Page 50 of Playing for Keeps

“I owe you.” I run for the exit and my car, pulling my phone out as I go.

“Sarina, I need you to cover the postgame for me. I’m heading to the hospital to see Fontanna.”

“Oh my God—do you think you can get in?”

“Absolutely.” There’s a pause while she considers it. She’s not stupid. She knows how this will play in our Perspective special.

“This injury is perfect for our piece. If you can get something out of him—anything—we can work it in and spin it,” she says. I’m horrified as I calculate how close to the line I am—and which side I’m on. We end the call and, while I’m driving to the hospital, no more than fifteen minutes behind the ambulance because I need to get there before anyone from the team or I’ll have no chance, my phone rings.

It’s Henry. I hesitate to answer. Sarina’s called him for sure. Taking a deep breath that does nothing to relieve my tension, I punch on the call.

“You really think you can get in to see him?” No preamble of niceties with Henry. One of the reasons I like him in spite of everything. He’s all in for the story, to get the best ratings, the best scoop, the newest angles. The way I am—or the way I used to be because I don’t even recognize myself right now. I’m too tangled up with my subject. My dad warned me about getting caught up in the weeds, becoming involved personally in the story. Said even with sports journalism it was a danger. I believe you, Dad.

“Of course I can get in, Henry. I have an angle.”

“Sure you do.” He pauses. “Your dad would be proud. You may be even more ruthless than he was.” I want to scream at him not to say another word about my dad and what he was or wasn’t because he has no right. But I keep control.

“So we’re good?”

“Go for it, kid.”

“No guarantees, Henry.” It’s the one thing I need buy in from him on—to let me out of the post-game coverage so I can follow Tate to the hospital—if I want to stay on the very tip of the blade, not falling to either side of the line. Not yet.

“I know. Go do it.” He ends the call and I’m not sure he’s convinced I’m that ruthless. He’s more naturally suspicious than most reporters and my stalling about the Perspective piece might have his Spidey senses on alert.

Nothing I can do about that now as I swing into the garage and park in a spot on the first floor that says Reserved, but I don’t care. I dash into the front door of the Mass General Hospital and now I need to find him and get past whoever the gatekeepers are, both from the hospital and the team.

Finding the directory, I head for the orthopedic wing and try to look like I know where I’m going as I search for the MRI examining rooms. I finally find the check-in area for the imaging and spot a couple of guys outside the room. One of them I recognize from the medical staff and I can only hope he doesn’t recognize me. I approach the woman at the check-in window and go into my act.

“Hello, can you tell me where they’ve taken Tate Fontanna? I need to see him, to be with him.”

The woman eyes me while I give her my most genuine worried expression, which is easy to do since I’m truly worried.

“Sure you do. Are you family?”

I pause, promise myself it’s for a good cause, and say, “I’m his wife. I need to be with him. He shouldn’t be alone.”

“Oh, I see. He’s not alone. He’s with these fellas.” She points at the two men standing outside one of the doors.

“Is he in there?” I don’t wait for her answer, but hustle over and reach past the men for the door handle.

“Wait, you can’t go in there.” One of them puts a hand on my wrist.

Eying him coldly, I say, “Yes I can. I’m his wife. Take your hand off me.” My voice implies a threat and it works. He lifts his hand immediately and I give him no chance to question me further, opening the door and going inside the room.

Tate is there, lying on a bed in what looks like an examining room. On the other side is a glass wall looking in on a giant tubular machine for MRIs.

“Chloe?” Disbelief colors his voice and his face. “What the fuck are you doing here?” He sits up and stops abruptly, wincing and putting a hand to his back, muttering a string of obscenities.

Rushing to his side, I say, “Don’t move. Lie back down. Are you crazy?”

“Me crazy? WTF, Chloe? How did you even find me?” He pauses and adds, “And what do you want?”

“Long story. But I promise I have no microphone, no tablet, no notebook—”

“I get the drill. You’re off the record?”

“I swear it, Tate.”