Page 31 of Playing for Keeps

Chloe

All the broadcasters at the studio have social media accounts, including me, and I put my Twitter account to good use today, staging a discussion about who’s the best middle linebacker in the league with the incendiary assertion that it’s not the Militia’s Tate Fontanna. Did I expect the discussion to go viral, trending in Boston ahead of everything else? No, but since it is and I’m keeping it up, even Henry notices and calls me into his office.

“I see you’re getting a massive response on Twitter to your clickbait.” He waves his hand, not exactly sure of his lingo because he’s no aficionado of social media and at an age that puts him squarely in the dinosaur category.

“Yeah, it’s still going. Cat’s helping with the back and forth.”

He nods. “Good work. You keep it up—all the hard work—and you may get a regular spot on the nightly Militia show instead of a remote cameo here and there.”

“Thanks, Henry.” He nods and dismisses me, so I leave, checking my watch on the way out of his office.

“It’s quitting time,” he calls after me. “Go out. Find yourself a nice young man.”

I head back to my desk to shut down my computer and grab my bag. This is break number one and couldn’t have happened at a better time with the last preseason game tomorrow. Duff comes by to touch base about tomorrow’s game plan and I tell him about Henry’s comment.

“Good news.” No smile. He’s an understated guy.

“Good enough to celebrate,” I say. “Let’s go out to Louie’s for whiskey and pasta.” I have a feeling certain players are regulars there and I wouldn’t mind seeing them, though chances are they’re not going to be out the night before a game—even a preseason game.

“It’s premature to be celebrating, but I’ll go along for a free shot of whiskey.”

Checking the clock, I say, “How about now?” I reach over and shut down my computer and pick up my bag.

“It’s what I like about you, Smitty,” he says. “You’re a no-nonsense kind of gal.”

“If you’re saying I don’t care what I look like, you’d be half right.”

“Nah. You know you look fine.” I don’t tell him I’ve already freshened up. In the elevator on the way to the parking garage, I tweet out an invitation to let people know I’m having a drink if anyone wants to talk Militia football tonight.

Yes, I did. Bold, but appropriately me. I just invited a couple of hundred thousand Twitter followers to an establishment that holds a hundred fifty tops. Not that most of my followers are on Twitter right now, or that many of them are in the area, or in a position to up and go out at the drop of a twenty. But I figure some will and that’ll make the night interesting. Maybe we’ll get some clips and pics. At the very least, more fodder for the Twitter feed. I’m good at it and picked up some great tips from Cat who’s even better at it. Duff glances over my shoulder at my phone.

“You sent that tweet? You’re crazy. I hope you know what you’re doing,” he says.

“Why? Chances are no one shows, but if they do, I’ve got you to protect me from the mob, don’t I?”

He grunts and nods. We take my car and I pull up to the curb out front of Louie’s. We walk in the door and my knees almost buckle from the aroma. Mental note: I need to eat at this place again sometime. Soon. Looking down the bar, I see it’s a slow night and I don’t mind. It’s okay with me if it stays slow, but a not-so-small part of me hopes that the main man shows up, the reason for the tweet, the object of my current journalistic obsession, Tate Fontanna.

We order our whiskeys, tweet a few photos of our antics, and an hour later we have a good-size crowd assembled for a lively whiskey-fueled discussion. The bartender and Louie, the restaurant’s owner, remember me and they join in the discussion about the efforts of several of the players and whether they go too far. I concede the argument because I have a really well-honed sense of self-preservation when I need to. Especially on the professional front, I keep things purposefully friendly.

Right up until Sean Patrick walks in the door with a furious Tate Fontanna not far behind him and gaining as if he’s in a race. Sean tries to hold him back, but there’s no way. Tate barrels right at me where I sit at the far end of the long bar, perched high and proud and grinning silly. What do I care if he’s mad? He’s here isn’t he?

As he reaches me with his full head of steam, I lean back, not sure if he intends to bowl me over. Maguire must think the same thing because he jumps off his stool and Sean catches Fontanna from behind as he gets in my face. He does a good job of ignoring the greeting from the crowd of fans and Sean does a good job of running interference, high-fiving and smiling as he hangs onto Tate’s arm with an impressive grip.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

Steeling myself, I stay on my stool, heart pounding so hard I hope my breezy, nothing-is-amiss act holds out.

“I think I’m having a drink with some football fans.” I turn to the bartender. “Another whiskey—Maker’s Mark straight up.” I turn back to Tate’s seething face as he calms himself, pulling from Sean’s grip and sidestepping Maguire who backs off.

In a low tight voice, so tight I can see the veins in his neck pulsing, his jaw muscle jumping, he says, “Are you fucking crazy?”

I laugh. “I thought you knew that.” The bartender puts the shot of whiskey in front of me and I hand it to Tate. “Looks like you can use this. But honestly, I don’t understand what the fury is about. We’re all adults here, just having drinks and talking football.” I’m so calm now, I’ve convinced myself that I’m innocent, that I wasn’t purposely taunting him and goading the most rambunctious fans into a controversial lather.

He knocks back the whiskey, slams the glass down on the bar in front of me, then insinuates himself into the tight space between me and Maguire, up close and personal now. He whispers to me, “You’re gonna get yourself into trouble with people you know nothing about, who may or may not be above punching a woman in the face.”

“You have no confidence in me whatsoever, do you?” I shake my head. He snorts.

“Let’s get out of here,” he says. Every nerve ending in me lights up and vibrates, especially the ones between my thighs