Page 12 of Playing for Keeps

“I don’t know. We’ll figure it out.”

“I’m disappointed, Henry. I thought you wanted something more than the usual banal shit from me.” Throwing his words back at him, I arch a brow.

“You can be better than banal, but you’re not handling a big show exposé. At least not on air. You can help with background. Do some investigating since you seem to have an inside line.”

“Behind the scenes crap?” It’s better than nothing. I like the old investigative reporting kind of gig, but if I were satisfied with that, I’d be working at a paper. The only way to get ahead in the broadcast business is to be the one on air. Not someone’s backstage assistant getting her feet dirty in the muck.

On the other hand, I really do enjoy the dirt and the muck. Especially when it includes digging deep into the likes of Fontanna. Shit, I’m pathetic. But I want both, I want everything. I know I’m impatient as sin, like I have a devil on my shoulder telling me to hurry up all the time, go for broke, because it really is a race. Especially this race, the one to make my career worthy of being the daughter of the legendary Oscar Smith, the Mouth. Worthy of paying tribute to my hero.

Before I make myself cry I stop pacing, not even realizing I’m walking a tight circle in the cramped office.

“Settle down, Chloe. You’ll get your chance. Besides, I know you like getting into the weeds with a good investigation. Have that on good authority and it’s the one thing we’ve been weak at in the station. Part of the reason I brought you in over more experienced on-air talent.”

“Gee, thanks.”

He laughs and pats my arm. It feels fatherly, but I’m not in the mood. There’s a reason the station’s short on investigative talent. Because no one wants to do it, and if they do, they sure as shit don’t want to share their scoop with someone else, let alone give it away. And that’s what he’s asking me to do.

“Call Fontanna for the interview. Schedule it for the next available time slot—probably next week—and play nice. Strictly softball. That’s the condition before I make the call to Marini. Are you in?”

“I promise I’ll interview him about his puppy and his favorite bubblegum, just get him to come in.” I could soften Fontanna up for the kill. Or harden him up for something else, my girly parts are whining.

“You swear on your mother’s grave you’ll go easy?” he asks, knowing I can’t worm out of this one because it’s my mother. He doesn’t bother with my father’s grave because it’s in hell and swearing to do anything and everything was his stock in trade—whether he meant it or not. He would do anything for the job—including break promises. Occasionally even promises to me. But my mother’s grave—that was a whole other matter and we both knew it.

“Yes fine.” Rushing my words because I hate conceding anything, he gives me a pat on the back and walks me out the door to my desk. I sit at my computer. Leaning over my shoulder, he looks at the clip that pops up on the screen.

“You’re not going to babysit me now, are you?” I look up at him. “Because I swear I don’t need a suicide watch. I’m fine. I’ll win the war.”

He squints and says, “This for tonight?”

“Could be.” It’s not much from the day’s practice, clips of each and every one of the players I managed to corral saying the exact same thing in response to one question. How are you feeling? I was planning to entitle the spot “The Militia—or the Yes Men?”

It’s almost comical and all too obvious that they’re coached what to say in response to anything injury or condition related. It’s almost silly as it stands, but it’ll be the perfect backdrop for my exposé—rather the station’s exposé. It sets up the audience to distrust whatever we hear from the team later.

“No one’s live for an hour yet. Why don’t you go home? Or better yet, go out. Aren’t there any nice young gentlemen who would fall all over themselves to show you around?”

There’s no way I’m telling him anything about my personal life, thinking about my pseudo date last night. I give him a shrug in response. He doesn’t back off, still looking at me expectantly as if he has some stake in my love life. That protective fatherly streak that I’m trying not to resent especially since it falls so far sort of the real thing.

Maybe I should give him something to placate him, tell him I had a date with Sean Patrick. It was only a half-lie. It started out as a date with him. Then again, I don’t want to risk Henry giving me a lecture about getting myself in trouble. It would be useless because I love trouble and tight spots, love working at the edge of a cliff.

“I have planning to do,” I say, for once taking the less bold route. “You make the call to the coach tonight and I’ll have Fontanna in the studio sitting in a make-up chair by next Friday.”

“We don’t make those guys up—”

“Don’t you dare tell him that.” I smile an evil smile and he laughs, pats my back once again and walks off, shaking his head. Henry’s starting to grow on me—if I put aside the fact that he just sabotaged my big exposé, giving it away to someone else in the name of dues-paying. In spite of that, I know his caring is genuine, know he’s doing his job. All in all, I like him for an uncle-type and figure I’ll start calling him Uncle Henry tomorrow so he knows his lane. Not a father replacement.

The pleasant warmth about Uncle Henry is chased down by a shiver of fear, a shadow, until I shake it off. There’s no way I can avoid relationships, even close ones, and live my life, no matter how great the danger and pain of loss may be. More words of wisdom from Dad. After I asked him how he could stand it without Mom. How he could go on and know he could lose any one of us, the people he showered with his own gruff brand of affection and unmistakable love and caring.

Fuck. I swipe at my cheek. It’s hard to control the memories and the tears that inevitably follow when they pop up randomly like this. I don’t mind looking like a girl and taking advantage of my girlie good looks, but I absolutely hate crying like a girl more than anything in the world.

With my head down, close to my screen, I take a surreptitious look around the room. It’s almost empty now, most of the filming done for the day. People are home for dinner. A new shift starts later for the end of the day, closing out the live games and wrap-ups.

Confident I’m past my emotional hiccup, I straighten. My dad raised me to be tough as nails and that’s what I am. Damn it. Pushing my hair back with both hands, I take a deep breath and turn my mind to the task at hand.

To Tate honey-buns Fontanna. He is one sweet piece of meat. Scrolling through my shots of him, I ignore the alarm bells ringing hollow in my chest. This is all in fun. He’s the enemy through and through and I’m not about to forget that when I talk to him or meet with him. But at night, alone in my bed, anything goes. I’ll fantasize about him later tonight. Maybe he’ll fantasize about me.

Whoa there—where did that come from? Who cares if he fantasizes about me? If he has my photo hanging on a wall, it’s most definitely to throw darts at. And I wouldn’t have it any other way—except in my fantasies of course. Not in real life. Not even when we flirted. It was all for the cause. The edge of enmity never left us, I’m certain.

Still, I wish Henry would call the coach now so I can call Tate tonight and taunt him—about the interview. Not about . . . anything else.