Page 5 of Playing for Keeps

I nod, approving of the intro. My cameraman is itching to turn his camera back on and I give him a subtle tilt of my head. Being the pro I’m coming to appreciate more every minute, he backs away before he raises his camera again. I don’t care if Tate knows or doesn’t know we’re back on the record. My cameraman is behind him, but Max sees the shift and stands straighter, putting his professional mask back on. The thing is, it looks a lot like his unguarded face: gracious, polished and wise. Note to self—keep that Max Devon in your back pocket for future reference potentially as a friend more than a foe.

“That right?” Skepticism drips from Tate and his stupid dimples show. Two of them. Deep and, well, adorable.

“It is,” I say. “Where do you come from?”

“Midwest. Heart and soul of the country. But I’m sure you know that. You would have done your homework since you’re a pro and all.”

I want to smack him, but I smile my southern belle smile, the one that would be accompanied by bless your heart if I got out of control. But I stand my ground. Nod as if I’m feeling respectful, a gracious person.

“That must be where you got your hundred and fifty percent work ethic,” I say.

He has the nerve to laugh like he means it. Max raises his brow. Maguire lowers the camera, the red light goes out. We’re off the record again. “Tell me about the recovery from your shoulder injury. Any residual effects?” I know full well there are.

“No. I’m healthy. Ready to go.”

“We should get going,” Max says, slapping Tate’s back and I’m reminded where the lines are drawn. He disarms the situation as if we need to be dragged to our corners. But I’m just getting started.

“Where you going?” I ask. “I wouldn’t mind having a couple of beers.”

“Another time,” Max says.

Sliding a look at Tate, I check his reaction. Suspicion and . . . something else. Could be interest. Not respect. I’ll earn his respect—and everyone else’s—before I’m finished in Boston. Everyone told me this is a tough town to crack, filled with parochial connections and secret handshakes screening the successes. But I’m tough and I love a challenge.

I need a big story. An exposé. No empty gossip, no meaningless twaddle about how much money a guy’s holding out for or which record a guy wants to break. I’m going for the jugular. I want to cover stories about the effect of football on the players’ real lives. The stories behind the drive, behind what makes the great ones great.

That was the pitch that landed me the position over a dozen other people older than me, with more creds than me, some even better looking. There’s no way I got the job because of my dad or because of my smile and I know it’s in spite of my accent. Still a southern drawl to this day in tribute to my mom. Except when I revert to my locker room upbringing.

Max and Tate head back into the tunnel as do several others, starting a tide of departures.

“Let’s call it a day,” I say to Maguire.

We walk back to the truck and I get in the driver’s seat as Maguire stows his camera in the back, then climbs to the passenger seat up front.

“That was fun,” he says. “I got to hand it to you. You have balls.”

“What makes you say that?” I put the truck in gear. I need to hear his impression of my so-called balls.

“Inviting yourself out for drinks? First with Sean Patrick and then Tate Fontanna? Ain’t that asking for trouble?”

“Which part?” I follow the long drive in a parade of vehicles to the stadium exit. I like that we’re in the city, or close enough to it, so it’s not far from the studio.

“The part where you’re a reporter asking to have drinks with players.” He shrugs. “And the part where you’re a flirty young looker and these guys are players at more than football.”

I laugh. “You make it sound dangerous.”

“For them maybe,” he says, making me laugh not for the first time.

“I like you, Maguire.” I pat his shoulder. “We’re going to work well together.” I mean it. He smiles and I realize I haven’t seen him smile until now.

“Swell. I need a little excitement on my way out of this game.” He winks at me and I hope he’s exaggerating about being on his way out, but I’m not going to think about that now. Keeping my eyes on the road, I drive us back to the studio and park the truck in the underground garage in the studio building smack in the center of Boston.

“Time to get to work on putting the show together.”

“I’m heading home. Don’t underestimate your opponents,” he adds before he walks off to his car. He reminds me of my dad in that moment, giving me those parting words of wisdom, the kind I’d heard a million and one times all my life. The kind I’ll always take to heart.

* * *

The newsroom is quiet.Everyone is out in the field or at home where they belong. With no office, I head for my file-littered desk. Slipping my shoes off automatically as soon as I hit the chair, I power up the computer and check the video file Maguire sent me. They need a couple of fifteen- to twenty-second clips, so I start editing.