Page 20 of Playing for Keeps

Chloe

The buzz in the studio on Saturday morning is extra sharp as the director, Henry, Duff, and a couple of assistants and interns bustle around to set up for the interview. Or maybe it’s me, in my head, but the extra jolt of nerves is a good thing, keeps the edge on me. Rushing to the ladies’ room for one last look at myself, because I have no dressing room and no make-up artist in the studio today, I examine my face with a professional eye. It’s not the first time I’ve done my own make-up and it won’t be the last.

With hard work, drive, concentration, and luck, I won’t be at a minor league station with a half-ass studio for long. Immediately, I feel a pang of loss and regret, because, like my father, I like the rough side of things, the striving and overcoming of obstacles—like no dressing room.

“We ready to go?” Henry calls out. I give him the okay and step up onto the platform with the chairs that passes for a talk-show set. It can’t be called a stage, but it has a professional background with excellent lighting and a table between the two chairs. That’s all I need.

“Send him in,” I say. Tate’s been waiting in the so-called green room. Wistful that I couldn’t scare him by sending him to make-up, I still myself as one of the grips leads him out to the set. He steps up, his eyes on me, a seemingly genuine pleasant smile on his face. Telling my pitter-pattering heart that the smile is not genuine, that he really hates me and everything I embody, I stand and reach my hand out to shake his, welcoming him to the studio.

This is a performance for Henry and the staff as much as for the TV audience. We sit and I tell him which camera to look at and that the intro is playing and when it’s done I’ll introduce him and all he has to do is answer my questions in the most charming way he knows how.

“And I know that shouldn’t be hard for you because you’re a natural born charmer.”

“Takes one to know one,” he says, double dimples on display, almost setting my panties on fire. I see the two female interns practically swooning as they stare. Star-struck much?

The director shouts, “Three . . . two . . . one,” and points a hand at me. The red light of the camera flashes and we’re on. Ignoring my racing pulse, ignoring the magnetic pull of the man seated in the chair next to me, I beam my most sincere professional smile at the camera.

I ask him what his favorite Boston landmark is—a toss-up between the USS Constitution and the statue of Red Auerbach in Faneuil Hall Market—and what his favorite restaurant is—not Louie’s. There’s a secret acknowledgment, a subtle look that passes between us, that Louie’s is not to be shared with the wide world at large.

“Do you expect to win tomorrow without most of the star players in the line-up?”

He squirms. It’s the first football question, but he had to expect some talk of him and the team, didn’t he?

“We always expect to win,” he says, grins. “But it’s pre-season.” He shrugs and I’m charmed in spite of myself. “This is the time for new guys to show their stuff, to win a spot on the roster.” Canned answer number one. Banal as shit. Stilling my instinct to go bold and shake him up, I smile and move on to ask him about his favorite ice cream and his favorite player growing up.

“Now this is an important question,” I say, “What’s your favorite charity, Tate? The one you’re promoting at the Militia’s Foundation Gala next Friday night. I understand each of the Militia players—along with many other heavy hitters from Boston’s sports elite, will be auctioning off items. What’s your item?”

“I’ll be auctioning off a signed game jersey and the proceeds will go to my foundation, The Frank Foundation, in honor of my uncle, my mentor, the man who was largely responsible for getting me where I am today.”

“Tell us about what the foundation does.”

Now he really smiles, leans forward and is fully engaged, talking to me like there is no camera, oozing passion and sensuality that I can feel down to the pulsing between my thighs.

“The Frank Foundation supports sports and camps for disadvantaged kids in Ohio. We started in the city where I’m from, Dayton, and have now spread to other areas. We’d like to keep growing. Frank always believed sports was one sure-fire way to help kids stay on the straight and narrow through difficult times.” I suspect there’s more to that story but there’s no time to go into it right now, so I make a mental note to find out later.

“Sounds very worthy—and very effective, from what I understand.” He nods and I turn to the camera because we’re close to wrap-up.

“Of course NESH will be at the Militia Foundation Gala where the city’s big stars will auction off everything from jerseys to nights on the town—even a bachelor auction. I’ll be there to bring you scenes from the silent auction with exclusive interviews,” I say to the camera. There are four seconds left and I go for it.

“Will you see any playing time in tomorrow’s game?”

“Not likely.” He doesn’t expand. Henry gives me the eye from off stage and I smile.

“I suppose it’s just as well so you can give your shoulder—and your back—some rest.”

He opens his mouth, then clamps it closed as outrage makes him glow like a bonfire. Henry takes a step, closer, but I turn to the camera and wrap up the interview.

“That’s all we have time for today, but count on Tate Fontanna to return for another chat as the season gets underway in a few weeks.” The red light in the camera blinks off and the show goes to the outro and commercial. I stand and both Fontanna and Henry come at me at once. I stand my ground and take the flak because, let’s face it, I deserve it.

“What the hell kind of—“ Tate blurts.

“Smith, I want to see you in my office. Five minutes.” Henry kindly gives me a chance to wrap things up with Tate. I’d have preferred he said he needed to see me immediately. But I need to face Tate and I’m no coward. We’re still standing on the platform. His bulging arms are folded across his massive chest as he stares in accusing silence. I don’t know if I want to gulp or cream my panties. Probably both.

“Thank you for coming in, Tate. Good interview.”

“Don’t stand there and pretend you didn’t just insinuate I have an injury. My back? What the hell is that about? I don’t have any fucking back injury.”

“Maybe not, but I bet it’s bothering you. I can tell by the way you carry yourself,” I lie through my teeth. He looks perfectly fine when he walks.