“Concentrate on your own performance, Mr. Lalonde. Plenty there to keep you busy.” Stealing the tape from Chris’s grasp, Doc Baxter leveled him with a stare, then disappeared into the hallway.
Chris rolled his eyes and leaned against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest. “Does he ever laugh?”
“Not often,” I said, sitting up and swinging my legs over the side of the table. “What’s up?”
“Smell that?” he asked, inhaling the air like he was in a rose garden rather than a stadium built in the late eighties.
“Stale sweat?” The odor was so intense it was as if it had been baked into the threadbare carpet.
“Winning,” he said, rubbing his hands together like a mischievous child.
“Why am I not shocked that to you winning stinks like your eighth-grade gym bag?” I slipped on my compression socks and adjusted the hem of my Lycra pants. “And don’t jinx us.”
“Ain’t jinxing if you’re prepared. You geared up to dance?”
On the surface, his words seemed innocent if not presumed from a best friend and teammate on the night that could cement our legacy in the history books. But I knew what Chris was really asking was if my attention was on the game or still back at the hospital, rehashing my fight with Gwen. If he could count on me to deliver when it mattered despite all the personal shit happening in my life.
“I was born dancing,” I said, which was a canned, clichéd answer but no less true. “Same as you.”
“Just checking,” he said.
We stared at each other, silence stretching between us—something that had turned into a pattern as of late. In an instant, Gwen had become this rift in our usually easygoing camaraderie, both of us avoiding any mention of her like we were creeping around booby traps.
Once again I was reminded of how Chris had known about the opportunity with the restaurateur months ago, how Gwen had chosen to share that information with him and leave me in the dark. It was another example of how she hadn’t trusted me, of how she’d refused to let her guard down and open her life and her heart to me.
I started to address the elephant in the room, but Chris beat me to it. “I sent her a ticket to Miami,” he said.
I nodded. “I assumed.”
“She decided not to come.”
“I assumed that, too,” I said, trying to hide my disappointment. While Gwen had made it clear that until I’d chosen a different profession she wanted no part in my future, I still hoped she’d put all that aside to support me on the biggest night of my career.
“Because she’s in New York City,” Chris said cautiously, as if he wasn’t sure how much more he should share.
My eyebrows rose in surprise. I’d accused Gwen of being cowardly, so the news that she’d taken action should have made me happy—for her at least. But all I could think about was how that step toward achieving her dreams was a step away from me. Even with the hurt and anger between us, I didn’t want to lose her despite the very real and very harsh possibility that she was already gone. I only wished she could understand my point of view.
“Good for her.” I cleared my throat. “It’s what she should be doing.”
Chris shot me a look that indicated he knew I was bullshitting him. “Whatever helps you execute, Stonestreet,” he said. “Ordinarily I wouldn’t even bring her up, but I need you one hundred percent present out there.”
“I’m locked in,” I said, standing and flexing my wrists and elbows, loosening the tape so it felt comfortable.
Gwen was obviously focused on moving ahead. Still, the last time we’d spoken the fire in her words had lingered with me these past two weeks. Maybe I was reckless and careless and selfish, but I couldn’t afford to be any other way. And internalizing her words was dangerous, especially tonight, so I’d pushed them aside.
Silence settled between us again, interrupted when Tony popped his head around the doorframe. “Hey, you fools ready to finish suiting up?” he asked. “Wallace wants to give his speech soon.”
It was showtime.
* * *
“It’s now or never,” I yelled to the guys in the huddle. “Get the damn ball into the end zone.”
It was the second play in the drive, and we were on our own forty with less than ninety seconds remaining in overtime after the Saints had failed to put any additional points on the board during their last possession.
Saints quarterback Richie Walsh had built an early 6–0 advantage in the opening minutes of play, but we’d rebounded when Chris had recovered a fumble in the New Orleans end zone. After that the game had become an exchange of field goals until our running back had rushed for a thirteen-yard touchdown, granting the Blizzards a 23–12 lead in the fourth quarter. The Saints had rallied with a touchdown of their own, a successful two-point conversion, and another field goal to tie the score and send the matchup into overtime.
“West slot, Z bingo, U split,” I called out, specifying a deep pass route to Chris that would secure us a first down if executed correctly. We shouted “Blizzards” in unison and broke apart, the offense situating themselves into a pistol formation.
As I took my spot on the field behind the center, the bright stadium lights and crowd faded into a haze of color and noise. Sweat stung my eyes and my heart pounded in my throat. Blood was pulsing through my muscles and in my ears. While my knees were a tackle away from giving out completely, my body screaming in pain from the countless hits I’d endured over the last three hours, I’d never felt more alive or focused, all the years of conditioning and practice and preparation culminating in this one moment.
Then everything came in microseconds of action—the snap, the grab, the fast strides back, the throw. It wasn’t until the ball had left my fingers that time clicked into the steady thrum I knew so well. I danced two steps to the side, watching a perfect spiral sail into Chris’s waiting palms thirty yards ahead before he was dragged to the ground by a Saints cornerback.
I glanced at the clock—a minute until overtime ended. “Go, go, go,” I shouted, racing downfield to configure the next play, listening as Coach Ashley talked into my helmet radio. I met the guys in the huddle.
“Gun double, triple slant thunder, on one,” I said, repeating the call.
“Fuck, that’s a risky move,” Tony said, struggling to catch his breath. His knuckles, cut up and bloody, looked as if they’d been in a bar fight rather than a football game. The black greasepaint under his eyes had been nearly rubbed off.
“No, it’s smart and aggressive,” Chris said, his voice controlled, his expression serious. “Thompson can handle it.”
Austin nodded and said, “Let’s finish this.”
Everyone clapped and popped in their mouth guards. I found my position behind center and once again drowned out everything around me, concentrating on the rhythm of my breathing, the adrenaline pumping through my veins, the solid ground beneath my feet. My heart was beating so hard I was certain my chest might crack.
I accepted the snap and handed the ball off to Austin. He ran toward the sideline, then quickly darted upfield. For a moment I thought we were in the clear, that Austin was going to waltz across the goal line untouched. But then a New Orleans defender cut him off with less than ten yards to go, clutching the front of his jersey with an iron-tight hold. As Austin was being spun to the turf, he flung the ball in a Hail Mary move to Dustin Olson dashing up behind him. Dustin caught the ball with the tips of his fingers, and though he barely maintained his grip on it, he sprinted into the corner of the end zone for a touchdown.
Just like that, the game was over. We’d won.
The stadium exploded into frenzied cheers and chanting. A horde descended onto the field. Silver and powder-blue confetti rained from the sky. My teammates surrounded me, jumping up and down, slapping me on the back. I could only stand there in disbelief, almost numb. The Blizzards were Super Bowl
champions. I was a Super Bowl–winning quarterback.
Cameras swarmed around me, snapping the world back into focus. Ripping off my helmet, I elbowed through the sea of press like I was trudging through ankle-deep snow to the Saints sideline. Richie Walsh met me midway and pulled me into a hug.
“Congrats, Stonestreet,” he yelled in my ear. “Great performance tonight. Colorado earned it.”
“It was hard fought,” I said. “You all played an outstanding game. New Orleans will be back here soon.” I squeezed his shoulder. Richie congratulated me again, then disappeared into the crowd.
The next few minutes were a blur of celebrating and reporters shouting my name and firing questions at me from every direction.
“Logan, what gave you the edge today?”
“Can you repeat this success next year?”
“How does it feel to finally capture your dream?”
Not the way I expected.
A sense of pride still lingered with me, but the thrill and euphoria that had consumed me earlier in the game had dissipated. I’d convinced myself that once I’d attained everything I’d always wanted this part of my life would be complete, that I’d feel a renewed spark to accomplish more, a drive to push myself mentally and physically further than I ever had before, but instead there was an emptiness inside me.
I glanced around at the friends and family mobbing the players. I spotted Dad laughing and talking to Coach Wallace soaked in neon-blue Gatorade and Rose Lalonde showering her son with praise and kisses. Phil was holding court with members of the sports media, and I could practically see the dollar signs blazing in his eyes. Excitement was heavy in the air, so potent it was as if it’d been aerosolized. I felt none of it.
I looked for Gwen, knowing I wouldn’t find her but searching anyway. The void grew bigger, becoming a tangible, undeniable ache in my chest.
And then I forced myself to recognize the truth in her words. If this game still built me up and brought me happiness, I wouldn’t be filled with such hollowness now. My body wouldn’t be falling apart, revolting against the constant strain I put it under. My heart wouldn’t be telling me that achieving this victory hadn’t been worth sacrificing my health or my future with her. In that moment I knew that while this sport would always be stitched into the fabric of my being, it was time for this chapter of my life to close and another one to open.
I only hoped I could still repair the damage between Gwen and me. That I hadn’t already lost her.
Tom Phelps shoved a microphone in my face, showcasing his usual unimpressed, skeptical expression. “Logan, do you think the Blizzards management can scrape together enough good draft picks in the coming off-season to replace its aging roster and make another run at the championship?”
I wanted to ask if he still considered me an overinflated waste of talent and money, but I refrained. Ultimately, I’d gotten the final dig and proven him wrong. I cleared my throat and said, “I’m confident the front office will assemble a competitive team. They deserve all the credit for getting the Blizzards franchise to where we are today, and I have nothing but faith in their abilities going forward.”
Once again, I gazed over at Dad and Coach Wallace, who were grinning at me, at Chris, who was demonstrating his signature moonwalk to a group of kids decked out in Blizzards gear, at Dustin and Tony and Austin standing with their arms draped around each other’s shoulders as they gave an interview to ESPN. Memories surged through me as I remembered all the literal blood, sweat, and tears we’d shared over the years. I would miss each of them, but I was ready for a change. Ready to create an existence outside of football. Ready for a new beginning.
“But . . .” I took a deep breath to steady myself. “As management constructs next year’s squad, they’ll need to put focus on the starting quarterback position, since the Blizzards will be pursuing another title without me.”
The press line froze and the camera flashes stopped for a moment. I’d finally impressed asshole Tom Phelps into silence.
“Logan, can you repeat that? Without you?” Wendy, the Colorado Post reporter, piped up, stepping in front of Tom and extending her recorder. She wore a wide but concerned smile.
“Sure, Wendy,” I said. “I’ve decided that now is the appropriate time for me to go out on top and retire. I can’t imagine a better way to end my career with the Blizzards than with a Super Bowl win.”
I gave them all one last nod and carefully swept my way through the crowd and across the field to where the trophy presentation stage was being set up. The guys would understand—everyone would understand eventually. The Blizzards had done what we’d needed to do as a team. Now it was time to do something for me and me alone.
* * *
I stood on Gwen’s covered porch, a bottle of Fred’s Five Pepper Insanity and a plate of Mom’s crab cakes in hand, wondering if I should have selected something else, something fancier. What sort of gift said I’m an asshole and please forgive me to a chef? A set of Japanese knives? A box of spices? A perfectly seasoned cast-iron skillet? I shook away the thoughts delaying me from manning up and announcing my presence.
In the last three days, I’d stared down the Blizzards owners and general manager, my teammates, my agent, the coaching staff, the entire sports press corps, and Dad, none of them believing that I was serious about retiring and none of them able to persuade me otherwise. In what world did it make sense that apologizing to a woman the size of a pixie was the more daunting task? The one I wanted to reside in, apparently.
I raised a fist to knock when the front door swung open. Missy leaned against the doorframe, a beer bottle dangling from her fingers. “We’re exchanging bets on how long you’d hover outside before you finally summoned the nerve to ring the bell. I took the over at five minutes. Guess I won.”
“Don’t be so certain. I knew about the bet so I put some money on the over, too,” I said, trying to play off my stalling as a quip but failing. My breath came out in wispy, white clouds.
Snow had dumped on Denver while I’d been in Miami, and flurries floated in the air, the ground slick with ice. My bones ached in the cold, and my muscles still throbbed from the game. My knees felt like a vise had been clamped around the joints, and I could only imagine the verbal beating—and months of recovery—I was in for when I visited my orthopedic surgeon next week.
“Uh-huh. If only you were as good at avoidance as you are at tossing a ball around a field,” Missy said, wrapping her purple cardigan tighter around her, protecting herself from the frigid, howling wind. “Impressive announcement, by the way.”
“Think it was enough for Gwen to hear me out?” I asked, wishing Missy would let slip the tiniest clue as to what I was walking into. Was Gwen still furious? Hurt? Or had her anger and pain faded into cold disregard? Had Gwen already cut me out and now I was too late?
“Only one way to find out,” Missy said, giving away nothing. She moved to the side so I could step into the cramped entryway, peering at the dish in my hands. “Though the way to her heart is through food, so you’re on the right track.”
I followed Missy into the quaint living room that spilled into the kitchen. Gwen stood behind the island, as if she were using it to create a barrier between us, arms folded over her chest. Her expression was an unreadable mask. She wore a gray sweater, and her dark hair was pulled into a bun at the nape of her neck.
“Gwen, you remember your old boss and the newly retired Super Bowl–winning quarterback of the Colorado Blizzards,” Missy said, gesturing at me as if I were a prize on Wheel of Fortune. She spun toward me. “And, Logan, you remember your ex–head chef who recently decided to open her own restaurant.”
Gwen was starting her own venture? In Manhattan? Here in Denver? There was so much that demanded to be asked, but I had no idea where to begin or if I even had the right.
When neither of us spoke, Missy placed her beer bottle in the sin
k, grabbed her coat and purse off a bar stool, and hugged Gwen, whispering something in her ear I couldn’t hear. “I’m just going to see myself out. I have a date with a marriage counselor. Behave you two,” she said with a hint of laughter in her voice.
Then Missy was gone, leaving Gwen and me to stare at each other in awkward silence. For several moments, the only sounds were a Fast & Furious movie playing in the background. I wanted to cut through the tension separating us and pull Gwen into my arms, kiss her, bury my face in her neck and breathe in her skin, which always smelled like cinnamon. But I couldn’t—that was a privilege that’d been revoked.
“I brought crab cakes,” I said finally, oddly rigid, formal. I hated it.
“And the hot sauce you know I adore so much,” she said, confirming that I definitely should’ve gone with the cast-iron skillet. “Did you prepare the crab cakes yourself or visit the freezer section of the grocery store?”
“Give me some credit. Of course I fixed them. I even added diced jalapeños,” I said, hoping the reference to the secret ingredient she’d added on Stonestreet’s opening night would make her at least crack a smile.
Gwen shrugged, as if it didn’t matter to her either way. “You’ve been splashed across the news nonstop. I assumed you’d be too busy for home cooking.”
“Actually, all the attention has turned me into a bit of a shut-in.” Shifting on my feet, I gripped the plate harder, my fingers still itching to touch her. “Which afforded me time to reflect.”
“About?”
“About everything, Gwen,” I said. Her features softened at my response—it was now or never to put it all out there. “I need you to know that I stand behind my choice to play last Sunday. If I hadn’t, I would’ve always wondered about the what-ifs.”
“So, it was worth it then?” she asked.
“Yes, it was amazing, humbling, and a million other things I’d always dreamed about.” I slid the bottle of Fred’s Five Pepper Insanity and the plate onto the counter, steam escaping from a corner where the aluminum foil had ripped. “But you should also know that winning, holding up that trophy, it wasn’t the fulfilling experience I’d always imagined it to be. Something was missing.”
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