Playing for Keeps: An Enemies to Lovers Sports Romance Read online

  Playing for Keeps

  An Enemies to Lovers Sports Romance

  Stephanie Queen

  Playing for Keeps

  Copyright © 2020 by Stephanie Queen

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Praise for Stephanie Queen

  Playing for the Money

  a Forbidden Love Sports Romance

  "The chemistry between these two main characters just sizzles off of the page! … you fall in love with the characters while you watch them develop."

  Goodreads Reviewer

  "Crazy good storyline. Chemistry and passion was awesome to read."

  Goodreads Reviewer

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  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Also by Stephanie Queen

  Prologue

  Tate

  The casket disappears into the grave. My heart clenches, but I hold in my emotions, which will wreck me if given a chance. The priest says some prayers in a low singsong voice, giving me a chill in spite of the blazing heat and my dark suit. Grief is too simple a word for the complicated poison I feel churning inside me. Loss? Try anger, guilt, longing, emptiness, nausea, dizziness, uncontrollable shaking, and a cavernous pall of blackness over my life that was bright as the sun three days ago.

  Three days and a fucking nightmare ago I was drafted into the NFL. The dream of a lifetime realized. The day my uncle, my mentor and best friend, crashed his car and died.

  Some of the anger I feel is at him, most of it at the universe. But a growing corner of the anger is for me. For letting him go, for letting him get into his car and drive home after he’d had a few drinks of celebration. After the rest of the family left, I stayed late with a group of old high school friends and teammates and told him I’d catch an Uber later.

  Fuck me. Fuck the world.

  My mother cries quietly next to me, my father holding her. My twin brother, Marcus, stands on my other side like a granite statue of himself. It’s my fault we’re all here.

  The crack in the vault holding my volcanic emotions starts slow, like a small fissure in a windshield hit by a stone, then it spreads. I reach out a hand and grip my brother’s arm as if I’m going to fall, like I need to stop myself from jumping into the grave with my uncle Frank.

  Marcus tenses, then stands straighter, letting me clutch his arm like a wild beast. In some small, still rational, functioning part of my brain, I think it has to hurt. But that reasonable corner of my mind has no control, not enough to make me let go, anyway.

  I can barely breathe and my heart is pounding like a marching band on crack. The priest finishes his prayers and all is quiet. For a few long, hard heartbeats absolute silence envelops us, eases my tension like a pause button, lets me out of my body, out of the pain. The anger and grief ebb away as if dialed down to background noise. The silence lets me feel a moment of peace. But only a moment.

  The slam of a car door nearby shatters the silence, setting off a bomb in me, blowing a hole in whatever solace I’d taken in the quiet. People break away from the gathering at the gravesite, murmuring their respects as they pass by my mother and me.

  A commotion follows the door slamming in the distance and I look over the heads of my family and friends as they move in front of me, subdued, patting my arms, my shoulders, giving me a hug or a kiss. Until I see the uninvited guests through the trees, making their way up a slight hill to where we’re gathered. What the fuck? I must say it aloud, because my mother turns and so does everyone in earshot.

  I can’t believe what I’m looking at. The people in our graveside party get loud and concerned, but I’m hardly paying attention, studying the intruders as they insinuate their way past the retreating priest and don’t stop until they stand across the open grave from me.

  There are only three reporters with two cameramen, though they move like a synchronized team or an army ready to assault. I recognize none of them.

  “Tate Fontanna? Sorry for your loss. We were just told by the medical examiner’s office that your uncle had been drinking before the crash that killed him and that you were with him at a bar shortly before the accident—can you please comment?”

  “Do you feel responsible for your uncle’s death? Was he in the habit of drinking and driving?”

  “Did you drink and drive that night, Mr. Fontanna?”

  “Did you know he was drunk before he got in his car?”

  “How will this affect you? Will any investigation delay your start with your team or will—?”

  One after another they fire questions, mics outstretched and cameras running, not waiting for answers, not stopping.

  Horror strikes my mother first as she lunges in front of me as if to protect me like a mama bear. I hold her, putting her aside, as anger rises up to take over, washing out everything else. I rush at the mean little group of reporters where they stand in a huddle.

  “You come here? Now? With your fucking questions? Get the fuck out of here before I—”

  My brother grabs my arm that I don’t even realize is raised and stops me as the chickenshit bastards back away. I continue my threats, not caring what I say or that they aim their cameras at me, stretch their mics in my direction even as they retreat.

  “Get the fuck out!” I shout at the top of my lungs and now my dad has my other arm, holding me back. But I pull away and take the phone from my pocket.

  .

  “I’m calling the police on you mother-fuckers,” I say and I do. A group of my friends jump into action, joining me in shouting at them, and escort the now truly frightened group roughly from the area all the way back down to the street. I watch them get in their cars and leave as people around me talk in indignant hushed voices at the outrageousness. I walk with Mom, Dad and Marcus as the others in our family follow us to our cars.

  One more thing to be upset about, but I can handle the anger, maybe even welcome it, welcome the distraction from the loss. People are coming to our house to gather, bringing food, but it’s the last thing I want. What I really want is to punch someone.

  We all get in the car and Dad says, “I’m really glad you didn’t punch anyone, Tate.” As if he’s a mind reader. I snort.

  “I should have. They had it coming.”

  Mom pats my hand.

  My brother’s phone beeps and he checks it and says there are already clips on Twitter and YouTube. I shrug it off. Or try to until later when the crowd at our house dwindles and I finally sit down to eat in the kitchen in front of the local six o’clock news with Dad. The clip of me swearing and Mom lunging shows on the screen, but it’s what the announcer says that makes me jump from my chair.

  “Top NFL draft pick Tate Fontanna refuses to answer accusations that h
e played a part in his uncle’s drunk driving accident . . .”

  That night I go to bed early, lie in bed in my childhood bedroom with a bottle of JD for company. My phone is turned off, so when Marcus knocks on my door and says from the other side that I have a call on the house phone, I’m only surprised that anyone bothered to answer it.

  “Tell them to fuck off.” I’m not real particular about my vocabulary today, allowing my misery to run free.

  “You might not want to say that to your new coach,” Marcus says.

  Shit. I bolt out of bed, spilling some whiskey along the way, instant regret at overindulging making me instantly half sober, hopefully enough to take the call because I can’t exactly afford not to. Pulling open the door, my heart thudding, I say, “Did he say why he was calling?”

  “Duh? To pay his regrets, you idiot.”

  I push past him and head for the kitchen because the other idiot didn’t bother bringing the phone with him. When I get there, my dad is on the phone and he says, “Here he is now,” and hands me the receiver. There’s a pinch between his brows, his mouth a stalwart slash in his face.

  “Coach,” I say, not sure what else I should say, unsure what he’s seen in the media. I know coverage of the fiasco at today’s funeral made it to ESPN after photos went viral. The bastards cashed in quick and hard.

  “Tate, I called to let you know I’m sorry about your uncle, sorry I couldn’t be there or send a representative from the team to the service today—”

  “No problem.” My heart beats like crazy so I take a deep breath.

  “I saw the news coverage and I’m heartsick. I can tell you our PR office is handling things from our end, condemning the assholes who had the nerve to intrude on your day.” He pauses and clears his throat. Everything in me goes still.

  “We’re also handling the questions raised about your uncle’s death and your involvement. So I need to ask you—”

  I stop listening, or stop hearing, because a wave of guilt overwhelms me. When I realize he’s waiting for a response, I say, “I should have stopped him, Coach.” Pausing to prevent emotion from cracking through my voice, gathering the strength in me because it’s time I do, time for self-pity to end and resolve to take over. “I knew he had a few drinks and I shouldn’t have let him get in that car.” I don’t say the rest of what I’m thinking, that I’m going to work hard every day to make up for it, to play my heart and soul out for my uncle Frank, because he was so proud of me, because I made it to the NFL because of him. Every game I play, every win, every award and championship will be for him. And I vow to work relentlessly to follow all the advice he ever gave me. Because he was right and he should be here with me.

  Coach says a few more things, assurances about the media, aspersions about their trustworthiness, before we finally hang up. Once I’m off the phone, mortification sets in. I face my family. They have questions in their eyes but when I don’t say anything, my dad finally talks.

  He tells me the reporters were from out of town, stringers. I’m told they were freelancers making their money from sensational headlines, the more horrific the better, the more controversial, the better, no matter if they know the whole story, no matter if they hurl suggestive or unfounded accusations and no matter who they hurt in the process. Stomping on toes or hearts or souls isn’t an issue for them. Fucking media.

  It’s early but I smell the coffee so I go downstairs to find Mom to check on her. She’s just lost her brother and I feel bad that, because of me, the media ruined the burial, turned the peaceful ceremony into a circus and far from the quiet healing goodbye it should have been. She’s not in the kitchen. I hear shouting and I rush to the front door to find her standing outside on the walk, screaming and crying.

  There’s a mob of media, no less than a dozen men and women with microphones and cameras camped out on the sidewalk, shouting back and filming. Fucking A. Slamming the door open I rush to my mother and wrap my arms around her, ignoring the even louder questions shouted at me, all about my uncle's drinking and where I was, if I’d been drinking and whether or not I felt guilty. The voice inside my head shouts hell yes, but I ignore the voice, the media. My arms shaking with rage, I lift my mother and she collapses against me, sobbing uncontrollably as I carry her back inside.

  Kicking the door closed behind us so hard the frame rattles, I’ve never felt the kind of rage run in my veins before. Until now. I’m lucky there’s no gun in the house or I might use it. Taking deep breaths and holding Mom tight, I carry her to the couch. Sitting with her in my arms, I try to soothe her, struggle to get under control, to stop the vibrating anger. After a time, I have no idea how long, Mom’s sobs are quiet and she’s worn out. With a shaky hand, I fish the phone from my pocket and call the police to get rid of the media mob.

  I’ve never felt so enraged or exposed or helpless before in my life. Or so guilty. Mom’s broken and I’m scared because I’ve never seen her this way and I need her to be okay. Need to deal with this cluster-fuck. Shield her and the rest of my family from the barrage.

  Because it’s all my fault. The media only attacked because I’m a top-five NFL draft pick. No other reason. They’re destroying my uncle’s memory, tearing him down like his whole life was meaningless. But the media mob doesn’t care, not when they smell blood, a good scandal in the water to snatch up like sharks. That’s how I see them now, all reporters, because not one of them showed mercy yesterday, not one of them held back. Not one of them had respect for the dead or the living who grieved.

  As soon as I lost control at the cemetery yesterday, they doubled down, pouncing expertly and relentlessly, like kicking a man when he’s down is their specialty. I hate the shameless pricks.

  But this is the real world, not some ideal fantasy where common decency reigns, the world where I’d lived most of my life in my small midwestern town. I’m not in Kansas anymore, at least not metaphorically.

  The media is part of my future in the NFL—and seriously, there wasn’t even a millisecond when I thought of forfeiting my dream of playing pro ball. It was Frank’s dream too—his dream for me. He worked me relentlessly, encouraged me tirelessly, and I swear he was happier than I was when my name was called in the draft. So I would need to deal with the world of sports media. I would need to be civil whether I liked or respected them or not.

  There might be one small corner the size of a postage stamp in me that still realizes they might not all be pricks, that one or two reporters might be respectable, decent human beings. But right now it’s buried over in the black-as-fuck impression they made at my uncle’s grave, then covered up with the shroud of today’s fresh insult.

  The fuckers will never get to me again. I will smile and I will speak and look them in the eye, but I will only see them as ruthless bastards, even when they’re behaving. Because I know what they’re capable of. They are the enemy and this is war. I will get to know and understand them to defeat them and never forget who they are, never forget that in spite of whatever honorable intentions they think they have, they are out to get a story even if it destroys me or my loved ones. Lesson learned.

  Chapter 1

  Tate

  Standing in a line with a crowd of press mobbed in front of us, I remind myself that I love football. I love my team, the Boston Militia.

  It’s also an irrefutable truth that I hate media day with a passion. We’re trying to get ready for the first game of the preseason and it’s hotter than hell on the field, even for August. It doesn’t help that my shoulder and back are sore and need icing more than they need standing out here in the sun answering the same relentless questions for the same sports reporters like we do every damn time we see them.

  They’re everywhere. On the practice field, at the games, in the locker rooms. Hell, I won’t be surprised if I start seeing the damn fuckers in my dreams. Again. The media—the whole damn world—has been bugging me ever since my injury last season. Or that’s what it feels like, but I know I’m paranoid about th
e media, so I take a breath, let reason take some control. But not much.

  “It’s a contract year for you, right? What are the chances you’ll break your sack record again this year, Tate?” Mike Foley asks. He’s older and experienced, one of the reputable reporters if there is such a thing. I want to say to him, Who the hell knows? Ignoring the reminder that I’m looking to renew my contract, looking for the big payday so I don’t need to worry if my career ends abruptly with a catastrophic injury, I give him my stock answer to such questions.

  Knowing the guy has a job to do, a column to write, airwaves to fill, tweets to tweet, I ought to let go of my tension. But I don’t, because hell, it’s media day and I’m totally exposed. We all are. It annoys the fuck out of me that instant media, like tweets, are the new communications tool and people pay attention to them in this business. I refuse to have a Twitter or Instagram account. Less points of exposure. Dredging up a smile, I answer him.

  “I’m sure as hell going to try as hard as I can to obliterate my record,” I say. “I’m working to improve, to always give the game and my teammates a hundred and fifty percent.”

  A loud feminine voice cuts in, “Why not two hundred percent?”

  I turn toward the voice and so does Foley, the tension in my lower back tripling with a scream of pain straight through me like a hot iron. New sweat pops out at my temples.