Page 7 of Playing for Keeps

Tate

Walking out of the stadium to the parking lot with Sean Patrick as I always do, I notice his grin is slyer than usual. Who’d have thought it possible?

“What’s up with you? You look like you swallowed the proverbial canary whole and you’re about to burp up the feathers.”

He grins, but I see a nervous tic and know something is up, so when we get to his car, a black supercharger he’s driving to compensate for the fact that he’s a kicker and not a tackle, I stop and fold my arms, indicating that I plan to wait him out for an explanation.

“Hot date,” he says.

“Where?”

He stares me down.

“Fine, you know I’m not above following you.” Because I have a damn good idea who his hot date is, the image of him flirting with the southern belle from hell flashing painfully in my head.

“What the fuck, Fontanna? Find your own date. I know you’re more than capable.”

“You’re fucking meeting that reporter chick, aren’t you?”

“What if I am? And her name is Chloe.”

“I don’t give a fuck about her name. She’s a fucking reporter. A devious—”

“Hot-as-hell young woman who happens to be new to town.” He folds his arms across his chest to match my determination and in spite of all his frat-boy bluster, I know he’s tough and has ice in his veins when it comes to do-or-die time.

“Where are you meeting her? She’s playing you. All she wants from you is a story.”

He shrugs. I grit my teeth, wondering why I’m so bothered, why I don’t let him go, let him get himself into trouble, let him learn the hard way. I’d learned the hard way, hadn’t I?

He studies me for a few beats and, just when it looks like he’s going to say something, Max comes along and joins us.

“Hey how about if we hit Louie’s tonight?” Max says. “I’m buying.”

“Shit.” Sean’s face falls and now I know where he’s meeting Chloe.

“Sounds great to me.” I grin at Sean and he flips me the finger.

“What the hell am I missing here?” Max asks.

“I’ll tell you on the way over,” I say. “Let’s take my car.” Max goes along and I fill him in on Sean’s date with the poisonous reporter. In typical Max Devon the cagey sage form, he says nothing, though I know he’s thinking something. He never judges and never interferes. If you want advice from Max, you have to ask for it. No, beg for it. He’s the one on the team who has the most wisdom, like our godfather, but he doesn’t go around spouting off. The exact opposite. That’s what makes his words all the more valuable and sought after.

But I’m no rookie, so I’m not begging. I can figure things out for myself. Like why the hell am I so bothered by Chloe fucking Smith when I’ve learned well to handle all the media Boston’s thrown at me so far?

What makes her especially threatening?

Good looks? No. Gorgeous women are a dime a dozen and I’m pretty much immune by now after four years in the league and two years in Boston at the top of my game. Since Gabriel Wyatt and Hunter Quintanna are off the bachelor market, I’ve been on the home page of no less than seven media outlets touted as the most eligible bachelor in Boston.

It’s not even fun anymore. Which is a fucking hard thing for me to admit since it used to give me a hard-on to walk into a club and have a horde of gorgeous women throw themselves at me. Not so much anymore. That’s not something I’m admitting to another living soul, but it bothers me. I’m restless where women are concerned and not sure why except maybe my Midwest roots are sending up shoots, prompting me to start looking for Mrs. Right, the future mother of my theoretical children. I shudder. What the fuck?

Max shakes his head and snorts like I’m ridiculous for thinking Chloe is poison, as if I’m paranoid. “What makes you think Smitty is dangerous?”

“Smitty?”

“That’s what her father used to call her when she was a kid.”

“You really are an old man, aren’t you?” I say.

“Don’t change the subject. What did she ever do to you?”