Intercepting the Chef

by Rachel Goodman

  “And what all do you know about this restaurateur?” he asked, his tone as skeptical as our mother’s had been moments ago.

  “I’ve done my research,” I said, leaning against the counter. “His hospitality group has an outstanding reputation and has opened several award-winning dining establishments.”

  Chris nodded, seemingly satisfied with my response. “Okay, well, given what happened in San Francisco, I’d recommend keeping your guard up . . .”

  “I will,” I said. “And I am.” I had no intention of repeating my past mistakes. Still his concern was touching and also reassuring.

  “Save your breath, Christopher,” our mother chimed in, not even bothering to peer up from where she was flipping through a Nordstrom catalog and sipping her Earl Grey. “Your sister is going to do what she wants. Though I think she’s much better suited to Stonestreet’s—the job you secured for her, no less. But what do I know? I’m just the one who birthed you both.”

  It took everything in me not to roll my eyes or tell her to stop acting like a petulant child.

  “I suppose that means Logan doesn’t know about any of this?” Chris asked, putting the almond butter away and rinsing the spoon before dropping it into the dishwasher.

  “There’s nothing to share right now because I haven’t been selected for an in-person audition,” I said. “In fact, I won’t know anything until after the New Year, most likely.”

  And even if I were invited to cook for Trent and his associates, that still didn’t mean I’d be offered the position—or that I’d accept it if I was. Even with strong financial backing and exceptional food, most restaurants in New York City failed within three years of opening. And if this venture didn’t succeed, not only would I be out of a job—again—but I’d have another black mark against my name. Starting over would be harder than ever before. The industry was so much easier for the unknowns, the upstarts still earning their reputation. One mistake, one misstep, and I could be relegated to the minor leagues—or worse—for the rest of my career.

  “Okay, so when that happens you’ll fill him in?” he asked, and I noticed he used when and not if.

  “Yes, then I’ll tell him.” I stole a Golden Delicious from the plastic bag on the counter, cutting the apple into slices and arranging them on a plate.

  Chris chuckled. “Damn. Gwen Lalonde, the original heartbreaker.”

  “Why in heaven would Logan be heartbroken?” our mother asked, any mention of Wonder Bread sparking her interest. “Gwen is a remarkable chef, but Logan can easily find a replacement.” Which was both the nicest compliment she’d ever muttered about me, especially in my presence, but also so characteristically backhanded.

  “Gwen and Logan are seeing each other, Ma . . . romantically.” Of course Chris had to make sure to add that last bit.

  “We’re not ‘seeing each other,’ ” I ground out, imagining all the ways I was going to harm him later. Suddenly I had no appetite. I pushed my plate away.

  “So, it’s just sex then. Good to know,” he clarified with an amused expression. Screw hurting him. I was going to strangle him to death.

  Our mother frowned, a perplexed look on her face. “Chris, don’t be ridiculous or so crass. Logan would never be interested in your sister that way. He’s too professional,” she said, completely oblivious to her insult. “Though it’d be lovely if you two dated. Logan’s such a gentleman.”

  Chris had deemed Logan my fuck buddy and her only response was that Logan was a gentleman?

  I opened my mouth to change the subject to anything else, but the cordless landline ringing on the island did the job for me. Excusing herself, my mother answered the phone and stepped into the family room.

  “So, how long has this thing with you and Stonestreet been going on?” Chris asked.

  “Since none of your business,” I said. “How did you even find out about it, anyway?”

  “Drove past your house the morning after the Pittsburgh game. Guess whose car was parked on the street?” Chris wiggled his eyebrows, walking around the island and perching on one of the bar stools. That was the day Logan had accompanied me to the farmers’ market, before anything had even happened between us. “Just be mindful there, Gwen.”

  “Why do you care?” I asked. “Logan’s a big boy capable of making adult decisions.”

  “Because he’s my best friend,” he said, as though it was that simple.

  “So let me get this straight,” I said. “You act like an ass on the field, threaten to be traded, and yet you’re concerned with his feelings? You can’t have it both ways, Chris.”

  Not to mention, the last I’d heard, he and Logan were hardly speaking unless it directly pertained to running a play or discussing formations for the next drive. Which was going to make for awkward conversation when Logan and his father ate Thanksgiving dinner at our house next Thursday—a tradition that’d started after Logan’s mother had passed away and he and Chris had both signed with the Blizzards. It would also be the first holiday meal I’d spent with my family in five years.

  “Sure I can,” he said matter-of-factly. “I’ve been riding Stonestreet since we were kids. He’s irritated at me right now—and I at him—but we’ll get over it eventually. It’s always been this way between us. I start slacking, he calls me out. He loses focus, I call him out. We hold each other accountable.”

  I shook my head. “You two are worse than a bickering old couple.” I’d never understand their dynamic.

  “Hey, at least we communicate,” he said, drumming his fingers on the soapstone surface.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked defensively.

  Chris gave me a pointed stare. “I may be considering a new team, but at least I told Logan that before I took any steps to actually do it.”

  I threw my hands up. “You only spit that out in the heat of the moment!” I said, remembering the irritation in Logan’s voice as he recounted their tense locker room exchange.

  “So? I still said it to his face.” He shrugged. “It’s more than you can claim. We both know Logan wouldn’t give two shits if you wanted to leave Stonestreet’s for something better.”

  “Then what are we even talking about?” I asked.

  “The fact that he’ll almost certainly be hurt if he finds out you’re moving across the country and he didn’t even rank a heads-up,” Chris said. “Or how about the fact that you’re treating him like a random hookup when he’s falling for you?”

  “Logan’s not falling for me. We agreed to keep things casual,” I said, but the words sounded false even to my own ears.

  Things were changing between us—they’d been changing since our escapade in the locker room and maybe even before that, if I were honest. All week we’d been spending more and more time together outside the restaurant, sleeping over, trading residences—something I’d vowed not to do. But Logan was like a splinter I couldn’t extract—always had been.

  “Whatever helps you sleep at night,” he said. “I just hope you know what you’re doing.”

  That’s where Chris had it all wrong—he believed the reason I hadn’t told Logan about the opportunity in New York was because I was afraid of Logan’s reaction, of hurting him, and maybe that was partly true. But in all reality, I knew Logan would encourage me to accept the position. Besides, if the roles were reversed, the choice football or whatever he felt for me, there was no doubt in my mind Logan would choose football every time despite how self-destructive it could be.

  No, I was the one who needed to be careful.

  Somehow our no-strings-attached fling had begun to feel dangerous and reckless in all the wrong ways. Like a part of my life, something important, something I didn’t want to lose. And something I might not recover from. I couldn’t afford that kind of risk. It wasn’t just my heart on the line, but my career as well. If I started turning down opportunities—am
azing, once-in-a-lifetime opportunities—based solely on what I thought Logan and I might be someday, then I deserved what I got.

  Which was why it was so important that we maintained a strict friends-with-benefits relationship. Anything else was courting disaster on a scale I couldn’t calculate. I wasn’t ready to risk my entire future, pass on an opportunity that may never come around again, by dragging an undefined relationship into the mix.

  Not until I absolutely had to.

  CHAPTER

  SIXTEEN

  Logan

  Thanksgiving morning, I arrived at the Salvation Army donning an apron with the words SMOOCH THE CHEF and a ball cap that had Bruiser the Bear munching on a drumstick. Chris had the embroidered Blizzards hat custom designed for me as a gag gift a few years back, and the apron—the one twelve-year-old me had thought an appropriate Mother’s Day present—only made an appearance on this particular holiday. And though bittersweet—remembering the smile it’d brought to Mom’s face every time she’d worn it, the way she’d insisted that Dad and I kiss her on the cheek—it also reminded me of how much I appreciated this time of year.

  While the shift from fall to winter was never easy—both physically and mentally, professionally and personally—it was also my favorite. It was a season of change when the days were cool and golden, the leaves crisp and in shades of a burning sunset, and the air filled with the scent of subtle decay. A season that promised rebirth and great things waiting around the corner.

  And so, while Blizzards players, coaches, and staff checked in at shelters across Denver to perform a very public civic duty that most viewed as a less-desirable part of the job, I showed up with a different motivation. Because strange as it might be, I loved walking into the energetic hum of this huge kitchen full of volunteers—some I’d known for years from the various nonprofits I supported and others I’d never see again—all getting ready to provide a traditional Thanksgiving meal with all the trimmings to those less fortunate.

  For me, today was about more than offering my gratitude and giving back to the community that’d allowed me to live out my dreams. It was also my way of honoring Mom—there wasn’t a Thanksgiving she hadn’t donated her time or hundreds of boxed dinners to organizations around the city.

  I waved hello to Olson and Austin Thompson, who, along with their significant others, were opening cans of green beans and transferring the contents into casserole dishes. On the far side of the kitchen, Salvation Army workers carved turkeys, placing the roasted meat into pans already overflowing with breasts and thighs, and poured chicken stock onto stuffing, incorporating the liquid into the bread-and-meat mixture with giant industrial spoons. The whole building smelled festive, like an entire spice cabinet had been upended.

  “Stonestreet, you’re sporting that getup again?” Tony hollered from where he was scooping steaming chunks of russet potatoes from a large pot into a stainless steel bowl. “You’re the highest-paid player on the team, so you ain’t hurting for cash. Go shopping for another outfit before next year.”

  “You’re hardly one to talk,” I said, pulling on latex gloves and jumping in to peel, chop, and cook the pounds and pounds of carrots I was responsible for serving to patrons—my annual duty. “You’re wearing a turkey costume, for God’s sake. Again.”

  “Figured it appropriate to dress like the poultry I’d be eating,” he said.

  “You know, I’d wager that’s a form of cannibalism.”

  Tony laughed and shrugged. “Hey, if chickens can get away with eating their own eggs, then I can get away with this.”

  “What are you doing to those spuds?” I asked, watching as he squashed them into a messy, starchy pulp.

  “You don’t recognize this?” He rotated his wrist a full ninety degrees until squished potato popped up through the open slats of the metal masher. “You should. It’s what Minnesota tried to do to your head last Sunday.”

  “Yeah, unsuccessfully,” I said, scooping carrot skins into my palm and dropping them into the trash bin.

  After some intense physical therapy following the Cleveland game—and some stress-relief activities of the naked, sexual variety with Gwen—I’d been able to get back onto the field with confidence, settle into my natural flow again. And it’d showed, the dynamic energy among the guys returning—the Blizzards might have squeaked out a narrow-margin win against the Chiefs, but the face-off against the Vikings had been a complete destruction.

  The beginning of the game had been slow and frustrating, dominated by the defense, each team fighting for every yard, every inch. But once we’d established our rhythm in the third quarter, the matchup had turned into the tale of two halves, the Blizzards offense firing on all cylinders, rushing for two touchdowns and me throwing for three more. By the time we’d reached the fourth quarter, the score had gotten so out of control that Coach Wallace had swapped the majority of the starting lineup for backups.

  “You know, it’s a shame this is our bye week,” Tony said, unwrapping a block of butter and melting it into the mashed potatoes. The Blizzards had the last bye of the season, which was a blessing because it afforded the team a much-needed rest, but also worrisome because it interrupted our newly recovered momentum.

  “Why’s that?” I asked, dumping the carrots into vats of boiling water, the steam enveloping my face in a vitamin A mist.

  “Because we gotta wait until December to turn those Cheeseheads into fondue.” Tony cackled, as if he hadn’t made that same quip about the Packers every time we were slated to face them. He’d played his rookie season in Green Bay but was traded as soon as his contract ended. Since then, Tony had made it his personal mission to go to their home turf at Lambeau Field and put a minimum of thirty-five points up on them, rub it in the owners’ faces just what an asset they’d missed out on.

  “I’m ready to bring the apples,” Austin called out as he stirred cream of mushroom soup and milk into the green beans.

  “I’ll provide the cubed bread,” Olson said, and I laughed when his wife, Brittany, told him to stop encouraging Tony—once he received even the slightest attention for a lame joke, the more of them Tony would tell and the worse they’d become.

  Sure enough, Tony said, “Speaking of cubed bread. Here’s a good one for you. Why did the cranberries turn red?”

  “They don’t turn red, you fool. They already are,” Brittany cut in.

  “Because the cranberries saw the turkey dressing!” Tony howled, and I thought Brittany was going to hit him upside the head with her spoon. The rest of us just rolled our eyes and returned to our work.

  In no time at all, the Thanksgiving rush descended, and I found myself swept up in the three-step dance of prep, plate, and pose for pictures. As with the volunteers, there were some faces I recognized from years past and other people I was just now meeting. I tried to spend a few minutes with each guest, learning a little about their story—the best part of this experience. Reporters milled about, interviewing players, volunteers, and visitors.

  “It’s great to be here and give back,” Olson told Wendy, the Colorado Post sportswriter. “Being raised on the streets and by a single parent, I’ve been in similar situations to these folks, so I know it’s hard. And now that I have the means, I want to do whatever I can to help.”

  As Wendy moved down the line, chatting with a longtime Blizzards fan who was a participant in the Salvation Army’s recovery program, I turned back to my station, ready to dish out more carrots as I greeted the next person. Instead, I found my agent standing there, a frown marring his face.

  “Hey, Phil, surprised to see you here.” My tone was pleasant but far from genuine. It contained an underlying sharpness, an edge of impatience.

  “You shouldn’t be,” he said, adjusting his suit jacket. “I’ve got four of you all out doing community service today. I’m making the rounds.”

  “There’s an extra apron in the back if y
ou’d like to jump in, help out,” I said, knowing he’d rather hang himself by his gaudy, expensive silk tie than volunteer.

  “I’m not here to serve meals, Logan. I’m here to verify you’re maximizing this opportunity,” he said, like I was an amateur who needed hand-holding.

  I wanted to remind him that today wasn’t about photo ops, but I knew my words would fall on deaf ears.

  “Doing my best, Phil,” I said, tossing the carrots to redistribute the lemon-honey glaze that had settled on the bottom of the pan.

  “Not good enough. You’re still spending far too much time at the restaurant, mixing business with pleasure. But that needs to stop. Now.” He kept his voice down but not low enough to keep some of the patrons around him from overhearing. They fidgeted uncomfortably and averted their eyes, pretending not to listen. “Your focus needs to be on the rest of the season and smoothing things over with Chris. People are noticing there’s tension between you two, and you can’t afford for that to translate onto the field.”

  “We managed just fine the last two games.”

  Phil shook his head. “You got lucky. But luck doesn’t secure championships.”

  “We’ve got it under control. Now as you can see, there’s a line building up,” I said, trying to move him along, my restraint growing thin.

  “The front office is concerned about Chris’s trade potential,” he pressed on. “There are already rumors circulating that he wants out and that Seattle is interested. But that can’t happen. The fans, the media, the owners have invested in you both as a tag team—a lucrative one—so whatever the hell is going on between you and him, it needs to be resolved. Fix this, Logan. Tonight, when you and your father go over to his mother’s house for dinner.”

  Before I could reply, he shouldered his way through the crowd and walked out the door.

  I was getting damn tired of the double standard that quarterbacks were responsible for maintaining stability and order while wide receivers and running backs got to act like divas without repercussions. But I’d accepted the role of fall guy years ago and I was nothing if not diligent and dedicated, so I’d make nice with Chris. Because Phil might be a prick, but he wasn’t wrong.