Intercepting the Chef

by Rachel Goodman

  Moving around Andrea, I headed toward the tunnel that led to the food area. She followed close on my heels. As I was rounding a corner, I ran smack dab into Logan as hundreds of screaming boys started rushing around me to get to the field.

  “There you are,” he said, placing his hands on my shoulders. The overhead fluorescent lights casted weird shadows across his face, masking the faint freckles spotting his nose.

  “Not now, Wonder Bread,” I said, wiggling free from his grasp, my heart pounding, so full of anger I thought it might break through my chest.

  “Gwen, wait.” He recaptured my arms, holding me as if I might dart away. He studied my face, glanced behind me at the Colorado Post reporter, then asked, “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. Everything’s great,” I said, desperate not to cause a scene despite the way my body was coiled as tight as a spring.

  “We were just having a little girly chat,” Andrea chimed in.

  Logan wrapped a hand around my forearm, pulling me into the security of his side. His callused fingers felt rough, and his palm smelled like old leather. My skin tingled where he touched me, as though his hand were conducting electricity. “Gwen?” he asked. He had no idea that what he perceived as protective Andrea would spin as possessive and sexual.

  “Leave it alone, Logan,” I said, stepping away from him, my voice strained. “Just let it go.”

  I pushed past him and continued on my path. I didn’t need a knight in shining armor to rescue me—I’d already discovered what happened when I allowed love and silly romantic notions to blind me. When I trusted others to look out for my best interests. It wasn’t a lesson I needed to learn twice.

  CHAPTER

  EIGHT

  Logan

  “Stonestreet, the big cheese upstairs wants to see you.” Offensive Coordinator Ashley’s voice bellowed through the weight room. He stood in the doorway that led to the outside practice field, bringing in with him the blinding afternoon sun that bounced off the machines and the gusting wind that flapped the rows of Blizzards flags dangling from the ceiling.

  “Give me fifteen minutes and I’ll be right there.” I dropped the bar onto the squat rack and wiped my forehead with my shirt. My glutes and hamstrings were on fire, but my knee felt stable, bordering on strong.

  “Better make it ten,” Coach Ashley said, then shut the door.

  “Oooh, someone’s in the doghouse,” Tony said in a singsong voice from where he was using a slide board to work on his hip mobility. “At least it ain’t you this time, Lalonde.”

  Chris shot him a murderous glare but never broke form on his last set of upright rows. He was drenched in sweat, grunting with every pull of the dumbbells.

  I shook my head and chuckled. “Play nice, girls.”

  Grabbing my towel and water bottle, I headed into the locker room for a quick shower and a change of clothes. Anytime Kent McDougall, owner and general manager, requested a meeting, it meant he either wanted to talk strategy or wanted to rant. Usually both.

  I rode the elevator up to the top floor of the training center. As I stepped into the small reception area, boisterous laughter rang out from Kent’s office at the end of the hallway.

  His assistant, Tammy, rolled her eyes and said, “Your father and Mr. McDougall have been at it for hours. Go on ahead, Logan. They’re both waiting for you.”

  I frowned. Why was Dad here?

  Dad and Kent had played college football at Alabama together—they had matching national title rings to show for it—and had remained close throughout the years. And while Dad often acted as a sounding board for Kent when he needed impartial Blizzards advice, Dad didn’t usually sit in on meetings with the players. But I guess I wasn’t just any normal player. Which meant this might not be any normal meeting.

  Tension coiled in my stomach, but I squared my shoulders and leveled my chin as I walked down the hall.

  “Logan, my boy,” Kent said when I appeared in his doorway. He gestured me in with a flick of his old-fashioned tumbler, scotch threatening to slosh over the rim. He had a weathered face from too much sun, a receding hairline, and wore a finely tailored suit that did little to conceal the fact that he’d long since traded fitness for fine food and expensive liquor.

  “Afternoon, son,” Dad said from the leather wing chair in front of Kent’s desk, nursing a scotch of his own. “Make yourself comfortable.”

  I nodded to both of them and settled into the matching chair beside Dad. My gaze landed on the newspaper opened to Andrea Williams’s gossip column on the desk, the headline blaring INTERCEPTING THE CHEF. Wonderful. After reading it on my phone this morning, I could only hope Gwen hadn’t seen it, but I didn’t dare ask.

  One thing was certain, Andrea Williams had a knack for spouting off bullshit, my favorite being the column’s opening line:

  While things appear to be simmering on the field for Colorado’s favorite quarterback, Logan Stonestreet, it seems things in the kitchen have already reached their boiling point if the passion between Stonestreet and the new executive chef of his restaurant is any indication.

  Though runner-up status had to be awarded to the gem in the last paragraph of the article that had accused Gwen of sleeping her way to the top. Again.

  While Ms. Lalonde is known for her savory plates, one has to wonder if she’s switched her focus lately and is now pursuing more experience with desserts. Tarts, perhaps? Given her cherry-on-top status with owner and executive chef of Brindille in San Francisco Stephen Durand, it’s possible Lalonde has figured out the recipe for easy success. Careful there, Chef, we wouldn’t want you getting burned a second time.

  Andrea had even included a picture of the two of us at the entrance to the Blizzards Bowl, me talking into Gwen’s ear because the noise had made it hard to hear. Throughout my tenure on the Blizzards, I’d grown accustomed to Andrea Williams and her special brand of insinuations, insults, and rampant lies about me and my personal life, but dragging Gwen into her storytelling under the guise of providing “depth” and “color,” as she’d put it, was out of line. As a public figure, I was fair game, but Gwen’s reputation shouldn’t suffer due to some reporter’s agenda.

  I peered between Kent and Dad, but nothing in their expressions told me they were unhappy or even concerned. Still the uneasy feeling in my gut refused to dissipate as I braced myself for a lecture.

  But to my surprise, Kent took a puff off the cigar resting in the crystal ashtray beside his arm and said, “Logan, we need to chat about the draft. We have the twenty-second pick this year, so we have to be smart in how we choose.”

  “It’s a bit early for that discussion, isn’t it?” I asked.

  Kent almost always requested my input about specific picks, but that conversation didn’t typically occur until after the season was over. Why the sudden change? And how was he already thinking about next season when this season had only just started? Did he have so little faith in this team? In me?

  “We need to start thinking now about how to best sure up the offensive line to give you more protection next year given the amount of unblocked tackles you’ve already sustained this year,” Kent said.

  “To be honest, I haven’t done my usual research yet. I’m sorry, Kent, but I’m not sure how great a help I’ll be coming in blind.” I cut a look toward Dad, wondering once again what he was doing here. “I can arrange a follow-up for a few days from now, look into some players. I’d hate to interrupt your visit.”

  Kent polished off his scotch, setting the glass down hard on his mahogany desk. “Nonsense. Nothing’s etched in stone, but you know I like to take a proactive approach, give the scouts something to watch out for. Besides, who better to fill the gaps in your preparation than Bob? I doubt anyone knows the game better. And you know I value your father’s opinion on these college kids.”

  “With that in mind, perhaps we should talk about the c
enter coming out of LSU.” Dad pulled out a small notebook from his back pocket and flipped it to a page filled with his chicken scratch. “He’s built like a fire hydrant and can clear a path like a bulldozer. Exactly what Logan needs to execute long drives.”

  I’d never heard of the guy. But then the last few games it’d been all I could do to keep my head above water and the team in playoff contention. This was precisely why I had to do so much prep for these meetings. I didn’t have the luxury of tracking every emerging player or watching every college game. Between the physical therapy, practice, and all the film I studied on our next opponent, I barely had time to eat, let alone tune into SportsCenter.

  Kent inhaled a few more puffs of his cigar and refilled his drink, also topping off Dad’s scotch for good measure. “The center is a definite possibility, but we should also focus on Bradley Anderson from Ohio State,” he said. “Logan’s such an agile and mobile quarterback, which is great when we’re winning but a death sentence when we’re losing. Maybe this running back can absorb more of the attention and take some of the load off Logan.”

  “He’s good at moving the ball. That’s undeniable,” Dad mused, drumming his fingers on his knee. “He’s also hotheaded, though I’m sure with some conditioning and training he could adapt to the Blizzards style of play.”

  “I spoke with Bradley’s head coach at Ohio and he’s confident that Bradley is teachable,” Kent said. “ ‘Pliable’ is what he called him.”

  “That’s certainly promising.” Dad turned to a blank page and jotted down a few notes. “Logan could use another weapon in the backfield. Though I bet Cleveland and Tampa Bay will be gunning for him, too.”

  As usual, they talked around me and about me as if I weren’t in the room instead of directly at me. I had no idea why I’d been included in this meeting if they weren’t interested in my feedback about these players and what attributes they added to the team.

  “Tampa Bay should be focusing on scoring a right guard. In fact, just yesterday I was talking to one of my contacts at ESPN . . .”

  I tuned them out, offering the occasional canned comment so it seemed as if I were actively engaged. Twenty minutes and countless “uh-huhs” and “sounds promisings” later, I was beyond relieved to say, “I’ve got a PT appointment to get to, so I should head out.”

  “Actually, Logan, there’s one more thing we’d like to discuss with you,” Kent said, retrieving the newspaper that had been acting as an elbow rest.

  I groaned. Now I knew why Dad had come today.

  “Now, normally I don’t involve myself in players’ personal lives, but Bob—and your agent—have both expressed a concern that you might be distracted. And given how your restaurant is consuming more of your time, your close history with the Lalonde family, and the accusations stated here,” he said, tapping his finger on the article, “I have to admit I share your father’s concern.”

  “Come on, Kent,” I said, raking frustrated fingers through my hair. “You know everything Andrea Williams writes is garbage. And we have an undefeated record so far. I hardly call that distracted.”

  Kent raised a bushy eyebrow and cleared his throat. “ ‘And while Ms. Lalonde’s offerings are certainly exotic, we all know a diet rich in fat and cream isn’t sustainable. Which leads this reporter to believe that even though Logan Stonestreet may be sampling the menu, he’s not off the market permanently. Though it should be noted that personal entanglements with the boss do seem to be a favored “special” of Ms. Lalonde’s, as multiple sources reveal she vacated her last, ahem, position at Brindille for similar reasons,’ ” he finished, folding the paper and slapping it down on the desk. “Vipers like Andrea Williams are part of the deal, we both know that. But to be honest, Logan, it doesn’t sound like she’s had to work very hard to dig up dirt. And where there’s dirt, there’s drama. And where there’s drama, there’s distraction, which I think we can both agree the team cannot afford.”

  Stunned, I turned toward Dad. “You can’t seriously be worried about this? You’ve been around Gwen since she was a kid. You know she isn’t anything like what’s been written about her.”

  “Son,” he sighed. “Listen, I know the restaurant is important to you and you want to be actively involved. But like Phil previously discussed with you, your role needs to be limited to acting as the face of Stonestreet’s. Nothing more. So you shouldn’t be spending one-on-one time with Gwen, even in a professional capacity. Your focus and energy need to be on the game.”

  It wasn’t that I didn’t hear their concerns, but this was ridiculous. “I’m entitled to a personal life.”

  “Actually, Logan, you’re not,” Kent said, all sense of humor and patience leaving his tone. “Not while you’re the face of this team, and not if it’s going to impair your performance.”

  Except that’s where they were wrong. Gwen made me feel grounded, normal. Not Logan Stonestreet, quarterback extraordinaire and franchise puppet. When I was around her, I was just . . . me. Wonder Bread. And that was a feeling I wanted to hold on to and never let go.

  * * *

  I pulled up to Gwen’s small bungalow in Washington Park as she stepped onto her porch. I’d taken a chance she’d be at home rather than out enjoying her day off, and based on the pile of dirty aprons, shopping bags, and what appeared to be a few library books in her arms and the key ring dangling from her finger, I’d caught her in the nick of time.

  It’d been two weeks since she’d stormed away from me at the Blizzards Bowl. Two weeks since Andrea Williams had accused Gwen of using sex—and me—to garner success on her path to culinary stardom. No doubt Gwen had seen the gossip column by now and was pissed as hell, justifiably so. Which was why I figured it best to allow her temper to cool down before contacting her.

  Gwen locked the front door, shoving the keys into her purse, and jogged down the porch steps with a stack of envelopes wedged between her teeth. Placing them in the mailbox, she flicked up the red flag, then picked up a water pail stashed behind the post and poured it over a potted plant bursting with purple flowers. All while the items in her arms stayed put.

  Damn, the woman could juggle better than a circus performer. Though I supposed after years of working in restaurants, multitasking came naturally.

  I hopped out of my truck. At the sound of my slamming door, Gwen jumped and turned, eyes widening.

  “Geez, Wonder Bread, you scared me,” she said, irritation evident in her voice. “Shouldn’t you be in Pittsburgh?”

  Gwen popped the trunk of the Nissan Sentra parked at the curb, the one she’d driven since she was sixteen, and dumped the stuff in her arms inside. It was hard to believe she still owned that car—she couldn’t have had much use for it while attending culinary school in Paris or working in San Francisco. Plus, she earned a decent salary, so even if she’d needed a vehicle, she could have upgraded to something that wasn’t dented and rusted.

  But that was Gwen—the girl who never did what I expected, the girl whose quirks I found endlessly fascinating. Examining the peeling paint, foggy taillights, and sun-bleached Scottie dog bobble head that had bounced and nodded along to what had to be over a hundred thousand miles traveled, I wondered what charm she still saw in the piece of junk—and what more I’d discover about her if I asked.

  “Flew home last night after the game,” I said, walking over to where she was organizing the scattered belongings into a coherent order only she understood. I leaned up against the car, chuckling at how the tiny frame groaned beneath my weight.

  “Congrats on the win by the way.” Shoving the trunk closed, she buffed out a mark on the spoiler with the hem of her shirt as though the Sentra were a showroom floor model rather than a scrap yard wannabe.

  Dressed in her usual all black, Gwen should look like a stark contrast against the bright blue day, but there was something natural and relaxed about her that fit right in with the Colorado lan
dscape.

  “Thanks. The guys really stepped up,” I said. Truth was, the game had been a slaughter. The Blizzards offense had dominated the Steelers defense from the first drive down the field and never let up. In the end, we’d beaten the Steelers by thirty points, though that was nothing compared to the show we’d put on against the Ravens last week.

  “So did you.” A flicker of a smile lifted the corners of her mouth, enough to illuminate her eyes. Maybe she wasn’t so angry after all. “The play where you scored a touchdown on a designated run out of the shotgun was impressive. And there’s not many quarterbacks who can carry five defenders on their shoulders while fighting for a third down the way you did in the second quarter.”

  “I did what needed to be done.” I shrugged, shoving my hands into my pockets.

  She shook her head. “Stop being so modest. You’re the equivalent of a running back who’s built like a tight end and executes the quarterback position with strength and precision all at once. You’re a rarity.”

  “So, you’re admitting you watched the game. Did you cheer? Do a little shimmy when I nailed that forty-five-yard pass?” I asked, my tone teasing despite my apprehension. The woman had the unparalleled talent of checking my ego worse than a grounded ball when there was an available receiver.

  Gwen snorted. “Please, Wonder Bread. I’ve recently made it a habit to watch all of Chris’s games—or at least catch the highlight reel.” She opened the driver’s-side door and tossed her purse in. “Speaking of my brother, did he give you my address or were you snooping in my employment file?”

  I definitely hadn’t asked Chris. My best friend had a temper, and while he’d never seemed overly protective of Gwen and whom she dated, I didn’t know how he’d react to me pursuing his sister and hadn’t wanted to chance it. In reality, I’d signed off on the restaurant’s payroll authorization three days ago, and Gwen’s name and address had come up. No snooping required.