Page 53 of Playing for Keeps

Tate

Staying out of practice has me almost as irritated as the pain in my back does. I’m disgruntled and not myself, sitting in a whirlpool with nothing to occupy my mind except memories of Chloe going down on me. After we got me dressed and dosed heavily on pain meds, I dropped her off at her car and headed for the stadium. That was yesterday and I haven’t seen or heard from her since.

After she didn’t answer my first text last night, I haven’t bothered with another. Forget calling her. Next move is hers. Sean Patrick comes in the room with the trainer, holding his phone up.

“What the hell are you doing in here? On another break from your grueling practice?”

He gives me his middle finger, his grin undiminished. I don’t think I’ve ever seen the kid scowl.

“I’m a special teams drill all-star. Just made a killer tackle to save a TD. We’re on a short break and I wanted check in on you. Give you an update on the Twitter feed.”

Trying not to blame the messenger because the last thing I want to hear about is social media, I say, “Sure.”

Social media is the only thing worse than official media and doubly bad when official media resorts to using social media. It’s all a big frenzy of over-sensationalized gossip and sometimes pure fiction. But since Sean is doing me a favor, I wave my hand, encouraging him to go ahead with it.

“You’re trending in Boston,” he says and I have a passing awareness that this can’t be a good thing since I’m on the injured list. It’s not like they’re going to talk about me having a great game when they can talk about my injury.

“Do tell,” I say, my encouragement diminishing.

He laughs at me. “It’s all about your injury, but the part that has interest flaring is talk about you being out for the season.”

“Fuck. Where the hell did that come from?”

“No one reliable,” he says.

The question couldn’t have come from anywhere aside from idle speculation because our team’s medical status is locked up in a vault of secrecy as if world peace depends on it. The official results of my MRI says I need rest. The doc says I can play with a shot. None of this is information available for public consumption. And none of it says I have a long-term problem. PT, ice baths, stretching, the inversion table and the shots will all help get me back to one hundred percent far quicker than the average guy would.

“Chloe hasn’t tweeted a word,” he says as if I’m about to accuse her, which I’m not. “I don’t know what you two have going on, but I swear she wouldn’t do that to you. She’s a stand-up lady for a reporter.”

A large part of me, about ninety percent, believes that’s true. I want to believe in her a hundred percent. She’s given me reason to believe in her, to go against all my previously held notions about reporters putting stories above decency when it suits them. I even put aside my initial judgment of her that she might have blind ambition fueled by her father’s legacy to betray a player to get her story.

Caution around reporters is drilled into every player, but I’ve always taken it more seriously than most, lived by the mantra that none of them can be truly trusted, that it’s not worth the risk. But there’s no caution in sight now, none to be dredged up inside me where Chloe is concerned.

Not since she came to the hospital for me and didn’t utter a word to anyone about it.

“Thanks, Sean.”

“You coming out on the field at all today? That might help squash the rumors.”

“I have a therapeutic massage coming up in a few minutes. Then a session on the inversion table. After that I’ll be out there.” No matter what the trainer says.

Every night this week when the phone rings, I check thinking it’s Chloe and it’s my mother or father. Even my brother calls to check up on me. I haven’t seen Chloe at practice all week except from a distance and now it’s Friday and I’m good and pissed.

Game three is a Sunday Night game and my parents will be there. Mom is bugging me to meet Chloe and I’ve been putting her off. Laying on my couch with a heating pad, I reach over and answer the phone, without looking.

“Hi mom.” I expect her to laugh, but the laugh I hear isn’t my mother’s. Sitting up fast—too fast—I groan. “Fuck—sorry.”

“You okay, Fontanna? Sorry to disappoint you if you were expecting your mother to call.”

“No, I’m not disappointed.” Every nerve in me is lit up and happy, especially the nerve endings in my cock which is growing by the second just hearing her fucking voice. Damn.

“Hey, don’t ever take your mother for granted,” she says. Then I curse myself for being an insensitive prick because of course she has no mother, never did really.

“You’re right, but it’s good to hear from you.” I’m not pathetic enough to call her on not returning my text like a needy boyfriend because that’s not who I am. Not needy and not her boyfriend. I don’t know what the fuck I am, but it’s neither of those two things.

“I should have called you sooner, but …” There’s a pause and it goes on too long for me to stay silent.

“But what, Chloe?” I can’t keep the accusation from my voice, proving I’m a fool.