Page 13 of Playing for Keeps

Fuck. Him and his fucking dimples have my panties twisted a little too tight. I’ll need to do something about that. Pronto. I think for a second about going out and meeting someone new, like Henry suggested, find a guy who’s interested. Someone who doesn’t think of me as the enemy, as some warped, crass version of a southern belle. Except that’s exactly who I am.

As I shut down the computer, the idea of finding a man for myself, someone I can actually date and have a real relationship with, someone I’m not sparring or competing with, gains traction in my head. By the time I get to my car, my phone is out and I know just the person to call to make it happen.

Starting the car, I tell my dashboard Bluetooth to call Cat Marini. When I got to Boston I was surprised she reached out to me, but it turns out we were in the same sorority and she happens to be the queen of alumni relations or some such. She’s also the perfect person to fix me up with someone in this town since she’s lived here all her life and knows everyone there is to know.

The dashboard rings three times before she picks up and I remember she’s a newlywed. Glancing at the clock, I figure she ought to be finishing with dinner if she has a normal household—but then who does most days in this business? Certainly not me, but I hear tell there’s such thing as a dinner hour. Finally, she answers.

“Chloe Smith, great to hear from you.” She sounds genuine so I smile and relax into the seat as I drive over the Tobin Bridge to my one-room apartment in Chelsea. It’s a dive of a little city on the north side of Boston, making a triangle between the stadium, the studio, and my home. I like it. The neighbors don’t mind if I smoke the occasional cigar on my back deck overlooking the water—a small channel running between Chelsea and Boston. Not scenic by conventional standards, but lots of character with barges being offloaded and smokestacks spewing whatever gives the city air that distinct flavor I’m coming to appreciate.

“I hope I’m not interrupting you at home,” I say.

She laughs, “Not unless you count my attempt at making dinner, but no matter. I hope you called about getting together.”

“Sort of. I was hoping you could help an out-of-town girl meet a nice gentleman without going through fifty dates to sift the golden nugget from the sludge.”

“You just made my night. I’m the perfect person to help you out. Matchmaking is one of my favorite things. Maybe we could have lunch and you can tell me all about your dream man and I’ll see if I can conjure him up for you.”

“It’s a plan. When are you free?”

“Is tomorrow too soon?” Score.

“I knew I liked you for a good reason. No sense wasting time when you have the here and now.” Another thing my dear dad used to say. “I’ll meet you at the stadium at noon.”

“Perfect. You can come up to my office—I’ll give security your name.”

“You sure you’re allowed to let the enemy behind the lines?”

She laughs again. “I’m sure there’s nothing I could tell you that would remotely resemble a team secret. Everything I know goes out on Twitter. Sometimes I envy the reporters.”

“Don’t bother. You’re safer where you are. And in pretty good hands from what I can see. Your husband is a certifiable hunk.” Hunter Quintanna, the strong silent man of immeasurable talent. I’ll need to tread carefully since he may be exposé-worthy at some point. But I’ll cross that creek when I get to it. No sense borrowing trouble. Oscar the Mouth’s saying number thirty-three.

“He is, isn’t he?” She breathes one of those dreamy, woman-in-love sighs and I feel a twitch, something that could be mistaken for a pang of longing if I were a different kind of woman—the kind who cared about home and hearth and—heaven forbid—babies. But I don’t. I would stake my reputation as a lady and a tramp that there’s not a conventional bone in my body. Unlike the uber conventional Midwest suburban place Fontanna comes from.

But what the hell did that matter? Just one more reason we mixed like gasoline and matchsticks.

“Looking forward to lunch, Cat. See you tomorrow,” I say in my most polite southern belle voice and we end the call.

It’s not that I feel like I’m putting on an act when I revert to the gracious girl. My penchant for spike heels is real enough and I love looking my sexy best. I had it pounded into me from a young age that I’d need to make the most of whatever assets I had and I knew from the age of thirteen that I had some valuable ones in the female department.

Lucky for me my dad taught me to take care of myself, take no shit, and never back down. No good old boys were going to make me feel like I had to be one of the guys to fit in—even if I did occasionally enjoy a cigar and a whiskey and wearing grungy jeans and ripped T-shirts.

Shrugging, I pull into the drive leading to the small space I call home for now. The breeze coming off the channel buffets the sheets and clothes on the lines out back as I park in front of an old and fragile-looking garage next to the triple decker where I rent the top floor—one large room with a kitchenette—which reminds me of an old-world-style turret like they have in some areas of Atlanta. As long as I don’t glance out the windows, I might think I’m there, back in the home where I lived with Dad the past few years since I’d graduated Georgia State. Where I took care of him as he diminished to nothing.

Looking up the hill to the new and stately condos named Admirals Hill, I shake my head. They aren’t worth the money, even though I do have it. The grit is good for me, Dad would have said. Besides, I have an enormous walk-in closet in my turret that fits my entire wardrobe and that’s what sold me on the top-floor apartment. Truthfully, I think the closet may be a small bedroom, but I’m happy with the Murphy bed and my office space, my small couch and big TV. It’s not like I plan to entertain. I’m not a dinner party hostess kind of girl. Though I’ll accept an invitation anywhere anytime.

I run up the stairs, in my heels, enjoying the fast clacking sound like tap dancing as I go, and let myself in the hefty door. After I throw a frozen meal into the microwave, one of those low-cal, good-for-you brands, I sit at my desk in front of my computer and get to work on prepping for my interview tomorrow.

Slipping my shoes off, I click on the file of photos. Multiple shots of Tate Fontanna’s face pop onto my screen in neat rows, all gorgeous. The smile, the dimples, the manly stubble on his chin and the magnetic intensity of his eyes, all get to me, shooting straight to the hot spot between my legs. Damn. What the fuck is it about him?

Not his looks, not even his dimples, and certainly not all those muscles—all pro athletes have those and they’re a dime a dozen in my business. Maybe it’s that he doesn’t like me. I can’t deny I find that a turn-on, bringing out my competitive streak.

And then there’s that vulnerability I sense underneath his relentless bad humor, occasional real smile, and sharp intelligence. He’s got a soft underbelly, something that makes him sad. I know this, I recognize it because it mirrors my own blanket of permanent sadness layered over and under everything else in life now that my dad, my mentor and my hero in life, is gone.

I’d bet my entire collection of Christian Louboutin shoes that Fontanna lost someone important along the way. Same as me. I feel the connection, that deep-seated sense of sadness and emptiness lingering at the edges of everything. And like me, he doesn’t let it stop him—the opposite—it drives him. But who is it? He still has his parents, his brother, so no one obvious. I have some homework to do, background research to tackle that I would have gotten to if I hadn’t just moved here from Georgia. Hadn’t just lost my dad. But I can’t let that interfere, not even when my concentration is shit every time I sit quiet in front of a computer screen.

The microwave bings and I shut down my computer. I know no matter what intriguing background I might dig up, tomorrow I have to stick to the script and all I need to know are his stats and the team’s stats. Done and done.

I sit in my lounge chair with my miniature dinner that I know would have made Dad cringe if he saw it, and turn on the TV to watch all the sports shows that I’ve DVR’d all day. Homework. Reconnaissance on the competition. Zeroing in, I forget about the sadness for a time and immerse myself into the world of broadcast sports reporting. One of these days, I’ll have a show of my own on a national network.

Tomorrow I’ll talk to Tate and confirm his interview. But tonight I’ll fantasize about him to my heart’s—and lady parts’—content. Pour grease on the fire. My style of cooking up life.