Page 26 of Playing for Keeps

“How about we get together after the game—invite a bunch of the guys and girls and make it a thing? I say. “There must be a place near the stadium, some hole-in-the-wall joint we can make our own.”

Foley eyes me for a few blinks, pretending he’s making up his mind. “Sure, there must be a place—you find one and I’ll tell you what, I’ll be there. Make it a place that serves Italian.”

I nod and make it my business to find a spot. I can’t take him to Chloe’s spot though it would be perfect. I don’t want to steal it from her.

I think of the only other place I know in the area—the Italian restaurant called Louie’s where I met Sean, Max, and Tate. It’s only a couple of miles away from the stadium in East Boston.

After practice I take off and drive over to Louie’s, only making one wrong turn. I arrive within minutes and know it’s the perfect place as I walk inside the glass door and get a whiff of Italian heaven same as before. The place has no pretentions and a good long bar that serves a generous pour of whiskey.

I text Duff and then send Foley a shot of an empty bar stool and the address, telling him the spot has his name on it and I’ll let him know what time. I don’t care if he thinks it’s a come-on, but I doubt he does since there’s nothing at all flirtatious in my manner. With him, I’m a comrade in arms, a member of the sports reporter club. Even the lines between print and broadcast reporters have blurred these days with occasional role switching. I’ve written pieces for online news outlets, and plenty of print reporters sometimes appear on air to give their expert commentary. The game of journalism has evolved so far and fast it makes my childhood memories feel like they happened to someone else, sometimes makes me feel like a dinosaur. I wonder how my father stood it, handled it—because he did. He wasn’t one of the guys who ever complained about the good old days. He joked about them and told his stories, but he embraced every single change, wrapping himself around each one until he owned it.

Nostalgia burned at me, making my eyes sting. These memories are good things, no reason for tears, no reason for the screeching pain in my chest.

* * *

After the game Sunday,the third preseason game, I catch a postgame interview with Gabe Wyatt and can’t help the night-and-day comparison between him and Tate Fontanna. And yet I see Foley talking to Tate and exchanging some laughs, which Tate never did with me.

“How bored are you, sitting on the bench waiting for your turn?” I ask, returning my attention to Gabe.

“Not bored, but getting anxious, impatient to play in a game. How could I be bored watching my teammates kick butt?”

I slice my hand across my throat to signal to Duff that we’re done and I don’t know how much more banal I can get, hoping Henry doesn’t demote me to covering Pop Warner football.

I glance at Tate. Gabe follows my gaze and says, “Talk to him. His bark’s worse than his bite.”

Laughing, I say, “He’s the one who needs to worry about getting bit.”

“You won’t hurt him. I have a good feeling about you, Smitty.”

I open my mouth as someone else grabs his attention, pulling him aside, and I don’t know if I should be offended or . . . flattered.

Duff is smiling like he sees my dilemma and I scowl. He puts up his hands, “I didn’t say a thing. You done?”

“Let’s get out of here.” We get off the field and I don’t bother with the postgame press conference because that’s Sarina’s thing. I’m strictly color. I give them the extra soundbites to round things out. That’s if I can get anything soundbite worthy.

Running into Foley in the tunnel, I tell him we’re going to Louie’s and he says he’ll meet me and bring some of the others. Duff and I head there now because I’m starved. That’s the problem with these Sunday afternoon games. I bet the players are starved too. I bet Fontanna will go out for dinner after the press conference is done. Maybe he’ll come here.

I swerve my car into the parking spot a few doors down from Louie’s. What the hell? Since when am I a groupie? If I wanted to talk to Fontanna, I could have gone up to him after the game and talked to him, couldn’t I?

As Duff and I take our seats at the bar, several reporters I recognize walk in with Foley and join us. We order up an assortment of beer and whiskey and watch the coverage, including replays of the game. My clips may or may not get shown later. Duff sent them in and Henry will review and edit them, but if he doesn’t, I may have to go back into the studio to do it myself. Because I’m not going to make it too easy for him to leave me on the metaphorical cutting room floor.

One side bet on whether the rookie running back will make the cut and two jiggers of whiskey later, I look up when the door opens, like I have every time the door’s opened for the last hour, and this time familiar faces walk in.

Gabe and Hunter hold the door for Cat and another woman. Breathing a sigh, I smile, refusing to be disappointed. As Cat approaches me to say hello, my eyes dart up again when the door opens and Tate appears. Unaccompanied. I hold in the grin that wants to break out and tell my heart to calm down because what the hell?

“Hey, fancy running into you here,” Cat says as she gives me a hug. Hunter and Gabe are more noncommittal in their response, probably because of all the press present. There are a few murmurs of hello and I don’t realize I’m holding my breath until I let it out as Tate appears, heading in my direction, eyes lasered in, expression unreadable.

“So now you’re a reporter turned stalker,” he says.

“You’re confused, Fontanna. Last I looked you followed me here.”

“I’m here because we always come here for postgame dinner. It’s been a tradition for two seasons and running. I’m practically Louie’s adopted son. Isn’t that right, Louie?”

I see we have an audience, a very interested and amused audience comprised of his teammates and friends and Louie. Luckily they’ve blocked out the other reporters with their bodies like a human wall around me and Duff. And even my sidekick cameraman is amused.

“Too bad you don’t have your camera, Duff. We could do a human-interest story on the football player slash Italian restauranteur.”

“Oh, don’t go calling him that,” Gabe says. “Last time he cooked—” The lovely woman who I could swear I recognize but can’t place shushes him.