Rescuing the Receiver

by Rachel Goodman

  “All things that have nothing to do with me.”

  “You’re missing the point, Hazel,” my uncle said. “Chris knows how to live life out loud, and you need someone to teach you how.”

  I smoothed the napkin in my lap and took a sip of sparkling water. “You’re confusing living out loud with living life honestly. Chris is practically a caricature. He doesn’t know who he is, or if he does, he’s hiding it behind a front he believes people will find more palatable.”

  While my mother had protected me as best as possible, I’d grown up knowing that people weren’t always who they portrayed themselves to be. To everyone else, my father had been a charismatic, high-powered ad executive on the fast track, but behind closed doors, he’d been a slave to his temper. Even my uncle had bought into my father’s lies until the night nearly twenty years ago when my mother, beaten and broken, quietly slipped me out from under the covers and drove us to my uncle’s home.

  “Everyone hides behind personas they’re comfortable with, sweetheart. Even you,” my uncle said, then smiled at the executive chef approaching our table with the first course. “Ah, here’s the lady of the evening. What do you have for us?”

  “This is a Breton-inspired buckwheat galette with caramelized cauliflower, pear, and mint,” she said, placing a plate in front of each setting.

  My uncle turned to me and said, “Gwen and I pretend like we’re on good terms, but I still haven’t forgiven her for stealing Logan away from me.”

  The woman—Gwen—swatted his shoulder with the serving towel. “Kent, for the last time, I didn’t steal him away. Logan retired because of his health.”

  “And because he loves you,” my uncle said.

  “Okay, maybe our relationship had a little something to do with it.” Gwen winked.

  “Chris still bustin’ Logan’s balls for retiring?” my uncle asked, forking off a piece of the crepe and diving right into eating.

  “That would be an improvement, though I think he’s less pissed about the fact Logan retired than he is that he did it after the Super Bowl and on national television without giving Chris the chance to talk Logan out of it first.” She rolled her eyes, then glanced at me and stuck out her hand. “Sorry, Gwen Lalonde. You must be Hazel Grant. I hear my twin is volunteering at your rescue shelter.”

  That’s why Gwen had seemed so familiar. I should have connected the dots. She and Chris had the same startling brown eyes, the same pointed nose, the same dark hair.

  “I’d advise you to keep a rolled-up newspaper handy for when Chris misbehaves, but my brother has always responded better to positive reinforcement and ego stroking,” Gwen continued.

  I laughed. Wasn’t that the truth? “Think it’ll stop the singing?” I asked.

  “Singing?” Gwen asked, her gaze growing wide. “Oh, there’s a story there—and one I’m desperate to hear.” She sighed. “Rain check? I’ve been away from the kitchen too long as it is.”

  “Sure,” I said with an easy smile.

  “You two enjoy the rest of your meal.” She turned to leave but stopped, giving me a once-over. “You better watch yourself, Hazel. You’re just Chris’s type.”

  “I’m not on the menu, I’m afraid,” I said, mostly meaning it.

  Gwen grinned and shook her head. “Like I said, just his type.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Chris

  Fourth quarter with a minute forty-nine seconds left on the clock, and the Blizzards were on third and seven on our own forty-yard line, trailing Atlanta 21–17. It was a one-possession contest that was ours to win—a miracle considering how badly the game had started. The moment I’d emerged from the tunnel to step onto the field, the usually cheering and chanting Colorado fans had booed me—actually fucking booed me. Then during the first quarter on two separate drives, Fitzpatrick had thrown shitty passes to Dustin Olson, wide receiver opposite me on the line, both of which had resulted in Falcons interceptions that returned for touchdowns.

  Somehow the offense had managed to rebound, earning back-to-back touchdowns of our own late in the second quarter followed by a field goal early in the third, while the defense had allowed only one additional Atlanta score. And yet the boos and shouts from the crowd grew louder.

  “Zipper, tiger, whistle sling,” Ben shouted from the center of the huddle, indicating I was to run a post route—an easy play that should lead to a waltz into the end zone if everything went according to plan.

  “Think you can maneuver that, Lalonde?” said Austin Thompson, tight end from Stanford now in his second season on the team, his tone sharp. White field paint, grass stains, and black greasepaint marks formed a collage on his once pristine silver-and-powder-blue uniform.

  “Worry about your own damn position,” I said, cracking my scratched-up knuckles, wishing I could crack them on his jaw. I’d had almost no hands-on time with the ball, and I was itching to make a play.

  “We’re going home in skirts if the two of you don’t shut the hell up,” Tony cut in, shielding his eyes from the sun floating bright in the sky like a gold coin. Through the grill of his helmet, a thin layer of dirt covered his cheeks. “Now let’s play the damn game.”

  In unison we all yelled “Blizzards” and broke apart. I took my spot wide left of Ben on the line and waited for the snap, concentrating on the steady rhythm of my breathing, my gaze locked on the spot upfield I needed to reach to successfully complete the pass. My heart beat fast and hard against my chest, and sweat stung my eyes and dripped down the back of my neck, soaking into the collar of my jersey and the shoulder pads beneath. My muscles throbbed and my bones ached from the countless hits I’d endured over the last three hours.

  The whistle rang out, and I looked over at the center’s fingers wrapped around the ball. The moment I recognized movement, I shot forward like a bullet fifteen yards straight ahead, dodging and racing around Falcons linebackers and cornerbacks charging me, before turning at a forty-five-degree angle toward the middle of the field, my hands out and ready to make the catch.

  A perfect spiral sailed into my gloves, but as I spun to sprint toward the goal line for a touchdown, a safety sideswiped me and the football slipped out of my grip, bouncing onto the grass. Fuck. Thankfully my instincts kicked in, my body acting on its own volition, and I rushed after the ball, falling on top of it to recover the fumble.

  Fuck, I mentally scolded myself again as I ran to join the rest of the offense in the huddle. But there was no time to focus on my massive screwup. The whistle blew again, and I glanced at the clock—a minute ten seconds remained until the game ended. We could still finish this.

  “Blue striker, zero-dash, gunshot,” Ben yelled above the thunderous roar of the crowd, specifying a crossing route.

  “Understood.” I kept my attention on the ground in front of me in order to avoid the angry glares of my teammates, so hot and intense I didn’t know how their eyes weren’t burning holes through the fabric of my uniform.

  Everyone clapped and split off to find their positions. I lined up just outside Austin, struggling to catch my breath as adrenaline pumped through my veins. The noise around the stadium had risen to ear-splitting levels.

  Once again, I studied the center’s hands on the ball. He initiated the snap, and I bolted forward five yards before quickly cutting across the field, using the other offensive players to shield me. As I continued to dart through the heavy flow of traffic blocking me, I glanced over my shoulder to see the ball gliding across the sky. I extended my arms to complete the catch, but the football was flying too high, forcing me to jump up to capture it. The laces collided with the tips of my fingers, but I couldn’t get a solid grasp on the ball. It swept past me, landing straight into the palms of a Falcons linebacker waiting a few yards beyond.

  The player was quickly dragged to the ground, but it didn’t matter—the damage had been done. Atlanta had secured an interception. Just like that, the game was over.

  Storming off the field, I ripped off my helmet and
headed straight for the tunnel. There were still forty-three seconds left on the clock, but what was the point of hanging around when Atlanta would take a knee? I’d gotten my ass kicked—no need to witness the celebration like a chump.

  As I walked under the pass-through, something wet and hard hit my cheek before landing on the ground in front of me. “Eat that, Lalonde,” yelled the fan, who had just pelted me with a snowball soaked in beer. The frustration and anger surging through me threatened to boil over, and I clenched my fingers into tight fists, desperate to connect them with that guy’s face, but I continued walking.

  Fuck. A fumble and an interception during the final clutch moments of the game? What in the hell had happened to me today? From the very first drive, I’d performed like an amateur, unable to find my groove, my footing slow and sloppy, my hands clumsy and weak. It didn’t help that the atmosphere around Blizzards stadium had felt tense and combative, thick with the promise of violence from the fans. Or that ever since the drug allegations had been levied against me, none of my teammates—apart from Tony—had seemed to acknowledge my existence unless it was to call a formation or issue an order. Hell, over the last two weeks I’d had more interaction with the opponents’ defensive line than my own offense.

  Shoving open the locker room door, my heart hammering against my rib cage, I furiously started tugging off my gear. After everything I’d dedicated to this franchise—all the big plays, brutal tackles, and impossible catches—these fucking fair-weather Colorado fans had the audacity to boo me in my hometown stadium? Me? The guy who, less than a year ago, had been instrumental in bringing home a championship? I picked my cleats up off a bench and slammed them against a stall so hard the wood vibrated, sending chunks of turf flying.

  The locker room door opened again, banging against the concrete wall. The rest of my teammates filed in like troops coming off a battle, their fury heavy around me, and moved to their respective stalls. Head Coach Wallace followed, briefly glancing at me before striding into his office without uttering a word. I noticed Ben and Dustin were missing—they were probably still out on the field explaining to the sideline reporters why the Blizzards offense had fallen apart. Again.

  I glanced over to where Austin was tearing off his sweat-and-grass-stained jersey. “Hope those performance enhancers were cheap, Lalonde. They haven’t done shit for your game,” he said, his voice dripping with resentment. Amazing how being only one year out of his rookie season had suddenly bestowed him the balls to talk to me like a veteran.

  “Maybe if you’d learn to block and protect those of us who actually touch the ball, my game wouldn’t have gone to shit, Thompson,” I said, tossing my pads on the floor.

  What was the point of defending myself? No one cared to educate themselves about the details surrounding my drug use—when I’d started, when I’d quit, the fact that I was actually innocent in all of this. I’d provided the franchise a reason for the team’s crappy performances, and the guys and front office were more than happy to capitalize on it. It was certainly easier than admitting the Blizzards had lost the magic that’d been present during our Super Bowl run last season.

  “Plenty of blame to go around, ladies,” Tony said, his tone annoyingly similar to Hazel’s when she broke up a dogfight over a squeak toy. “One player ain’t enough to win or lose a game.”

  “Don’t waste your breath,” I said, grabbing my towel before making my way to the showers, which were thankfully deserted.

  Guys like Austin acted as though I’d violated their trust, broken some sort of code, but it wasn’t like my teammates were saints either. Everyone apart from Logan had some sin marring their record—public intoxication, assault, reckless endangerment. The boys only cared about my fuckup because I’d been caught. Hell, it was practically the league’s motto that anything went as long as no one found out.

  Still, with the way the commissioner’s investigation was ramping up, I couldn’t really blame the team for using me as a convenient scapegoat. Not when they were constantly being hounded with questions from the press, not when the Blizzards’ Super Bowl–winning season would be studied and dissected. If the NFL planned to treat me like a blemish that needed to be scrubbed from their otherwise hallowed halls, then how could I blame the guys for following their lead?

  I moved under the scalding spray and dropped my chin to my chest, allowing the high-pressure jets to pound against my aching muscles and wash away the beating I’d taken on the field.

  “Lalonde, media area. Now.” Offensive Coordinator Ashley’s voice echoed off the tiled walls. Great.

  I’d skipped the press conference last week in Tampa Bay—and paid the fine—but there was no weaseling out of it this time. Not after a home game. Kent McDougall himself would drag me in front of the cameras for my public flogging. Whether justified or not, I was required to accept my role in the Blizzards’ disastrous display of football today and do it with a smile on my face.

  Dressed in a suit and standing outside the press room, I cracked my knuckles and reminded myself that I was still Chris-fucking-Lalonde. Super Bowl champion. First-round draft pick. NFL leader in catches and receiving yards. Ladies’ man and singer extraordinaire of Disney tunes. I’d been blessed with exactly three gifts in this life—my athleticism, my charisma, and an arrogance that ensured I used both to my advantage. I could handle a few reporters.

  I stepped into the room, cameras flashing from every direction, and adjusted the microphone on the podium set up on the stage. And because my day couldn’t get any worse, the lead sportswriter for the Denver Morning News spouted off the first question.

  “The crowd was screaming for your blood today, Chris. Did their anger have an impact on why your performance was so subpar?”

  Yes.

  “No. When you’re down on the field, there’s only energy and noise and fuel for the next play,” I said, not bothering to mask the irritation in my voice. With vultures like Tom Phelps, it was better to shut them down quick and early.

  “So it doesn’t bother you why your usually supportive fans are pissed? Whether it’s because you’re a cheater—or a loser?” Tom pressed, because of course he couldn’t leave well enough alone.

  I gripped the sides of the podium, so hard my knuckles were white. “Despite the positive result on the drug test, I am confident the commissioner’s investigation will clear me of the allegations.”

  Just last week, on the advice of Scott and my NFL Players Association representative, I’d voluntarily submitted myself to another round of blood work and urine samples, all of which had come back clean.

  “And for that matter, are you concerned your legacy will be diminished by the investigation into your doping?” he continued.

  “Last I checked, one bad season in an almost ten-year career doesn’t ruin a legacy.” At least I hoped it didn’t. Football was everything to me; the only thing waiting for me in retirement was a beer gut and a string of car dealerships with my name on them. The NFL was my whole life. I had to make it count.

  “Then how would you categorize all these losses?” he asked, his recorder brandished like a scolding finger. There was something wrong with people like him, who got sick satisfaction out of ripping others apart. He’d relished in tearing Logan down at every opportunity, but I’d largely escaped his notice. Until now.

  “As fucking losses, Tom,” I said, not even caring about the fine I was about to be slapped with for cursing on national television. “And yeah, those losses suck. It’s frustrating. But let’s be real—we were always going to have to regroup in the wake of Logan’s departure—”

  “ ‘Regroup’ is a nice way of putting it, Chris,” he said. “Because right now, with a two–seven record and from an outsider’s perspective, it seems like this is less an issue of ‘regrouping’ and more an issue of trimming the deadweight and starting fresh, free of aging veterans and expensive egos.”

  Did this guy ever quit?

  I sighed. “Look, write what you want, Tom, b
ut don’t put words in my mouth. The Blizzards failed to execute out there today. The franchise has young players in several key positions, and teamwork takes time to finesse. We’ll find our groove,” I said, glancing around at faces that had once welcomed me. Now all I saw were adversaries. “Does anyone else have a question?”

  “Pro Bowl discussions are beginning. Do you think you deserve an invitation in light of your recent lackluster performances, and do you think your illegal behavior should preclude you from consideration?” asked Wendy, the Colorado Post sportswriter, from the last row of chairs.

  “No.”

  “Is that a no, you don’t think you should be invited, or no, you should not be precluded from consideration?” she asked.

  “Take it however the hell you want, Wendy,” I said, then promptly exited the stage, earning myself another fine. At this rate, I’d be broke by the end of the season. The coaching staff and front office would scold me later for abruptly ending the interview, but I wasn’t going to continue to stand there and absorb these reporters’ blows.

  Pissed off, I walked back through the now-deserted locker room, discarding my jacket and tie in my stall. Normally when I played a shit game, I called my favorite lingerie model-slash-hookup, Stacy Wilson, and we’d burn a few calories and a whole bunch of frustration together. But she’d made it clear last week that she only spent her time with winners, so I guess there was no point reaching out.

  Which left me with few options. Drink alone? Go home to an empty mansion I didn’t really like? I could call Gwen, but she was probably at Quince prepping for tonight’s dinner rush. Logan was in New England covering the Patriots-Bengals game for Fox Sports.