red spike heels that don’t stop her from tapping across the room in our direction at top speed.
“So sorry I’m late. Henry had some questions on the clips we sent into the studio for the broadcast.” She beams an innocent smile, unaware that she’s let a very dangerous cat out of the bag. I should have fucking told her my mother hates reporters more than I do.
But the look on Mom’s face tells it all.
“This is Chloe Smith.” I throw a hand in the direction of my parents, who are now standing. “Meet my mom and dad.”
Chloe puts out a hand to shake, her smile still wide. “I’m so pleased to meet you. You have to be extremely proud of your son.”
My mom goes cold, staring at Chloe without a smile, but my Dad takes her hand and makes up for Mom with a warm greeting.
“We are. He’s told us you’re special to him.” He leaves it at that, not mentioning that I’ve hardly told him anything about her. Especially not the one key fact that she’s a fucking reporter.
Chloe wraps an arm around mine, leaning into me, looking giddy with pleasure and oblivious to my mother’s silence. Maybe she thinks my mom is shy. Too bad she’s not.
“Too bad it’s such a late game or we could go to dinner and get to know you better,” Dad says.
He tries to cover for my mother. We both know she’s protective of me, same as I am of her.
The big surprise is that I’m feeling protective of Chloe right now, needing to shield her from my mother’s bias against her.
“Did you say you work for a studio?” Mom says, her voice low and full of consternation.
Chloe blushes. “Yes I’m a sports broadcaster,” she says, before I can stop her, before I can think of something diverting to say. My mother’s intake of breath is sharp and unmistakable.
Her voices rises an octave and she says, “You’re a reporter?” Mom flashes me an accusing glance and Chloe looks between us, going from puzzled to dawning realization as Dad clears his throat.
“That’s right, Mom. What are the odds?” I wait a beat for her to take in the fact that I’m okay with it, forcing her to hold back.
But I know Mom is a decent woman at heart and she’s not about to be mean to a stranger even if that stranger is a sports reporter, especially since I’ve made it clear that Chloe is no stranger to me.
“Chloe’s father was a sports reporter too,” I say. “He’s recently passed away.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Mom says.
Dad says, “Smith? You don’t mean your father was Oscar Smith?”
“Yes. Did you know him?” Chloe says, bright with hope.
“No, but I knew of him. Watched his broadcasts all the time—enjoyed the heck out of him. He was quite a character.” Dad’s won Chloe’s heart forever. I can tell by the way she looks at him and the sad cast that always comes over her face when she remembers her father.
“He was a wonderful character—and wonderful father.”
The room’s emptying out and it’s time to go, so we all walk out together, Mom remaining stoic until I give Chloe a short, sweet kiss good night. I’m not ready to upset my mother with a flagrant PDA, not with the kind of kiss I really want to give Chloe.
After we leave to go back to my condo, Mom gives me a lecture and warning from the back seat of my car about Chloe using me.
“I knows all about it, Mom. I’ve been careful. She’s trustworthy, I swear to you. We have . . . something.”
In spite of Chloe’s wish for her donation to my foundation to remain anonymous, I break the confidence and tell Mom and Dad about the ten-thousand-dollar donation Chloe made to Frank’s Foundation.
“Guilt money,” Mom says. And she’s not far off the mark, but I explain.
“In a way,” I say. “It was to make up for the reporters at the funeral. She made the donation shortly after she saw the clip when she was doing background research.”
It’s Dad who asks, “Why is she doing background research on you?”
I shrug. It’s a good question and I take for granted that she has something up her sleeve. I’ve been living with the knowledge since the moment I met her, waiting for the other shoe to drop, so that I’ve almost forgotten there’s something brewing, obviously on her back burner.
“Probably some exposé of some kind, but don’t worry.
There’s nothing to tell that hasn’t already been out there.
” That’s not entirely true since there’s been nothing but rumors about my back in the news and she knows they’re true.
She knows everything that’s been well hidden in the Militia’s vault of silence, impervious to all media inquiry.
None of the training or medical staff are allowed to talk to the press on threat of immediate dismissal.
But still, there’s nothing to the back injury. It’s a minor injury that’ll be history in a few weeks. There’s nothing to the rumors about it being season-ending and she knows it. Or at least I think she does.
“Of course I’m going to worry, Tate,” Mom says. “What kind of mother would I be if I didn’t?”
I smile at her in the rearview and we put the discussion aside.
But uneasiness stews inside me even as we talk about the game and the restaurant—and long after I go to bed, where I lie awake almost until dawn.