Page 1 of Playing for Keeps

Prologue

Tate

The casket disappears into the grave. My heart clenches, but I hold in my emotions, which will wreck me if given a chance. The priest says some prayers in a low singsong voice, giving me a chill in spite of the blazing heat and my dark suit. Grief is too simple a word for the complicated poison I feel churning inside me. Loss? Try anger, guilt, longing, emptiness, nausea, dizziness, uncontrollable shaking, and a cavernous pall of blackness over my life that was bright as the sun three days ago.

Three days and a fucking nightmare ago I was drafted into the NFL. The dream of a lifetime realized. The day my uncle, my mentor and best friend, crashed his car and died.

Some of the anger I feel is at him, most of it at the universe. But a growing corner of the anger is for me. For letting him go, for letting him get into his car and drive home after he’d had a few drinks of celebration. After the rest of the family left, I stayed late with a group of old high school friends and teammates and told him I’d catch an Uber later.

Fuck me. Fuck the world.

My mother cries quietly next to me, my father holding her. My twin brother, Marcus, stands on my other side like a granite statue of himself. It’s my fault we’re all here.

The crack in the vault holding my volcanic emotions starts slow, like a small fissure in a windshield hit by a stone, then it spreads. I reach out a hand and grip my brother’s arm as if I’m going to fall, like I need to stop myself from jumping into the grave with my uncle Frank.

Marcus tenses, then stands straighter, letting me clutch his arm like a wild beast. In some small, still rational, functioning part of my brain, I think it has to hurt. But that reasonable corner of my mind has no control, not enough to make me let go, anyway.

I can barely breathe and my heart is pounding like a marching band on crack. The priest finishes his prayers and all is quiet. For a few long, hard heartbeats absolute silence envelops us, eases my tension like a pause button, lets me out of my body, out of the pain. The anger and grief ebb away as if dialed down to background noise. The silence lets me feel a moment of peace. But only a moment.

The slam of a car door nearby shatters the silence, setting off a bomb in me, blowing a hole in whatever solace I’d taken in the quiet. People break away from the gathering at the gravesite, murmuring their respects as they pass by my mother and me.

A commotion follows the door slamming in the distance and I look over the heads of my family and friends as they move in front of me, subdued, patting my arms, my shoulders, giving me a hug or a kiss. Until I see the uninvited guests through the trees, making their way up a slight hill to where we’re gathered. What the fuck? I must say it aloud, because my mother turns and so does everyone in earshot.

I can’t believe what I’m looking at. The people in our graveside party get loud and concerned, but I’m hardly paying attention, studying the intruders as they insinuate their way past the retreating priest and don’t stop until they stand across the open grave from me.

There are only three reporters with two cameramen, though they move like a synchronized team or an army ready to assault. I recognize none of them.

“Tate Fontanna? Sorry for your loss. We were just told by the medical examiner’s office that your uncle had been drinking before the crash that killed him and that you were with him at a bar shortly before the accident—can you please comment?”

“Do you feel responsible for your uncle’s death? Was he in the habit of drinking and driving?”

“Did you drink and drive that night, Mr. Fontanna?”

“Did you know he was drunk before he got in his car?”

“How will this affect you? Will any investigation delay your start with your team or will—?”

One after another they fire questions, mics outstretched and cameras running, not waiting for answers, not stopping.

Horror strikes my mother first as she lunges in front of me as if to protect me like a mama bear. I hold her, putting her aside, as anger rises up to take over, washing out everything else. I rush at the mean little group of reporters where they stand in a huddle.

“You come here? Now? With your fucking questions? Get the fuck out of here before I—”

My brother grabs my arm that I don’t even realize is raised and stops me as the chickenshit bastards back away. I continue my threats, not caring what I say or that they aim their cameras at me, stretch their mics in my direction even as they retreat.

“Get the fuck out!” I shout at the top of my lungs and now my dad has my other arm, holding me back. But I pull away and take the phone from my pocket.

.

“I’m calling the police on you mother-fuckers,” I say and I do. A group of my friends jump into action, joining me in shouting at them, and escort the now truly frightened group roughly from the area all the way back down to the street. I watch them get in their cars and leave as people around me talk in indignant hushed voices at the outrageousness. I walk with Mom, Dad and Marcus as the others in our family follow us to our cars.

One more thing to be upset about, but I can handle the anger, maybe even welcome it, welcome the distraction from the loss. People are coming to our house to gather, bringing food, but it’s the last thing I want. What I really want is to punch someone.

We all get in the car and Dad says, “I’m really glad you didn’t punch anyone, Tate.” As if he’s a mind reader. I snort.

“I should have. They had it coming.”

Mom pats my hand.