Page 65 of Playing for Keeps

Chloe

I’m sick and it’s not just because I’m stuck in a crowded newsroom in a station out in Worcester and the air conditioning is on the blink. I have the late-night sports spot and don’t do a lot of in-person in the field interviews except the games. I cover baseball and football so I’m busier than ever every day and even though I need to commute an hour west of the city every night to get to the studio, I don’t mind.

No way am I giving up my apartment. Besides it’s convenient for the games. Jumping up from my desk with only two minutes until airtime, I rush to the ladies’ room because it’s closer than my dressing room and I don’t have time to worry about privacy right now.

“What the hell?” The director asks. I put up my hand to indicate two minutes knowing that’s all I have to hurl my guts out, wash and look presentable as I rush back out and take my seat with a big smile as the count goes down to five, four, three, two, one.

After the spot, the night anchor, an older gentleman who retired from the New York market two years ago, follows me to my dressing room.

“What is it?” I say, folding my arms across my chest, harder to do with my boobs swelled bigger than usual.

“When are you due?” he says, pulling no punches, reminding me he’s still a pro.

“Very funny.” I turn and go inside. He calls out to me something about not being able to hide it forever. Not even from myself. Damnation. I cry. Right then and there, I break down and cry.

The last sign I needed to let me know the universe is in fact, out to get me.

* * *

A kid isthe last thing I ever wanted, but it’s the first and only thing on my mind as I wake up in the morning after dreaming about the pink line. It’s Saturday, my day off and I should sleep in, need my sleep, but I can’t. I have to tell him. I can’t put it off or my head will explode. And it has to be today.

No matter how much he hates me, Tate is the father of my baby and deserves to know. We haven’t seen each other except from a distance at games in three weeks. His back injury looks like it’s under control, thank god, after he surprisingly took a week off in spite of a big game, in spite of losing that big game, no one said a thing about him being a crucial missing piece, not even when asked.

I was careful never to ask or suggest Tate Fontanna’s absence or his injury had anything to do with that potentially crucial loss. It’s only a game. A mantra my father mentioned daily to me, and sometimes to players to mixed reviews.

Story or no story, contract or no contract, nothing is more important than this baby right now. That much has crystalized in my mind like nothing else. And no lectures by Dad from the grave, or memories of his rules or sayings or words of wisdom are needed for this lesson to take hold and grab me by the throat.

My dad was a damn good parent and I don’t know if it was in spite of his career or maybe because of it, but I know and always knew I was his top priority. If he could do it, so could I. And there is nothing that would make him prouder of me than if I were a good mother to some lucky little girl or boy—or heaven forbid both at once. Don’t go there Chloe—so what if Tate was a twin—it doesn’t mean a thing—does it?

What means a hell of a lot more is that Tate will make a spectacular dad—no matter if he hates me or loves me. No matter if he breaks my heart because I am so fucking madly in love with him that I want to cry like a baby. Or that could be the hormones kicking in I hear tell.

Pulling the covers aside, I jump from bed and take inventory of my body. No nausea, only the same empty hungry stomach as usual, thank god. Going to my kitchenette, I pick up the coffee pot, then I stop. Should I even be drinking coffee now? I’m not sure, so I put the empty pot down and decide I can wait until after I talk to the doctor. My appointment is in an hour.

Wondering for the jazillionth time how this happened—aside from the part about me and Tate fucking our brains out—because I’m on birth control. I have a patch, don’t I? This is a mystery I’m hoping the doctor can explain, because I’m sure as hell going to need to have an explanation for Tate.

Directly after my appointment, I will talk to Tate. No matter how busy he is, no matter how much he tries to avoid me. I won’t let him escape without knowing he’s the father of my baby. Our baby.