Brittany appraised us with an arched eyebrow. She gave a slight nod of approval at Missy’s skinny jeans, brown boots, and Lily Pulitzer blouse beneath a bright blue vest, but practically sneered at my gray sweaterdress and leather jacket combo Missy had insisted I wear. “You look edgy, and no one would suspect that Logan’s sleeping with someone who’s edgy,” Missy had claimed. Now I felt ridiculous.
“And you both are?” Brittany continued, though I heard her not-so-subtle subtext loud and clear: And which player are you banging?
“Missy Mitchell,” Missy beamed, her effervescent personality bubbling right at the surface. “I’m tagging along. My husband, Dan, is going to die when he finds out I scored these last-minute tickets.” Missy glued on her game-show assistant grin that rivaled Vanna White’s and the one that Brittany seemed to appreciate. How did Missy fake it so effortlessly like that?
Brittany turned to me. “So that means you’re here for . . . ?”
“Chris Lalonde,” I said as a waiter brushed past me. I swiped two red wines off the tray, handing one to Missy and taking a long sip of mine.
“No need to get to know you then. You’ll be gone by next week,” said the woman standing behind Brittany, cackling. I recognized her as Jennifer Clark, former reality TV star and current girlfriend of Austin Thompson, the rookie tight end from Stanford that Chris was always talking about. She was dressed for a Miami club rather than watching a football game in November.
A sort of territorial defensiveness prickled my spine. Sure Chris had a reputation for constantly shuffling through multiple hookups without shame or apology, but did she have to be so rude or dismissive?
I raised my chin and squared my shoulders. “Actually, Chris is my twin. I’m Gwen,” I said, praying none of them had read the local gossip section recently and remembered my name. The last thing I needed was to be the brunt of inner-circle rumors or add more fuel to Andrea Williams’s fire. “I just recently moved back to Denver so I thought it might be nice to watch him play in person.”
“Oh, sweetie. Great to meet you. Though apart from your brown eyes, I don’t see the resemblance,” Brittany said, her whole attitude instantly changing. “You actually belong in that box.” She gestured to the suite directly across from ours, the massive diamond ring on her hand winking brighter than the stadium lights. “That’s where the families and kids hang out—your mom’s probably in that area, too—but you’re welcome to stay here with us. It gets a little boring over there. Come on, I’ll introduce you to the other wives and girlfriends.”
Looping her arms around mine and Missy’s, Brittany led us around the room, making certain to tell everyone that I was Chris’s sister and Missy was my guest. At least Jennifer Clark had the decency to look contrite. After that, it was as if we blended into the background, most of the women keeping their focus on the Blizzards players warming up before kickoff in fifteen minutes.
The team needed a rebound after last week’s loss against the Raiders. Logan hadn’t suited up for that game—the coaching staff had decided to rest him so he’d be strong and healthy for the Browns tonight. Instead, unseasoned backup quarterback Fitzpatrick was put in to lead the offensive line and the results had been abysmal.
“You know, I almost tried out for the team cheer squad years ago,” Brittany said to us, her tone rueful as she gazed at the pom-pom-waving, Miss World–esque girls prancing around the perimeter of the field in what was essentially blue-and-silver opaque lingerie. I bet the cheerleaders were hating their lives right now and questioning why Denver had an open-air stadium when it snowed so frequently.
“But then you found out there’s a no fraternization policy between dancers and players?” Missy asked, pouring herself another glass of Chardonnay.
Brittany shook her head. “Then I realized that waiting in the lobby in a hot Versace number required less effort and guaranteed more reward.”
I nearly snorted wine through my nose. “Can’t fault you for your honesty or audacity.”
“And it worked,” Missy added. “Major props.”
“I keep a tight leash on Dustin now because I have firsthand experience with what happens at away games.” Brittany tossed her long, thick mane over her shoulder. “You two are lucky in that you don’t have to worry about your significant others when they’re gone. With our boys, there are women in every city, in every hotel, waiting to provide younger, firmer, more flexible. It’s a constant battle.”
A twinge of jealousy twisted my chest. I had no claim over Logan, but the thought of him on the road, free to bring other girls up to his room, made me nauseous. When I’d insisted on casual and discreet, I hadn’t really considered the flip side.
Ugh. It was so unfair. I’d fought with Logan about attending tonight and sitting in the WAG box, and now here I was practically proving his point. Because as much as I hated to admit it, I felt like one of those dramatic high school girls obsessed with what “extracurricular activities” her boyfriend was involved with.
Missy cut her gaze to me, as if sensing my thoughts, and squeezed my hand. I shot her a half smile.
“Except Stonestreet. The groupies don’t even bother going after him anymore,” Jennifer piped up from where she was primping in the reflection of a window.
“Why not?” I hated myself for asking, but I needed to know.
“Logan’s the only member on the team who’s both single and a serial monogamist.” Jennifer teetered in too-high heels over to the minibuffet and filled a plate with nachos, guacamole, and buffalo chicken wings. How she still managed to maintain a perfect figure should be studied by science. “Ain’t that right, Nicole?”
My stomach dropped, and my heart lodged in my throat. Logan’s ex was somewhere in this suite?
I glanced around, searching for her. Missy was doing the same with an Oh, shit expression on her face. I repeated the mantra that Nicole being here wasn’t a big deal, that none of these people knew the real reason I’d come tonight. Besides, I’d dealt with restaurant critics who were more cutthroat than this group could ever hope to be. I just needed to act calm, collected.
And then, like a mythical creature emerging out of the mist, Nicole unfurled herself from one of the leather couches and sauntered over, and all of my confidence fizzled away. Blond with a body worthy of a swimsuit calendar, she was the quintessential pro-athlete arm candy. I was the equivalent of a Twinkie—food you could survive on in the event of a nuclear war or zombie apocalypse but not something you’d willingly indulge in.
“Let me tell you, that man is built to be loyal,” Nicole said, sliding up beside Brittany. “Seriously built.”
Jennifer sighed, as if recalling a fantasy she’d had on more than one occasion. “I love Austin, don’t get me wrong, but Logan is every girl’s white whale.”
Missy nudged me with her elbow and whispered, “Do you think she knows that’s a reference to Moby-Dick?”
“I think Jennifer knows it’s a reference to dick,” I said through clenched teeth, pleading with my eyes for her to shut up before one of them heard us.
“Guess it’d really piss her off then to know you’ve landed him.” Missy snickered.
“Shhh,” I said, fighting the warm flush that crawled across my body, igniting memories of Logan and me naked and in varying positions that I had no business remembering in public.
“Sadly I could never quite land him,” Nicole said.
“How so?” Missy asked, thankfully, so I didn’t have to. “You dated for almost two years, right?”
“Logan was the ideal boyfriend, but he wouldn’t commit. Not to marriage anyway, which is obviously the goal. So we ended it.” Nicole shrugged, as if their whole relationship had been inconsequential. A pass-through on her way to something better.
“But don’t feel too bad for her. She’s moved on just fine,” Jennifer said, as if I’d been worried about Nicole’s emotional we
ll-being when she clearly hadn’t shed any tears.
“Yeah, to the whole defensive line.” Brittany laughed and pinched Nicole’s side.
“Hey, it’s not my fault I have so many suitors,” Nicole said, and I noticed she wasn’t wearing a specific player’s number but rather a general Blizzards long-sleeved shirt. “A girl’s gotta keep her options open.”
In that moment, Nicole reminded me of Stephen. Not so much in the shouting, perfectionist-seeking kind of way, but in how Stephen was consistently on the hunt for the “next best thing” that could advance his interests—all those Food Network appearances, the cookware line for Williams-Sonoma he’d paid someone else to design, the Lower Manhattan dining concepts he’d developed with the sole purpose of becoming a bigger household name than Bobby Flay or Giada De Laurentiis. In another life, he and Nicole would have made the perfect pair.
My cell phone vibrated in my pocket and I pulled it out. HENRI lit up the screen, and my pulse jumped. I hadn’t spoken to my father in two months, not since that morning after Stonestreet’s opening night.
“Excuse me,” I said to the group of women, who, apart from Missy, were all still giggling about Nicole’s numerous conquests, not even the least bit disgusted at how fame and money hungry she sounded. I stepped into the corridor.
“Hi, Dad,” I said.
“Gwendolyn!” he boomed above honking car horns and vendors hawking their wares in the background.
“Where are you now?” I asked, trying to keep my voice down.
The hallway was empty, the other Blizzards fans tucked into their private boxes or stadium seats watching kickoff. On the wall-mounted TVs, I saw the Cleveland returner reach the fifty-yard-line completely untouched and get tripped up by a Blizzards defender at the Colorado thirty. This didn’t bode well for the next four quarters, especially when Cleveland was ranked second to last in the league.
“Times Square. Ship is docked in New York for a bit before it sets off on a cruise around the Mediterranean,” my father shouted, the noises making sense now.
“What’s this I hear about you playing hard to get?” he continued. “That’s my girl!”
“Playing hard to get?” I asked.
“With the TK Hospitality group. Word on the street is that Trent Keller had to fly all the way to Denver to persuade you to become the executive chef of his new endeavor.”
“Audition. The position hasn’t been promised to me,” I corrected, wondering how my father, while always a part of the culinary community even when on the periphery, already knew about this potential opportunity when he’d been sailing the planet for the past however long.
“Either way, what did you decide?” my father asked.
“I haven’t yet,” I said, drawing a line in the carpet with the tip of my shoe. “I’m supposed to submit a sample menu by the end of next week. No restrictions or guidelines.”
Trent had said if I researched his hospitality group I’d discover all the doors he could open for me, and he hadn’t been kidding. Whether financially, conceptually, or managerially, his company had been involved in launching several of the country’s most popular eateries, many of the head chefs winning James Beard awards or Michelin stars under his stead.
“And then what?” my father asked.
“Trent will determine the short list of who will move on to the next phase,” I said, my gaze fixed on the monitors. Logan moved left to right across the field, dodging a rushing defensive lineman. He barely kept his feet, his gait never managing to smooth out. Where Logan was normally all fluid power, today he looked choppy, defensive. As though he was babying something—his hamstring? His knee?
“That’s good . . .” My father trailed off, no trace of encouragement or pride in his tone.
“But what?” I asked, snippier than I’d intended.
He was quiet a moment before he cleared his throat and said, “I think if someone of Trent Keller’s caliber is impressed enough to offer you an audition, then perhaps it’s time you finally branched out on your own, seek your own financing. Be your own boss and report only to yourself.”
I sighed. There was a reason I hadn’t called my father to tell him about this opportunity. While his intentions came from a place of fatherly love, they weren’t always feasible, or practical, in execution.
And anyway, he was hardly a sterling example of entrepreneurial success. For all his bluster and bravado about chasing dreams and being my own boss, his actions over the years had taught me a very different lesson. One I reminded myself of often—that while success could guarantee happiness, failure could also certainly guarantee destruction.
“Dad, I appreciate your concern, but I need to do what’s best for me. And that might mean staying at Stonestreet’s, or pursuing this venture with the TK Hospitality Group, or doing something entirely different,” I said, feeling more unsure about my future than ever. “I’m still figuring it all out.”
“Life only gives you so many options, Gwen. And I don’t know, maybe you want success under someone else’s banner rather than your own, but you have too much talent for that,” he said, irritation stealing into his voice. “What I do know, and what this restaurateur knows, and what everyone but you seems to know, is that you’re wasting your time at an athlete-owned American steakhouse that’ll fade as sure and fast as Logan’s football career. You gonna let it fade you, too?”
As usual my father was full of good questions. Problem was, I didn’t have any answers.
CHAPTER
FOURTEEN
Logan
I leaned against the concrete wall in the empty tunnel outside the locker room, listening to seventy-five thousand irate Blizzards fans calling for my demise. A twenty-eight-point loss to Cleveland, four interceptions, one fumble, and ninety-six passing yards—an all-time record low. I’d performed like a third-string high school freshman quarterback out there tonight.
The boos and shouts grew more deafening. My heart pounded furiously against my ribs, every inch of me soaked in sweat and dirt and the stench of my own misery—a toxic mix of frustration, disappointment, and anger.
Shoving open the locker room door, I kept my eyes down, avoiding the harsh stares of my teammates, and quickly grabbed clothes from my bag and headed for the showers. I didn’t need to see how Chris was furiously tugging off his gear and throwing it against the wooden benches, the sound loud in the quiet. Didn’t need confirmation from Tony or Olson or Austin that I’d screwed up, played like an amateur—their resentment was so heavy it felt like I was dragging chains. Didn’t need visual proof that the entire defensive line was still in their destroyed uniforms, tracking my movements like soon-to-be-captured prey. And who could blame them? The defense had carried the Blizzards the last two games that had still ended in defeat.
The media and coaching staff had considered the loss to the Raiders a one-shot event, a result of newbie QB Fitzpatrick being responsible for the ball while I’d rested. But tonight there’d been no excuse—I hadn’t delivered against one of the weakest teams in the league. From the very first drive, I’d felt disjointed and out of sync, never quite able to find my stride or get my rhythm going.
Truth was, I hadn’t felt settled since my argument with Gwen. I hated, absolutely hated, that I’d dragged those unresolved emotions out onto the field with me. My sex life had no place in the game. I knew better. What was my problem, anyway? I’d never allowed personal shit and petty fights to distract me or impact my playing before, so why now?
The showers were empty, offering a much-needed reprieve from the judgment and backlash to come. I removed my jersey and pads, sucking in a sharp breath at the stabbing pain that pierced my chest. Maybe a cracked rib, or merely a deep bruise if I was lucky—I’d taken so many hits during the game I’d lost count.
“Stonestreet, press conference. Three minutes,” Coach Ashley bellowed, his stern voice bouncing off the tile.
I sighed. I guess the shower would have to wait. Wincing, I pulled on a T-shirt, not even bothering to change out of my Lycra pants. There wasn’t time to worry about my appearance anyway. Though it felt like my body was broken, the moment I hit the pass-through from private team space to public scrutiny, I straightened my spine and leveled my chin, walking as though every step didn’t hurt. As though there wasn’t a garbage disposal whirling away in my knee, grinding the bones to dust.
Cameras flashed as I entered the media area, unease gripping my stomach at Coach Wallace’s empty chair at the table. Usually he joined me for press conferences, but I guess even he refused to associate with me after tonight’s performance.
The atmosphere in the room felt charged with the hunger of fifty reporters all ready to tear me apart. I didn’t know when the shift occurred. Where I’d once gazed out into this crowd and saw partners, supporters, people with whom I had a positive professional working relationship, now it seemed as though I was surrounded by adversaries who couldn’t wait to watch me fall.
I took a seat and adjusted the microphone. Once again, Tom Phelps was the first to spout off a question. “Logan, that was an embarrassing night. You fell apart out there. What happened?”
Thanks for not mincing words, Tom.
“I accept full responsibility for the result of the game. There’s no excuse for me not getting the job done,” I said, because that was what he wanted to hear, but also because it was the truth. The loss had been my fault. “Our defense fought hard against the Browns, and I’m proud of what they tried to accomplish when we weren’t sharp offensively from the get-go.”
“You rested last week against the Raiders. Do you think the time off affected your momentum?” Wendy, the Colorado Post reporter, asked. Her usually pleasant personality had changed to something hard, her tone accusatory.
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