Page 21 of Playing for Keeps

“Bullshit.” He doesn’t move, stares me down, makes me feel like he’s getting bigger or I’m getting smaller.

“Is it?” I pick up an empty cup from the table and toss it to his side. As predicted, he leans, putting an arm out to grab it, snatching it out of the air. But it’s a long reach and he stretches sideways pretty far to get it. I see the flinch. I raise my brows and fold my arms across my chest.

He glares back at me for a long, tense, silent moment and I swear I can hear the clock ticking, except there is no clock. No more flinching in him and no backing down. And not a word as he brushes past me and heads for the exit.

I call after him, “See you at practice.” He puts a hand above his head without turning around, and his middle finger raises high in defiance.

I want to laugh, but I don’t. It’s not really funny and I feel mixed. Besides, now I have to face Henry and own up to breaking my promise because I’m not even going to try to deny that I did.

Closing the office door behind me, I stand and face my boss. He scowls, sitting at his desk, silent. Then he stands and leans forward.

“You swore on your mother’s grave, Smitty. Now I can’t trust you.”

“You never could and you know it. You know my motives, you know my agenda.” I shrug, not nearly ashamed enough to apologize for real.

“Fair enough. Then let me give you a different motive. How about this. If you want to get back in the field, back on air, you stick to doing background work for Sarina’s Perspective piece—in the studio for one solid week. Best behavior.”

My chest tightens. He’s banned me from on-air work for a week. That’s steep and unexpected. I’ve underestimated Henry’s toughness and that’s on me. I nod because what else can I do?

The week passes quickly and even though the sting of being absent from my usual on-air stints kills me, I’m enjoying the time investigating and digging into the muck and weeds, finding the old stuff. At least I was enjoying it, right up until I found clips from the day Tate was drafted into the NFL.

Friday morning in the studio early and I’m in the film archive room by myself, thank God, reliving what has to be Tate Fontanna’s worst nightmare. His entire family’s worst nightmare. Clips from the funeral of his uncle Frank chill me to the bone, and shame at my profession courses through me like I’ve never experienced before.

It’s always been understood that a reporter has to report, has to tell the story, has to earn a living and do what he or she is paid to do. A lot of shit is tolerated under that umbrella of understanding, but not in this moment, not as I see the pain and rage in the eyes of Tate as a younger man—only four years ago, but an eon in disillusionment and grief.

Going through all the clips from the most recent backwards, I rail at not having discovered this sooner. But now I shoot through the entire history of Tate’s pre-NFL football clips with frantic urgency, fighting the clock because I need to get to the gala tonight ahead of the crowd.

I watch the entire history of his uncle Frank and him, all the clips of Tate being interviewed in high school and college showing his uncle either in the background or standing shoulder-to-shoulder with him as if he’s Tate’s representative. Understanding spreads through me in a sickening hot wave. I know why Tate hates the media. I know it with a burning, visceral ferocity.

It doesn’t take me long to find out that Frank was in fact Tate’s representative until Frank died suddenly. Then there was a scramble of all kinds of agents besieging him. It wasn’t until after he reported to camp weeks later that he signed with his current agent and there was a one-liner in one article quoting his agent admitting that Tate’s uncle Frank had done a good job in negotiating his rookie contract, his first deal. He had reportedly already been in talks for endorsement deals with Gatorade, Skechers, and Land Rover. I blow out a whistle.

Then I stand and roll my shoulders, restless and aware that I need to tear myself away. Tonight I’ll see Tate for the first time since our interview—where I blindsided him with an provoking question.