“What?”
Missy tucked a wayward strand of blond hair behind her ear and crossed her tanned legs, straightening her posture like she did when she was about to suggest something she knew I’d protest. “Maybe what you need is a killer rebound. Someone hot, successful, convenient . . .”
“No way.” I scooted away from her, already certain as to where this was headed. “Stop that train of thought right there.”
She leaned closer to me. “Then what was Logan doing here so early in the morning if not to see you?”
“He owns the restaurant, Missy. He doesn’t need to make an appointment or have a reason to drop by.”
“Okay. Fine. But what about that one party in high school?”
“That was a lifetime ago,” I said, fluffing the decorative pillows on the leather sofa, refusing to meet her gaze.
“I believe you called it life changing at the time.”
It had been, though I wasn’t about to admit it again. Until the second Logan had pressed me against the wall of the pool house, kissing me with such assuredness, I’d felt as if I’d been sleepwalking, cycling through the humdrum motions and pretending my sights were set on a bigger, brighter future. One that hadn’t involved interacting with that stereotypical crowd shown in teen movies ever again.
For so long everything about my existence, about where I was and what I was doing, had felt beneath my potential. Like the dreaded summer job you’d begrudgingly worked to pay for the used car you’d dreamed about. But when Logan had buried his hands in my hair, his hips pinning me to the cold tile surface while his mouth explored mine, I’d found myself exactly where I’d never confess I’d wanted to be. For one blissful second, I’d tasted the promise of high school, the exhilarating rush that made guys cocky and girls vapid. And I’d loved it, sailing right across the feather-soft edge of bliss, skeptical if I’d ever capture that high again.
And in Stephen I’d thought I had. Thought the combination of passion and talent and fortitude had forged us as a couple, made us better. Solidified me as the woman I’d vowed myself to be. And look how that had turned out. Why would I ever dare go there again?
“So what if I said that? It doesn’t change anything.” I collected our empty champagne flutes and retreated into the kitchen.
“It changes everything because you’re home now, and Logan’s recently single,” Missy said, following close on my heels. “It’s not like he’d expect a commitment from you. He travels for half the season and his mind is constantly on the game. You know how it is because of Chris. And besides, the guy may own the restaurant, but he’s only your boss in name. It wouldn’t be the same situation as Steve.”
That was where she was wrong. With Stephen, I’d been starry-eyed and just shy of worshipful when he’d hired me. Who could’ve blamed me? He was a culinary superstar, and I’d been one of the chosen few given the privilege to learn from him.
But Logan had always been, well . . . Logan. Chris’s best friend, someone I’d known since I was a knobby-kneed kid, and the first boy I’d ever fantasized about—cared about, if I were honest, a truth acknowledged only in the most private part of my heart.
And getting involved with him beyond the owner-chef partnership was a recipe for heartbreak and disaster. Because when things went bad between us, as they inevitably would, I wouldn’t only have to start over in another city. I’d have to find a whole new career once word spread that I’d been stupid enough to become romantically entangled with the NFL’s golden quarterback. My name would forever be linked to his—and not for my talents in the kitchen. My reputation would be ruined permanently.
I refused to allow that to happen.
“Gwen, it’s time you redrew the lines. Hell, color all over them if necessary,” Missy said with an exasperated sigh. “You could use some expectation-free sex that puts pink in your cheeks. Lord knows I won’t get any out of your wardrobe.”
I wanted to tell her that perhaps there were lessons to be learned from black and white, right and wrong, do and don’t, but I doubted she’d listen. Instead, I picked up the gallon of Fred’s Five Pepper Insanity on the prep counter and traced my thumb back and forth over the label, reminding myself of the importance of maintaining boundaries.
CHAPTER
FOUR
Logan
The roar of cheers erupting from the stadium propelled me through the tunnel and into the locker room. Cries of triumph, celebratory chants, and hip-hop music greeted me when I entered, the entire Blizzards roster still riding high off the win against the Patriots. Immediately, my teammates encircled me in a huddle, slapping one another on the back, offering high fives, and shouting praises.
“You’re one dangerous son of a bitch, Stonestreet,” Tony yelled, his forehead and cheeks marked with helmet indentations, his uniform streaked with mud stains. “When Batten flushed you from the pocket and made you scramble on that last drive, I thought you were a goner, but you hurdled right over that defensive tackle, danced around that linebacker, and threw a bullet to Chris primed in the end zone.”
It was the play that’d clinched us the victory. All game, we’d been neck and neck with the Patriots, both teams trading blows through the first three quarters. But after we’d tied the score with a fifty-yard field goal at the beginning of the fourth, we pulled a surprise onside kick, recovering the ball and setting us up to secure the lead and an awesome home opener for Blizzards fans.
Too bad we had the early Sunday game slot instead of prime time, though I did appreciate the downtime in my evening. For one thing, it’d allow me to check in on the restaurant and pester Gwen again about my dinner date idea. It’d been a week since I’d surprised her with the hot sauce and . . . nothing. Not a peep out of her. I knew Gwen wouldn’t cave easily, but I didn’t expect a week of radio silence. If only she realized that her dogged determination to avoid me made me want to press the issue.
“You were like a lightning bug jumping around in a jar, moving this way and that,” Chris hollered in my ear, a grin splitting his face. “No one could touch you today, and damn if it wasn’t fun to watch. The division better get ready—they don’t know what the hell is coming for them.” Laughing, he ruffled my hair as if I were his kid brother rather than the team captain, then broke into his signature moonwalk that could rival Michael Jackson’s. Chris was one to talk—he’d had an exceptional game with eight receptions, ninety yards, and two touchdowns.
Austin Thompson, rookie tight end from Stanford who blocked like a five-time pro bowler, tossed me a towel and a bottle of Gatorade. “Chris is right, Logan. This year’s going to be epic, and you’re the one who’s going to ensure it happens. The guys are all behind you.”
The certainty in their voices sent a bolt of confidence through me. There was still a long, hard road to the playoffs ahead, but even I couldn’t deny the spark that had been thriving and pulsing with magic on the field this afternoon.
Now we needed to nurture the spark, build the momentum over the next sixteen weeks, and make this great franchise legendary.
I walked over to my locker, my footing less sure on the polished floor than on the turf. No grip meant no stability, and no stability meant I was hyperaware of my throbbing knee. I needed to soak it in an ice bath and study film for next week, but all that would have to wait. In fifteen minutes I was contractually required to assure the hungry sports reporters of the Blizzards’ invincibility, convince them that today’s performance was only a taste of what was in store. That I was still the bulletproof quarterback who could roll out of the pocket, slip one tackler and dodge another, then break off into a loping sprint with half the defense in pursuit and still manage to shoot the ball in a pristine spiral across the field for a touchdown.
I peeled off my jersey and gear and hit the showers. I ducked under the too-hot spray, letting the pressure pound against my shoulders, loosening my sore muscles and aching body. As I sc
rubbed off the sweat and dirt, sudsy, rust-colored water disappeared down the drain. Under the fluorescent lights, I could see the web of bruises and split skin that covered my hands. I must’ve scraped them on a defender’s helmet rushing through a narrow opening on a drive I’d been forced to run. The cuts had stopped bleeding, but they still felt raw, stinging like I’d doused them with lemon juice. Thankfully, the adrenaline pumping through my veins during the game had prevented me from feeling the pain until now.
Snapping off the shower, I quickly dried off and dressed in a gray suit. The majority of players wore slacks and a button-down to the postgame press conference, but Mom had believed that, as team leader, the quarterback should always be the most polished person on and off the field. A tenet Dad had adhered to religiously and one I followed when in front of the media.
Chris was exiting the stage as I stepped into the room, the crowd still laughing at some cocky tidbit he’d no doubt blinded them with as cameras flashed from every direction. That was Chris’s gift—to dazzle even those averse to his shining demeanor. It was what had allowed him to unabashedly take risks no matter the outcome or consequences. A luxury that had never been and would never be afforded to me despite my skill. While I’d cemented my career on being the aggressive, no-holds-barred quarterback, there was still an expectation that I’d protect the franchise’s interests at all costs, never jeopardizing its future. Injuring myself wasn’t an option.
I claimed the chair Chris had vacated beside Coach Wallace at the table. I was barely able to adjust the microphone before Tom Phelps fired the first question. “Logan, how’d that hit from Rodriguez feel during the second quarter?”
How do you think it felt, Tom? It’d hurt like a bitch.
I took a long, slow sip of water, making him wait. “It . . . smarted a bit, but nothing I couldn’t shake off.”
As always, I was careful with my words. A franchise quarterback never cussed—at least not where cameras were present—and he sure as shit didn’t admit that a tackle had knocked the wind from his lungs and caused his ears to ring.
“Do you ever consider that you’re being reckless when you run the ball instead of passing for a safer play?” Tom continued, recorder at the ready. I wondered if he slept with that device glued to his palm.
“Fine line between reckless and ruthless,” I said, my tone indicating finality, but of course he had to keep pushing.
“You mean careless and sloppy?”
I hoped Tom was never within touching distance on a day when my temper was the length of a burning firecracker.
“Logan, you’ve spoken often about practicing and preparing with purpose and then translating it to the field. Everyone seemed in sync today,” Wendy, the Colorado Post reporter, said. “Can you talk about not letting up and if this is the year you take the team all the way to the championship?”
I nodded, grateful for the interruption. “Wendy, what you described was the big theme this week—to start strong, play the full sixty minutes with intensity and precision. And I think we accomplished that, executing in each of the three phases,” I said, referring to offense, defense, and special teams—the football holy trinity. “Now we need to carry that theme through to each week, which I fully believe we’re capable of. Thank you all for your time. I know you still have the evening game to prep for.”
Done in under five minutes, a new record.
I excused myself before Tom Phelps could grill me on why I didn’t answer the Super Bowl part of Wendy’s question. I was as superstitious as I was cautious and didn’t want to curse the season. Besides, everyone knew these press conferences were pointless, the coaches and players offering canned responses that no one paid attention to anyway.
I returned to a now-empty locker room, piles of wet, dirty towels, half-empty Gatorade bottles, and the distinctive smell of a hard-won victory greeting me. The rest of the team had already left to party at Tony’s new pool house, shenanigans that would last well into the night. As much as I wanted to join them, I couldn’t. If I wanted to someday raise that Vince Lombardi Trophy in the air, I needed to mimic Dad’s dedication and work ethic—be the first one in and the last one out until the season was over, always looking ahead with single-minded determination. Which right now meant a grueling session of physical therapy.
An hour later, as I was toweling off the frigid ice bath that seemed to only moderately help, my cell chimed twice in rapid succession. The first text was from Dad, congratulating me on a great passing day and offering to drop by the condo tomorrow morning to analyze today’s performance and dissect tape to prepare me for next week’s matchup against the Raiders—a ritual we’d had since my middle school football days.
The second text was a video from Chris. The scene was like so many others I’d witnessed before. Chris held his phone on a selfie stick, his other arm wrapped around some bikini-clad jersey chaser, a handle of Malibu coconut rum clutched tight in his hand, the late-afternoon sun slightly washing out the Slip ’N Slide behind him.
“Stonestreet! Stop being so straitlaced and get your ass over to Tony’s place,” he slurred into the camera, the sounds of water splashing and a dance beat booming in the background nearly drowning out his voice. “Otherwise, I’ll create my own calls next week, and you know how that’ll turn out.” He nudged his Ray-Bans down with an index finger, peering at me over the reflected lenses. “We’ll dominate with style.”
I sighed and shook my head, pulling on my T-shirt, boxer briefs, and jeans. Typical Chris. For a moment, I couldn’t help envy his carefree approach to the game. He never had to agonize over how much tape he watched, how often he injected himself with numbing toxins, or how many tackles he sustained. He wasn’t responsible for the split-second decisions or bearing the brunt of an entire franchise’s expectations. Chris was now, and always had been, the wide receiver with the larger-than-life personality. All he had to do was show up, run the play, make the catch, and score the down.
He swore by the motto “Take the chance, score the prize.” He got away with almost everything and sweet-talked himself out of the rest. And every time I’d ask why he acted the way he did, he’d reply with a simple, “Trust me, Stonestreet. I’ve got this.” And nine times out of ten the gamble paid off.
I tended to put more stock into discipline and effort than blind luck and a work-hard, play-harder attitude. Still, every now and then, it was fun to live dangerously, to roll the dice and see what came up, and I had an inkling that maybe this was the season to push the limits, starting with blitzing my favorite executive chef.
I checked my watch. Dinner service didn’t start for another twenty minutes. Perfect opportunity for me to catch her off guard. I dialed the number that went directly to the kitchen landline.
“Stonestreet’s. Gwen speaking.” Her voice was all business, edged with annoyance from the interruption. I heard pots and pans banging around over the line.
“Hmm, I’m not sure that’s the appropriate greeting. Perhaps I should hang up so you can give it another shot. Next time go for something a bit more personal, a little more chipper.” I disconnected the call, chuckling to myself as I envisioned her stewing over my audacity.
I loved it when I ruffled her feathers. I’d been doing it since we were kids, and it never got old. I remembered in middle school when I’d written over several recipes in her favorite cookbook with diagrams of offensive football formations and in retaliation she’d baked me mud brownies that I’d nearly finished before I’d realized. Or when I’d asked her to wear my jersey to the homecoming pep rally and she’d told me that primary colors were for infants and men who acted like them. Or that time during senior spirit week when I’d shoe-polished her Nissan Sentra. I still hadn’t figured out how she’d broken into my football locker and drew skulls and crossbones with a Sharpie all over my practice pads, the ones that’d never disappointed me.
That was the thing about Gwen. She dish
ed as good as she got served and wasn’t afraid to call me on my bullshit, which frankly made the tug and pull that much more fun. And maybe it was because she’d known me back when I couldn’t even tie my own cleats, but for better or worse, she’d always seen me as more than a football star, a prop the front office used to sell jerseys and tickets, the son worthy of his father’s legacy, the quarterback who took one for the team because it was expected.
I waited a moment, then redialed. No response. I tried again. Still no answer. Gwen couldn’t ignore me forever. Eventually curiosity would get the better of her. That, or I’d wear her down until she acquiesced.
I called once more. This time she picked up. “Stonestreet’s. Gwen speaking,” she repeated without an ounce of chirpiness, and I held back a chuckle.
“I can keep this up all night, Gwen,” I said, combing my fingers through my wet hair in a half-assed attempt to tame it.
“I bet you say that to all the girls.” She punctuated the quip with the distinctive sound of a knife coming down hard on a cutting board.
“I’m willing to prove it to you.” I kept my voice light with a touch of humor, but if Gwen said the word, I was prepared to discover who had the better stamina. “So, what do you say? I know you’ve been spending quality time with Fred and his hot sauce this week, but you about ready to take me up on my dinner suggestion? I was thinking tomorrow night when the restaurant’s closed.”
“Tempting, but if you recall, Fred promises an insanely good time, which is leaps and bounds above what you can offer.”
“I don’t know. I’m pretty skilled at securing reservations or preparing my mother’s lasagna.” I zipped my gym bag, shoved my wallet into my back pocket, and headed through the tunnels to the underground players’ parking lot.
“Gee, an all-inclusive meal at Chuck E. Cheese’s or food poisoning. What appetizing options.”
Intercepting the Chef Page 5