“Hazel Grant?” he asked, thrusting a clipboard at my chest. “Need you to read through the inventory details, then sign for receipt after we finish unpacking.” He retrieved a pen from his jacket pocket and handed it to me.
“There are twelve pages here,” I said, quickly scanning the list, which included everything from dog beds to bags of food to medicine to toys to grooming supplies.
The guy shrugged and blew hot breaths onto his clenched fists. “Light for a commercial haul.”
“All this is considered light?” Penny snorted. “That truck is a giant Mary Poppins bag—packages just keep flowing out.”
“Will you excuse me?” I said to the store rep, passing him back the pen and clipboard.
“But what about—” he started.
I held up a palm, cutting him off, and stormed over to where Chris was now snapping selfies with the unloading crew.
“Care to explain?” I asked through gritted teeth and a tight smile.
“Well, this is what’s known as a parcel delivery,” he said slowly, as if talking to Olive. “You see, the way it works is that these fine men will deposit all the boxes inside the shelter in the designated spots of your choosing—”
“I’m leaning toward option A, Lalonde.” I crossed my arms and gave him a look that said if he didn’t watch it, I’d grab the surgical tools from an operating room and snip him right here in the parking lot.
“Option A sounds scary,” one of the crew members said from where he was tossing odd-shaped packages onto a rolling cart in a haphazard pile.
“It involves neutering,” I replied, then spun toward Chris again. “So I’ll repeat the question. Care to explain?”
“What can I say? This is the consequence of me inviting people to join me in bed. I get showered with gifts.” He winked. Cocky ass thought he was so witty and irresistible, which he was, but I’d rather French kiss Sausage and Beans than admit that to him.
“Excuse me?”
“You know, shiny tokens left at the pedestal of a god for favor and good fortune? What else did you expect to happen as a result of that billboard photo of me smothered in puppies?” Chris stepped closer, and my breath hitched at his nearness. “Though I gotta admit, Hazel Grant, I’m curious as to what present you’d bring me to unwrap.” His voice dipped low, his eyes flickering with amusement, and my stomach tripped over itself.
“Deworming medication,” I replied, wishing I could wipe the smirk off his face in a way that didn’t put me in dangerous proximity to his lips.
As it was, it was requiring every ounce of self-control I possessed to keep from imagining Chris unwrapping me like a birthday surprise. Stripping off my sweater. Skimming his rough, callused fingers along the waistband of my jeans and unfastening the buttons. Tracing his tongue across my collarbone as a hand slid up my spine to unhook my bra.
So much about Chris was flash and fire, and I knew there’d be plenty of that on display in the bedroom. But it was also startlingly easy to envision what it would feel like to be the center of his complete attention. The way he’d leisurely take his time exploring the parts of me I never exposed to anyone. How Chris would learn every curve and dip and inch of my body until he’d memorized my skin. Even his simple gesture at the gala, when he’d rested his palm on the small of my back, had caused butterflies to erupt in my stomach.
To stop myself from completely losing control, I scowled and tried to remind myself of all the reasons why falling for Chris was a bad idea. When none came to mind, I settled for glaring at his knowing grin.
“It’s okay to picture me naked—most women do—but since you already look in danger of overheating, I won’t linger on the subject.” Chris flashed his typical arrogant grin, and without my permission, my gaze dropped, running along the length of his chest and down his abs, replacing his sweater with the miles of tanned skin I soaked in every morning on my commute over the last week and a half.
“But in all seriousness, Petsville USA heard about the billboard and reached out to me regarding a marketing partnership,” he continued, his expression softening. “I have a long-standing policy that I don’t champion products without trying them first, so I told the company not to bother cutting me a check since I don’t own a pet—or want one—and instead recommended they donate a shelter kit for each dog at Rescue Granted.”
“A shelter kit?” I asked, wanting to believe that this whole charade was some halfhearted attempt to impress the various media outlets that had somehow been invited to this display. That for his own gain he’d secured trial-sized portions of products that the dogs would destroy in a heartbeat. The alternative was as overwhelming as it was generous.
“Yeah.” Chris rubbed the back of his neck, the gesture as endearing as his actions. “The company asked me what you needed here, so I walked them through the life cycle of the majority of your cases. I requested the basics and also higher-end items that emphasized long-life reusability.”
My mouth went dry and tears blurred my vision. He had actually done all that for me? Never in a million years could I have afforded to purchase this amount of supplies for the shelter, nor had I ever received a donation so large. This would set us up for a year.
“And they just”—I glanced at the boxes being wheeled through the main entrance—“agreed to all this?” I covered the warble in my voice with a cough.
“Well, in exchange for my endorsement once you determine which products you like.” He raised a palm toward my face and I leaned into it instinctively, but just as he was about to graze my cheek he dropped his arm, as if thinking better of it. “They were a little reluctant at first to send all the items on the hope that you’ll sign off, so I agreed to call in some press to cover the delivery. Petsville USA gets the good PR, even if I don’t end up endorsing the company down the line. My agent’s pissed of course, because he’s accustomed to earning fifteen percent off opportunities like this rather than getting payment in the form of squeaky rubber bones and foam pet beds, but he’ll adjust.”
I smiled. “And what if I like the waste disposal bags?”
“Then for you, Hazel Grant, I’ll be scooping poop with a grin.” He grabbed my hand, giving my fingers a gentle squeeze, and my heart lodged itself in my throat. “How does that sound?”
All I could do was look at him, wide-eyed and stunned, endorphins pumping through my veins until happiness infused every corner of my body. Because if I spoke, the next words out of my mouth would be about me shoving aside my reservations—and common sense—and begging Chris to pull me into that fluffy bed with him and his pack of adorable puppies.
“Now come on, Grant.” He draped an arm across my shoulders, pulling my body tight against his side, and guided me toward the door. “Christmas arrived early, and I know you can’t wait to scope out what Santa brought and unwrap all your presents.”
Oh god, how I wanted to.
Starting with the man next to me.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Chris
“Hey, Lalonde, bench press is free now,” Tony hollered, hauling himself up into a sitting position and wiping his forehead with a towel. “Maybe if you spent a little more time at the training facility, you wouldn’t have to use cheap ploys and sixty-foot billboards to score women.”
Except the only woman I wanted to score with wasn’t so easily swayed by my antics—though I could tell my efforts were wearing Hazel down. The evidence was in the way she leaned into my touch, or how sometimes I felt her watching me when she thought I didn’t notice, or the way she had to work to suppress a smile every time I strolled into a room. For the first time in my life, I didn’t feel like I had to make an entrance, but that showing up would be enough.
“No one wants that kind of close-up view of your moobs, Chris. Are you trying to make Blizzards fans vomit on their way to the office?” Austin called from his position at the Smith machine, squatting enough weight to crush a bodybuilder. He was leaner and shorter than the majority of NFL tight ends, but his size
allowed him more agility and finesse on the field that other players at his position lacked.
“Thompson, you’re the one who needs to wear a bra,” I said through gritted teeth, inhaling and exhaling as I skated from side to side on the balance board. My glutes and hips were screaming at me to give them a rest, but I refused to quit. The more fluid my mobility, the more lethal a wide receiver I became. “Y’all are just jealous that I’m Denver’s hottest wet dream.”
“Is that what we’re calling bed-wetting these days?” Austin asked, finishing his final set of reps. He pulled the forty-five-pound plates off the bar and stacked them on a nearby rack.
“Maybe Chris should be a spokesman for Pampers.” Tony laughed at his own stupid joke, stretching his legs before tackling hamstring curls.
Ever since our back-to-back wins against Houston and New Orleans, the guys had been warmer to me, almost friendly. And with game twelve against the Raiders on Sunday, we needed to work together as a cohesive unit now more than ever. We had to win our five remaining games if the Blizzards had a chance in hell of making the playoffs as a wild card, and even then a 9–7 overall season record wasn’t a guarantee of earning a spot.
“Lalonde, your agent’s on line three.” Offensive Coordinator Ashley’s voice echoed around the space so loud it threatened to crack the powder-blue-and-silver paint on the walls. Without waiting for an acknowledgment, he retreated down the hallway that led to the offices.
Slowing my movements, I stepped off the balance board, squirted water into my mouth, and walked over to the phone fastened outside the locker room, wondering why Scott hadn’t dialed my cell.
“Did you lose my number?” I asked, propping the receiver between my shoulder and ear.
“I was on a conference call with Wallace, so he transferred me over.”
“What about?” I asked, steeling myself for bad news. It wasn’t uncommon for agents to converse with members of the coaching staff, but that wasn’t Scott’s usual style.
“I got word from the commissioner’s office about an hour ago,” he said, his tone tense.
Dread crept into my stomach, sinking like a rock. “And?”
Scott sighed. “They’ve finished their investigation, and they want you to come in for a hearing.”
“A hearing about what? I haven’t done anything illegal.” I was careful to keep my voice low so Tony and Austin wouldn’t overhear.
He became quiet a moment, as if choosing his next words carefully. Finally he settled on, “You know the NFL does whatever the hell they want. Half the time they make up the rules as they go and hand down sanctions as they see fit. Gone are the days of lax enforcement for violators.”
“Well, what have you heard? What’s the punishment?” I tapped an unsteady rhythm against my green Gatorade water bottle and told myself not to get worked up.
“Rumor is a multigame suspension next season, or it could be a hefty fine. We won’t know for sure until the hearing,” he said over the sound of chair hinges squeaking in the background.
“Suspension?” I said, my frustration and worry growing as loud as my voice. “That’s bullshit and you know it. I’ve willingly cooperated with the investigator’s every request. Hell, current research on Meldonium supports my assertion that my first test only registered as positive because the drug was still leaving my system, not because I was still using, which should prove I stopped consuming the drug before it hit the banned list. What more do they want?”
“I understand your point, Chris, but the fact remains that your initial blood work came back dirty even if the second round of tests was clean. The commissioner isn’t about to let that slide. And anyway, Kent McDougall stated that he’ll appeal the decision if the outcome results in you being unable to suit up.” Scott said the last part calmly, as though that somehow made the hearing okay.
“Appeal? I’ll sue the commissioner himself,” I said. “And I’m certainly not going to allow the league to make an example out of me.”
“It became part of the gig when you signed the contract, Chris. If you wanna run with the pack, you gotta follow the leader.”
Hazel had commented something similar, but I doubted a suspension was what she’d been referring to.
I listened to Scott rattle off schedule details for the hearing before hanging up. “Fuck,” I said, punching the wall, all the fear and worry and frustration finally thrashing out of me like a live wire.
The fallout of this whole mess could ruin current and future endorsement deals, but worse, it could destroy my career, keep me out of the Hall of Fame, make it so all my years of dedication and hard work in the league were for nothing. Fuck.
“Everything copacetic, Lalonde?” Tony asked, flinging his towel over his shoulder and approaching me cautiously, like I was an animal on the verge of attack.
Austin merely gazed at me from across the room, wearing an expression that said he’d rather stay in the dark than know details. He got up and headed to the outside practice field.
Of course this had to happen just as me and the guys were finding our groove again. I took several deep breaths, trying to slow my heart, which was hammering in my ears. I needed to rein in my anger. Lashing out wouldn’t fix the problem.
“Commissioner’s office concluded their investigation. There’s going to be a hearing,” I said. There was no use lying about it—everyone would find out soon enough.
I expected Tony to give me a verbal beating, tell me that news of the hearing would wreak havoc on the team dynamic, weaken our already fragile momentum, permanently derail us, but instead he shook his head and said, “Not good, man. Not good. When do you fly out to New York for it?”
“It’s going to be here at the Blizzards training center in a couple of weeks. Apparently the commissioner will already be in town for an unrelated meeting. Lucky me, right?”
Tony nodded. “What are you gonna do about it?”
I shrugged. “Show up, state my defense, hope the commissioner is feeling generous.”
He patted my shoulder and said, “Hit the showers, then I’ll buy you a beer.” I wasn’t sure why he was offering his support given the circumstances, but I was grateful for it.
As we walked into the locker room, I felt my cell phone buzz in the zipper pocket of my mesh shorts. I pulled it out, surprised to see a text from Hazel.
Can you come help? I’m at the adoption event, the message read, and despite the frustration and anxiety I still felt, a smile spread across my face. Things had gone wrong today, but Hazel pushing aside her reservations and contacting me? That was right.
This is what I’d been working toward, hoping that if I tried hard enough to become the man she deserved, that she might actually begin to rely on me, believe in me—and in return I could believe in myself. I didn’t care if she needed me to wrangle a dozen mange-covered poodles—I’d be there.
“Change of plans, Tony,” I said. “How do you feel about drinking beer with a bunch of dogs instead?”
* * *
The Rescue Granted meet and greet was being held at the Breckenridge Brewery. As I pulled up though, I noticed there were hardly any cars in the gravel lot—a good sign. That meant the majority of the dogs had already been adopted, despite the fact there were still four hours remaining to the event. Not that I was surprised. My billboard had garnered national attention, and business at the shelter had been booming as a result.
I parked my Aston Martin near the main building, which housed the restaurant, general store, and growler-to-go station. Situated on a twelve-acre plot of land adjacent to the Platte River Trail in Littleton, the brewery consisted of rural farmhouses and barns outfitted with modern beer-producing technology.
As I stepped out of the car, Tony swung his truck into the spot beside mine. He jumped out of the cab and inhaled a long, deep breath.
“Smell that?” he asked, pulling on a pair of gloves and a beanie adorned with Bruiser the Bear. The day was bright and cloudless, the sky a perfect pale blue, but
the wind coming off the Rocky Mountains was harsh enough to bite.
“Malt and barley, my friend. The stuff of dreams,” I said, zipping up my coat and strolling around to where Tony was standing. “The meet and greet is in the beer garden. Hazel didn’t provide specifics about what she needed, but I assume I just gotta load up some equipment and supplies. After we can pop into the taproom for a vanilla porter.”
He laughed. “So Austin and I were right.”
“About what?”
“Well, if you need me here to help you lift dog crates, then you should definitely spend more time on the bench press strengthening your moobs.”
I punched Tony’s arm, my knuckles sore from where they’d connected with the wall earlier. “For that dig, first round’s on you.”
We walked to the rear of the main building, the ice mixed with gravel on the pathway crunching under our feet. As we rounded the corner, I stopped short at the sight in front of me. Crates were lined up in the grass, but none of them were empty the way I had expected. I frowned. If all the adoptees were still here, then where was the crowd?
I glanced around the beer garden for Hazel, but she wasn’t warming her hands at the fire pit with Penny and Donna or taking any of the dogs on a potty break. Where had she gone?
Tony leaned over and whispered, “You made it seem like the event was over.”
“I thought it was . . .” I trailed off, finally noticing Hazel slumped in a folding chair on the covered porch, a blanket draped around her shoulders, her expression frustrated and sad in equal measure.
“Wait here a second,” I told Tony, waving to Penny and Donna as I crossed the yard and jogged up the wooden steps.
Hazel stood quickly, almost losing her balance. “You came.”
“Of course I did. What’s going on?” I asked.
Rescuing the Receiver Page 14
