Page 9 of Playing for Keeps

“Not—”

Max cuts Sean off, “Good to see you again, Chloe. Being from out of town, you might not have realized this place has the best Italian food outside of Italy.”

Relieved he doesn’t mention that this is our hangout—naturally, because Max is a very smart man—I break eye contact and pick up my whiskey, signaling to the bartender for another one.

“These two gentlemen were just leaving,” Sean says, but no one is convinced, not even him.

“Let’s get a table,” I say and Sean elbows me, but Chloe and Max are on board. He grabs the glass as soon as the bartender slides it over, before I can, and hands it to Chloe.

We get off our stools and Sean wraps an arm around Chloe, staking his claim as we move to a table for four in the corner of the room where we can see everything, including the television showing the local sports, NESH, her channel. In spite of me I watch, wondering what the hell she came up with from the afternoon’s exchange.

The clip isn’t too bad. She leaves out her why not more than 150% comment and even though I feel like there’s an anvil somewhere above that will drop sometime right on my head, I relax. Or it could have been the second whiskey. A couple of women come in and steal Sean away after he gets tired of sharing Chloe’s attention. His attention span when it comes to women is notoriously short. He goes back to the bar and has his food delivered there.

The glass of wine I have with my homemade pasta completes the job of relaxing me, though I tell myself I’m on guard. The meal makes me think of home and my family’s restaurant and I mention it. Chloe picks up on that and asks me about my family. I say it’s out of bounds, off the record and she laughs.

“As if anyone cares, Fontanna. Don’t worry, I would never inflict such a boring story on our viewers.”

Max laughs. He’s finished his meal. We’ve all inhaled the food, even Chloe. Max stands.

“I need my beauty sleep. I’ll grab an Uber.”

“Admit it, Max,” I say, “You’re an old man and you’re out way past your bedtime.” He slaps my head on his way by me, but there’s no sting in it. Max leaves and I look for Sean, but he’s disappeared along with the two women he’d been flirting with at the bar.

I turn back to a pair of intense violet eyes.

“Looks like it’s you and me, kid,” I say to dispel the intensity.

The slow smile she gives me is anything but lighthearted, bringing home the fact that I’m at the table alone with her. The intimacy strikes me like an offensive lineman knocking me to the ground. Doesn’t happen often—if ever. But I feel that way now, taken by surprise, stunned and reeling. I have no fucking clue what to do or say or how to behave. This is the one position I didn’t want to be in with her and I feel stuck, trapped in the web of a deadly spider—a black widow.

Showing her nothing but my game face, I pry loose a smile and take another sip of wine, needing to loosen up all over again, get a grip, even knowing I should probably get up and leave. But my need to figure out her agenda is greater than my need to escape her clutches. I do an internal eye-roll at my ridiculous paranoia. I can handle her. I know what to say and not to say to a reporter.

All I need to do is remember that’s who she is. A reporter, not a beautiful fascinating woman.

“He’s a class act,” she says.

It takes me a few beats to realize she’s talking about Max because my head is stuck on her. I can tell in spite of the whiskey and wine and pasta she’s consumed that her mind and face reading skills are still sharp.

“He thinks highly of you,” I say, recovering my bearings, “I wonder why?”

She sighs, measures me, and shrugs. “It’s my father. As long as I don’t do anything wildly imbecilic or outlandishly illegal, because I’m his daughter and he made it known how proud he was of me, introduced me to everyone starting at a young age, as a chip off the old block, I get credit for everything he’s ever done, for his reputation, for who he was.”

Her voice is heartbreakingly wistful and sad. But I watch her face and in the space of a few heartbeats it goes from sad, to annoyed to resentful with a full-blown chip the size of a football field on her shoulder ready to do battle.

“So now you need to prove everyone right?”

“Or wrong as the case may be,” she says flashing a disarming smile.

“Now I know you’ve had too much to drink. Because that sounded a lot like an admission of potential failure to me.” And I know, even though I never heard of Chloe Smith at all before today, before a few hours ago, I know that she is one tough S.O.B. not inclined to conceding a spec of ground in any fight.

She puts up her hands, “You’ve got it all wrong. I’m not conceding failure. Only admitting that people can be stupid.” She arches her brow at me, ready for an argument, but I laugh spontaneously and I could slap myself for it. I can’t afford to be amused by her, not even for a millisecond. Not even for the space of one flirtatious round of repartee.

She’s covering for her moment of vulnerability when she leans forward, showing some cleavage. It has the desired effect because my dick is like putty in her hands for whatever reason. Putty that’s hardening by the second.

“What about you, big boy? What’s driving you besides the obvious? What makes you tick?” She’s asking like she’s a woman out on a date and I struggle mightily to remind myself she’s a reporter and everything I say can and will be used against me in the media. Immediately, most likely via twitter. And I cannot afford to have any blemishes because I need a multi-year contract, need to solidify my career and make the money now while I’m still whole. Linebackers generally don’t last past seven years in this league and I’m already in year four.

The next contract is my life. My uncle’s words as he talked strategy with me—the night he died, come back. Whatever you do, once you’ve proven yourself after the first few years, when you’re in your prime, get the fattest, longest contract you can squeeze from those mother-fuckers.Because that next contract is your life.

Flexing my fingers, I want to pick up my glass and finish the last of my wine to wash away the memory, to wash away the sadness and guilt. I don’t dare. Along with the sadness, any more wine would wash away the rest of my sanity, the rest of my resistance to the forbidden fruit of Chloe the reporter—the ambitious, too-smart-to-trust and too-beautiful-to-ignore woman.