Page 43 of Playing for Keeps

“It’s fine.” He adds, “I won’t bother asking how you got in here.” If I didn’t know better, I’d swear there was a tinge of admiration in his less than enthusiastic voice, and the absence of anger. But I know that won’t hold as soon as I ask my next question.

“How’s your back?”

He stares me down for a few beats because the subject is off-limits.

“Fine. How’s yours?”

“Seriously,” I say, letting real caring encroach, but not enough for me to say off the record.

“Seriously? You mean off the record?”

I don’t say anything. He takes my silence to mean what it does.

“That’s what I thought. There is no such thing as off the record with you, is there?”

“Let’s go get some Italian. At Louie’s.”

He looks at me like I’m crazy, like I’m a delicious temptation until I can practically feel him licking my pussy and I realize I want him, want to finish what we started. Bad.

“Promise I won’t bite—unless you want me to.” I give him my sultry look, reserved for special rare occasions, rare enough that I don’t remember the last time I used it before I met him.

“You leaving your reporter pants at the station?”

“I’ll leave all my pants behind if you want.” In case I haven’t made my position on how much I’m hot for him perfectly clear.

“What the hell are you doing in here?” A security guard comes through and I stand up from the small bench I’d been sharing with Tate. I realize there are men in various states of undress around me, some eyeing me, some nodding hello, and when Sean Patrick sees me he lets out a whistle and comes over.

Tate waves off the security guard, saying it’s okay, shocking me to the core, giving my swooning lady parts hope. Whatever enmity he feels, whatever threat I pose, he seems certain he can handle it. Seems certain that he’s willing to risk it for the sake of sex.

The question is, what am I willing to risk? And is it really all about the sex?

“How the hell are you, Smitty?” Sean says. “What do you think of our boy Tate playing like a maniac, turning around the game for us today?” He slaps my back and Tate stands, close, towering over us both. Without saying a word, Sean steps back from me and I feel like I’m in the middle of some macho jungle chest-beating, staking-of-claims play. And it sends all kinds of tingling sensations through me, floating my gut like it’s turned effervescent.

“She’s coming to Louie’s with us,” he says, his voice low for our ears only. He turns to me. “No camera, no reporter friends.”

I salute him. He rolls his eyes, then takes my elbow and escorts me to the nearest exit. I almost think he’s going to lean in and kiss me and I hold my breath. But that would be insane considering we’re in his fucking locker room and I’m part of the working press. He opens the door and shoves me out saying, “Later.”

It’s just as well because I need to find Maguire and get to the press conference.

* * *

In the halloutside the press room, I pace around after it’s over, but I don’t see Fontanna. Maguire’s gone and sent in the clips though they’re all monotone except for a few choice jokes from Gabe Wyatt talking about Fontanna. Every single reporter there asks every player and coach that takes the podium what they think of Fontanna’s spectacular play, and they all of course agree that it’s stupid crazy good and of course they expect nothing less of him.

Foley stops me mid-pace. “What’s with you?”

“Waiting.” I shouldn’t even say that much, but what the hell. Foley already knows the score—or as much as anyone knows.

“Let me guess, for Fontanna?”

I resume pacing without an answer.

“Me and a couple of others are going over to Louie’s tonight. Maybe I’ll see you there,” he says. I stop, hiding the panic rising in me. Fuck. Tate’ll kill me if he thinks I’ve invited them.

“Don’t go on my account,” I say without expanding. Foley shrugs, playing my too-cool game. What I really want to do is beg him to go somewhere else, but I’m fifty-fifty on whether that would backfire. Fontanna’s right not to trust the media. Not with things you want kept quiet, anyway.

And Fontanna and me isn’t something I want blasted all around. I know his friends aren’t going to spread it around, but I’m not so sure about Foley, et al., since it’s their business to spread news around. My only angle is that it’s far from news. Too bad in this social media age, gossip is news and anything goes in tweets and Instagram posts. I don’t even want to think about YouTube.

“I thought you wanted to hang out with us reporters? Now we’re not good enough for you?” I know he’s teasing, but maybe not completely. He may be looking to make me part of a story. Am I getting as paranoid as Fontanna now or what?