Page 61 of Playing for Keeps

Tate

Tomorrow is game four, a Monday Night prime time game against our toughest opponent. Big stage and bigger game. If we win, we’re first in the league and the only team left undefeated. I don’t remember when I’ve looked forward to playing a game more. My parents are flying in and I pick them up at the airport. Amazement sizzles through me as I hum along to the fucking radio because I don’t remember the last time I’ve even turned the radio on. Normally I avoid it to avoid the media intrusion, but now I couldn’t give a fuck.

Chloe’s done this to me. She’s responsible for the foolish grin I see in the mirror. Because she’s amazing and she’s mine. I don’t remember when I’ve been happier.

After only one time around the arrivals circuit at Logan, I see my parents and greet them with warm hugs. We load their luggage into the car and my dad sits up front with me.

“You going to get more playing time this week?” Dad asks as we drive through the back streets of East Boston heading toward my condo building. It’s only a ten-minute drive once we get out of Logan Airport.

“Yeah. They’re easing me back into the line-up,” I say. “This game will be one of our most competitive of the season. They’re planning to use me sparingly unless we get down by more than three points in the second half, then all bets are off and I’m in whether my back is in one piece or not.”

Mom has the usual reaction and I say to her in the rearview mirror, “Don’t worry, Mom. You raised a tough S.O.B.”

“That’s what I’m worried about,” she says and I laugh. She says, “Will we be seeing Chloe?”

“I’m planning for us to have brunch Tuesday morning. We have the day off since next week is our by-week.”

“That sounds perfect,” she says.

I look at Dad and he gives me a triumphant look. He’s obviously done something magical to calm down mom’s worrying about Chloe being an evil reporter. I owe him.

After dropping my parents at the condo, I head for the stadium. We have extra films and coach’s meetings this afternoon.

It’s at the end of the second round of walk-throughs and I come off the field, ready to call it a day once the squad meetings with the coaches are over. Foley meets me at the bench and asks me for a comment on the recent development.

“Comment? What developments are you talking about?” I would normally hide my confusion, but Foley is a decent guy and he looks serious.

“NESH has been running trailers all day, for a show they’re airing tonight called Perspective: Why Tate Fontanna pushes himself past the edge of no return.”

“What the hell does that mean?” What could they possibly have? NESH? Fuck. My chest tightens and my gut takes a nosedive. I take a deep breath to calm the instant reaction before I puke right here on the sideline all over Foley.

I must have paled with all the blood rushing to my feet making me dizzy because he asks, “You okay?”

“Fine.” I lie my ass off and try to get a grip, try to get my mind back on track, re-engage the rational thought process as I take another deep breath.

Cat rushes onto the field from the tunnel, heading right at me at a dead run. She looks panicked and for some reason that calms me.

“Tate,” she says out of breath, then turns to Foley. “Did you tell him?”

“About the upcoming story NESH is airing?” Foley says.

Cat scoffs, “It’s not a story. It’s more like a load of gossip.”

“It’s okay, Cat,” I say because her face is all red and she looks like she’s going to smack poor Foley. I lead her away from Foley.

“Let’s get inside,” she says, catching her breath. “We need to get you away from the media for now.”

“You know the story Foley is talking about?” I refuse to think the worst. Not until I see it with my own eyes. Or hear about it from Chloe.

We get inside the tunnel and take the first door to a long corridor heading to the elevator to the team offices. She takes a deep breath and stops.

“The news previews I’ve seen for tonight’s show includes teasers with clips of…”

“Don’t tell me.” I put up a hand to stop her. I know the clip. It’s that long-ago moment at the grave side with the reporters hurling accusations and then outside my home the next day with my mother collapsing into my arms. Days after Frank died.

“Whose story is it?” I say. My gut churns, my chest is almost too tight to talk, to even breath.

“Sarina’s hosting the special.” I nod. We both know that doesn’t mean Chloe isn’t involved.