Page 48 of Playing for Keeps

“Shit, I think I have grass in my mouth.” Everyone laughs as he pulls chunks of turf from his facemask. He’s only slightly exaggerating.

“Let’s break.” Marini calls from the sidelines. It’s time for films of our opponent and then a team supper before more scheming and a team meeting. Today’s a long day in a short week where we’re trying to cram six days of prep into four. I walk with Max off the field and back to the locker room.

“Are you serious about Chloe?” he asks me point blank.

“No.” My kneejerk response kicks in before I think. “We’re not an item.” I search my head for the right words to say and all I come up with after rattling around in confusion is the safe words. “She’s more like an enemy with benefits.” Max looks skeptical.

“You sure she’s cool with that?” he says, sounding like a protective father—or uncle. Then I remember he knew her father, or at least had met him, and had met Chloe when she was a young girl, so maybe he does have a soft spot for her.

“That’s what she tells me. And why wouldn’t she be? She’s a big girl, more worldly than most. She knows better than most women what players are about.” I almost have myself convinced by my speech.

“Except you’re not a player. At least not that kind of player.” Max sounds sure of himself and it’s no use trying to con the wise old man of the locker room. So I don’t bother. I shrug it off and trot ahead of him inside where I lose him.

Not even a conversation with Max is going to help sort out the mess in my head and my gut. So I do what I always do when emotions overwhelm me, I focus on football, let the energy channel into playing the game.

It’s after nine p.m. by the time I get home and I walk inside, the lights off, the place only lit by the twinkling Boston skyline across the harbor. My mind automatically goes to last night, but I shut it down. Before I can turn on the television for a distraction, my phone rings and, slipping it from my pocket, I see it’s my mother. Grinning, I answer the call.

“How’s the woman who’s spoiled me for all others?” She laughs. It’s good to hear. My tension sheds a layer and I lean against my kitchen island looking at the serene night view to listen to my mother.

“Same as always. Busy with the restaurant and enjoying the football season.”

“Not too busy to come to next Sunday’s game as planned?”

“Wouldn’t miss it. Though we can only stay the one night and I so would have liked to stay longer.” She pauses and I know she has something on her mind. “I would like to meet your new girlfriend,” she says. My head explodes in confusion like she’s talking Chinese.

“What new girlfriend? What are you talking about, Mom?” Then it hits me as I’m asking the question. Chloe. The flashes of cell phones at Louie’s. And I groan out loud.

“Don’t pretend with me. One of my friends from book club came into the restaurant today and says her daughter saw you on Twitter. She showed me photos of you with a lovely young woman. Tell me about her, Tate.” She seems genuinely pleased and I cringe, knowing if my mom finds out Chloe is a reporter, she’ll have a fit and worry about my mental well-being for real. Fuck, I’m worried about my mental faculties.

“No one special, Mom.” Guilt grabs me by the balls as soon as I say the words.

“Don’t lie to me, Tate. I can tell when you do.” She uses that half teasing, half accusing voice that always gets me.

“I mean it—she is special, but we don’t have that kind of relationship where I would introduce her to my mother. You know what I mean?”

“So it’s still new?” Hating myself for it, I agree with Mom, unable to explain my relationship in a coherent way to her—or to myself, for that matter. We confirm plans for her and Dad to visit and stay with me at my condo.

“Maybe we can have dinner with this new young woman—what’s her name?” There’s no sense not telling her.

“Chloe.” I leave it at that, unwilling to share anything else about her because I know it would upset my mother and I’m not even sure if whatever we have will last until game three when my parents get here.

“Lovely name. I look forward to meeting her, honey.”

“We’ll see how it goes, Mom.” This is the most honest thing I’ve said. We say our goodbyes and end the call.

Fuck. One more layer of fucked up confusion to put on my relationship with fucking Chloe Smith. My mom would be horrified if she found out Chloe is a reporter. Because no matter how paranoid and cynical about reporters I am, my mother is a hundred times worse. I’m her son and she’s a fierce mama bear when it comes to reporters ever hurting me again.

Kind of like the way I feel about protecting my mother from the media.