Page 56 of Playing for Keeps

chloe

Pressure is coming at me from both sides. From Henry I expect it. Dealing with professional pressure is what I thrive on, right? Deadline? No problem. It’s the other side I’m feeling that I don’t know what to do with. The pressure from left field, the kind I never knew about, never thought of, never realized even existed.

The Fontanna pressure to be his fucking girlfriend and put him before the story. We’ve been together every night this week and it’s been good between us, like we’re building to something. It feels right, but there are expectations and that feels like pressure going against the rest of my life, displacing and opposing everything I’m working for professionally.

It’s not that he’s said anything, because how could he? He has no idea what I’m working on, that my Perspective piece, the so-called human-interest exposé is even a thing, let alone aimed at him. Now, sitting at my desk in the busy station crowded on a Saturday morning, with the big Monday Night game two days away I try to remember why the hell I decided Tate Fontanna should be my subject?

Then I remember that first day. The day I slapped down the two-hundred percent challenge and he came back with the Miss No-Name reporter snap. It was a white-glove slap across the face moment if there ever was one. But it all seems so distant and irrelevant right now.

Henry would never have bought into it if he hadn’t known about Tate’s uncle, the funeral debacle and the accusations surrounding his uncle’s drunk driving. And Tate’s guilty conscience.

Most of all, I don’t want that dredged up, no matter how immune to the slings and arrows he is, Tate still holds that guilt deep down. I know it and I feel the pressure to protect him from it.

Henry stands in front of my desk, arms folded. “Let’s have the preview. My office in ten. Sarina will be there—”

“No one else,” I say. He nods in agreement and I gather up my source material file, the zip drives and a notebook and pen. Sometimes I like to go old-school. Especially times like these when I have that feeling in the pit of my stomach like I wish Dad were here for advice or at least a pithy saying. I’m riding the edge and I feel like I’m getting to the end of the line, about to fall off.

Walking to Henry’s office like I’m walking the plank, I close the door behind me and nod at Sarina. She’s leaning on the edge of the desk.

“I’m excited to see what you’ve got, Chloe. I loved the outline and the preliminaries.”

“Showtime,” Henry says.

Sitting at the console for the big screen, I plug in my zip drive and load up the file then hit play. The voice-over is rough and not all the clips are treated. It’s not synched and there are still a few holes to fill in. Like a puzzle with some missing pieces, you can still see what it’s supposed to look like. By the time it’s finished my chest is so tight I’m seriously considering how I can score a Zanex before I have a heart attack—and I normally don’t even take aspirin for headaches.

Spinning my chair around to face my mini-audience while they clap, true smiles of appreciation on their faces, I feel a little loosening of the vice pinching my heart. If I have to go down as a total bitch, the kind of woman who would betray a man who might be her boyfriend, a man who’s trusting her, then I may as well do it for a great piece of work.

“Great job, Smitty,” Henry says. “So far. When can you have it completed?”

“I agree,” Sarina says. “I can help with revisions to the narrative, but we need to put this out now, cash in on the injury issue plaguing Fontanna now.”

Cringing at that last comment, I wonder if maybe Sarina is the source of all the off-the-record speculation about Tate’s back being a season ending injury. He hasn’t said anything, but that kind of talk is bad news for contract negotiations—even if it is idle speculation. I’ve seen player’s stock go down on the basis of less, sometimes no more than gossip.

“Come on—where are you at? 90%?” Henry prods.

“Seventy-five percent at best,” I say.

“Bullshit.”

I shrug. “I’ll finish it up. I’ll take your suggestions for the narrative, Sarina. Send me an email with your comments.” I stand, pull my zip drive and put all my files together.

She nods. “I have to admit, you’re doing a terrific job. I promise I’ll do your piece justice.” I have to admire her for giving me unabashed credit.

“I’ll take credit on the screen if you don’t mind,” I say.

“Sure,” she says, looking at Henry.

“You’ll get a credit line. But Sarina’s right. Now that Fontanna’s injured, it’s the perfect time to run it—before he gets back to a hundred percent.”

More pressure. Great. I head for the door.

“I’ll pressure the medical staff,” Sarina says, “and the coaches for information about the injury, I’ll get some clips of whatever bullshit they feed me.” She pauses, licks her lips. Both her and Henry’s eyes are on me.

“Can you get any of the records from the trainer, your source?” Henry says. “Get him on record about the back injury being pre-existing?”

I don’t dignify the request with an answer. Overhearing something in a bar is one thing, stealing files or pressuring a source is another. I have my lines. But their pressure on me doesn’t relent in his stare on me.

“The thing is, my source doesn’t know he’s a source, so that’s not happening.”