Rescuing the Receiver

by Rachel Goodman

  The commissioner reclaimed his seat and smoothed down the double-breasted suit jacket he’d probably had cut to imitate the physique of every quarterback in the league—strong shoulders, broad chest, tapered waist. And while he didn’t naturally come by the build of a star athlete, he owned the self-importance in spades. His tight-lipped arrogance had always impressed me. From franchise players to the sports media, the commissioner accepted zero shit from anyone. I’d just never expected to be on the receiving end of his you-done-fucked-up-and-now-you-gotta-pay stare.

  The commissioner flipped open the folder placed in front of him and pulled out a packet of papers, giving them a quick scan. I noticed only members of his staff possessed documents. Guess the rest of us weren’t entitled to the information they contained. Sure, that was fair. Then again, in the NFL, fair was just another four letter word that began with F.

  “Chris, as your agent has no doubt communicated to you by now, my office has concluded its investigation.” The commissioner put down the papers with a heavy sigh and gave me a stern look.

  I nodded for him to continue, but he remained silent. It seemed as though he wanted to draw out the suspense and make me sweat. After several more quiet seconds, the commissioner cleared his throat again, the sound more grating than before, and said, “And you have been found in violation of several league policies.”

  At least he was straight to the point about it.

  “Which ones?” I asked, knowing full well which specific policy I’d disobeyed.

  “Yes, I’m also curious,” Kent McDougall cut in from the other end of the table.

  “The most obvious, of course, is the NFL’s policy on performance-enhancing substances, as well as integrity of the game,” the commissioner said. Which was the NFL’s catchall policy to mean: We reserve the right to screw up your life for any reason and for any offense, perceived or otherwise.

  Kent mmm-hmmed and leaned back in his rolling chair, propping an ankle over his knee. “Integrity of the game is a bit overarching, if you ask me. Care to elaborate on which portion of that policy Chris violated specifically?”

  In his typical fashion, the commissioner steamrolled right over Kent’s question and continued. “Kent, you know better than anyone that the last thing this league needs is another rules-don’t-apply-to-me player with an ego bigger than his billboard.” He kept his eyes trained on me.

  So that was his tactic: insulting me in an attempt to rile me up so I’d cause a scene. The commissioner was going to have to try harder than that. I was damn proud of the billboard I’d done for Rescue Granted and all the positive press and donations it’d brought to a cause I’d grown passionate about.

  “I didn’t take you as someone who complained about free publicity, Commissioner, but I’ve noted your concerns about me following the rules,” I replied. Could we just get this over with already?

  Closing the folder and moving it off to the side, he rested his elbows on the table and laced his fingers together in a way that indicated I was about to be on the receiving end of a scolding. “Chris, given your flagrant disrespect for NFL standards of conduct, my office has agreed on a penalty that I believe appropriate. As such, per the sanctions outlined in the performance-enhancing substances policy, you have been assessed a fine of $150,000 and suspended without pay for the last two games of the season.”

  He searched my expression—for shock or some other childish emotion, I wasn’t sure—but whatever he was expecting to see there was going to leave him sorely disappointed. Scott had already warned me that this would be the outcome. It didn’t make the commissioner’s decision just—or justified—but at least I’d been prepared for it and could suit up for Sunday’s matchup against the Bengals. Still, me sitting on the bench for our last two games would severely worsen the Blizzards’ chances of securing a playoff spot.

  “I understand.” I glanced out the corner of my eye at Scott, who mouthed, Good news. I wouldn’t exactly call anything about this situation good. “I appreciate you making the time to conduct a thorough review and discuss your decision with me personally, Commissioner.”

  I stood to exit, but he held up a hand and said, “Not so fast, Mr. Lalonde. I’m not finished.”

  Groaning, I raked my fingers through my hair and dropped back into my seat, my patience wearing thin. I’d already accepted my punishment, so what more did he want?

  “While ultimately the NFL is part of the entertainment business, the league doesn’t operate like the WWE—there’s no scripts or fixed matches. We hold sportsmanship among franchises and players above all else and take a significantly more aspirational approach to our brand, our teams, and ultimately, the health of our players,” the commissioner said. “Your past doping behavior tipped the scales and created an unfair environment, one that secured your team a Super Bowl championship.”

  “Except I didn’t—”

  “Yes, I’m aware of your claims that you stopped taking Meldonium once it was put on the banned substances list, but your positive test result contradicts that and also calls into question your previous behavior and what other illegal substances you may have been using. I shouldn’t need to remind you, Chris, that when you entered the hallowed halls of this franchise, you knew the expectations that lay at your feet—and you chose to trample over them as if they were beneath you, an act that I for one will not tolerate.” He sighed and shook his head, as though he actually felt bad about whatever blow he was about to deliver. “It’s impossible for me to punish the Blizzards as a result of your transgressions, but I can attempt to rebalance the scales and strip you of your individual accolades.”

  Strip me of my accolades?

  “I’m sorry, Commissioner, I must have misheard you. Is it really the NFL’s intention to retroactively penalize me for a rule that wasn’t in place at the time of my drug use?” I asked. Beside me, the representative from the NFL Players Association murmured his agreement, which could only mean positive things in terms of a potential appeal down the road.

  But instead of answering my question, the commissioner looked me square in the eye, took aim, and pulled the trigger. “In light of the findings of the investigation, all your receiving statistics from last season will be purged from NFL records. Permanently.”

  His words hit me so hard and so unexpectedly it forced the air from my lungs. The world tilted on its axis, and everything around me turned fuzzy. A dull ringing filled my ears, like what happened when I sustained a hard hit.

  “You seem confused about the last part of your punishment, Chris.” The commissioner chuckled—actually fucking chuckled. “But I’ll remind you that the NFL is not a court of law or a democracy or a goddamned place of forgiveness. The moment you signed your contract, you entered into my kingdom. And my kingdom is a dictatorship, so if I want to strip your stats because it pleases me to do so, then I’m going to strip your stats. Am I understood?”

  He can’t do that, I told myself. And yet he just did.

  With a single definitive sentence, the commissioner had erased the most successful season in my football history, invalidated me as the league’s leader in catches and receiving yards, destroyed my Hall of Fame chances.

  White-hot anger flooded through me as the realization of that last thought sunk in. Had this been the commissioner’s plan all along? To ruin my career and me with it? I knew the man was a no-nonsense asshole who relished making examples of players who screwed up, but ripping away stats I’d earned on my own merit before I’d even started doping was so far beyond absurd I couldn’t comprehend it.

  “Chris, you can, of course, pursue an appeal through the players’ union and the collective bargaining agreement, but until then the ruling stands,” he said, tugging down the sleeves of his suit jacket, as if this was merely another licensing negotiation or a meaningless interview for a new intern. “My world. My rules. We’re done here.”

  Scott and the NFL Players Association rep jumped to their feet, threatening a lawsuit. Kent McDougall yelled
at someone on his cell phone, and Coach Wallace had already made his exit. I could hardly process any of it, my rage so raw and visceral that my heart threatened to burst from my chest.

  Pushing back from the table, I stormed out of the boardroom and down the stairs through the concealed entrance of the training center to the back parking lot. Because if I didn’t get out of there immediately, I’d do something dangerous and reckless. Like tear the whole building down, then burn the rubble to ash.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Hazel

  Two days had passed since the hearing. Two days of radio silence from Chris. He hadn’t answered my phone calls, responded to my text messages asking about what had happened with the commissioner, or shown up for his shift at the shelter. Which could only mean the outcome fell somewhere on the spectrum between frustrating and horrendous.

  And now I wondered for the hundredth time since I’d arrived at Blizzards stadium if I’d made a mistake in coming today. It was obvious Chris didn’t want to talk. Still, I’d told him—and Rose—that I’d be here to offer my support.

  My whole body felt like a tangled knot of apprehension as I paced around my uncle’s suite. During our introduction two days ago, it’d quickly become apparent that Chris hadn’t shared my full identity with Rose, so when she’d called the shelter this morning to confirm our meeting, I’d filled her in and insisted we watch the game from the best spot in the stadium rather than in the box reserved for the families of Blizzards players—it afforded us privacy and saved me from three hours of small talk with strangers.

  I peered out the large windows that overlooked the Colorado sideline, studying the way Chris sat hunched over alone on a bench with a towel draped over his head. I hadn’t witnessed enough of his performances to recognize if this sort of attitude was standard operating procedure to help him focus on the game or if he was attempting to rein in his anger—it was only the end of the first quarter, and already Chris had dropped numerous passes and fumbled the ball after a hard hit from a Bengals defender, leading Cincinnati to a touchdown and a 7–0 lead.

  “Hazel, if you’re going to keep fidgeting like that, I’m going to send you down onto the field with some white paint—you could at least make yourself useful and redraw the yard lines when they get scuffed,” my uncle hollered from his plush leather chair situated in the center of the room that provided him a prime view of the players.

  I scowled at him. “Very funny. The stands look packed. Is the team still on a sellout streak?” I asked, fiddling with the frayed hem of my vintage Bruiser the Bear sweatshirt my uncle had given me as a Christmas present in high school in an effort to calm my nerves.

  “That’s what winning will do for you, though if the boys don’t get their shit together during this game, that might be changing,” he said without glancing up from the revised playbook Coach Wallace had delivered a few minutes ago.

  “Hazel, there you are!”

  My stomach tightened and my pulse quickened at the sound of Rose Lalonde’s voice. She swept into the suite and hung her coat on the rack beside the door. I wasn’t sure what outfit I’d expected her to wear to cheer on her son—something classic like a powder-blue shift dress and silver cashmere cardigan or a custom-cut suit perhaps—but casual jeans and a number eighty-nine Blizzards jersey with Chris’s name on the back like the ultimate fangirl definitely hadn’t crossed my mind.

  Rose rushed over to me and embraced me. “Sorry I’m so late, dear,” she said, slightly out of breath. Rose pulled back, squeezed my shoulders, and flashed me a megawatt smile that rivaled her son’s signature grin, and my heart clenched at the similarity.

  “It’s not a problem. Glad you made it.” I tried to keep my tone steady, welcoming, so she couldn’t hear the warble in it. Based on her unguarded expression and warm demeanor, I sensed Rose had no idea that Chris and I hadn’t spoken recently. I briefly considered acting clueless and asking for an update, just as I’d almost done with my uncle earlier, but that felt wrong on so many levels—stupid-in-love wrong. Not even the media was reporting on Chris’s situation, so either a gag order had been issued or no one had leaked the information yet.

  “Thank you again for inviting me to join you in the owners’ box. I still feel foolish that I didn’t know about your relation to Kent,” she said, then gazed past me and called to my uncle, “And hello to you, Kent. It’s nice to see your manners are intact.”

  “Hold your horses, Rose. I’m coming.” My uncle hauled himself out of his chair and walked over to us, kissing Rose lightly on the cheek. “Cincinnati is killing us, and Chris is behaving like an amateur out there. You’ve always been a sort of good luck charm for him, so maybe you being here will fix his shitty playing.”

  I winced at his insult and snuck a peek at Rose out of the corner of my eye, but she appeared unaffected by my uncle’s comment.

  “Yes, I’m aware. I was listening to the coverage on sports radio on my drive over. But you know Christopher’s had a traumatic past two days, so . . .” Rose shrugged.

  Her vague reference to what had transpired at the hearing caused my skin to prickle, and once again, I had to stop myself from prying. If Chris had wanted me informed of the details, he would have picked up the phone.

  I cleared my throat, feeling awkward about being the only person left in the dark, and pointed to the bar. “Rose, can I get you something to drink?”

  “No thanks, dear. I never consume alcohol when Christopher’s in uniform. It hinders my focus,” she replied, then moved around me and settled into the leather chair next to my uncle’s. Rose cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted Chris’s name, and even though the windows were soundproof, it was as if he sensed her presence, because he removed the towel from his head, spun around on the bench, and looked directly at the owner’s suite.

  My heart lodged in my throat, and for a moment I thought he recognized me, but then the referee blew the whistle and Chris turned back around, put on his helmet, and raced onto the field with the rest of the Blizzards offense for the start of the second quarter. Outside in the stadium seats, fans bundled in Blizzards-branded coats and knit caps cheered and waved foam fingers in the air, snow flurries floating in the night sky around them, their breaths escaping in wispy white clouds.

  “All right, let’s hope the boys can throw some points up on the scoreboard,” my uncle said, retaking his seat and cracking his knuckles.

  “Patience, Kent,” Rose said with a tsk.

  I claimed the open chair on the other side of Rose, my nerves flaring up again as I watched Chris get into position to the far right of Ben on the Blizzards’ forty-yard line. I didn’t know why I was so on edge, but everything felt tumultuous, like the atmosphere was building even though I couldn’t yet see the storm.

  Chris set his feet, his gaze locked on the ball. And then it was as if thunder cracked. Ben made a gesture, and a beat later, the football sailed into his gloves. The field erupted into choreographed chaos. I held my breath as Chris shot forward along the sideline while Ben handed off the ball to the running back. But just as soon as Chris had started sprinting ahead, he veered to the left to guard the Bengals cornerback, creating a clear path for the running back to slip through.

  Like a flash, time seemed to come in short, sharp bursts.

  The Blizzards running back carried the ball into the end zone. The crowd roared. A Bengals linebacker charged at an unaware Chris, connecting his helmet between Chris’s shoulder blades and sending Chris flying through the air. He landed a few yards away as a referee tossed out a yellow flag.

  “That was a fucking cheap shot!” My uncle bolted to his feet, the veins in his forehead bulging, while Rose cried out. I could only stare at an unmoving Chris lying in a heap, my heart pounding in my ears. The medical team hurried onto the field, encircling him.

  “Come on, Christopher, get up. Show me you’re okay,” Rose pleaded, her voice high and wobbly as she rubbed her palms back and forth along her thighs. And once again, as if he’d
heard her, Chris slowly stood up, cocking his neck from side to side as he walked off the tackle, clenching and unclenching his hands into fists.

  The lead referee jogged to the center of the field and clicked on his microphone. The speakers in the suite crackled, and the referee’s voice filled the room. “Unsportsmanlike conduct, illegal late hit, number fifty-seven defense. Fifteen-yard penalty to be enforced on Cincinnati kickoff.”

  “Horseshit. That asshole player should have been ejected!” my uncle yelled, flinging the playbook against the wall, and I flinched—I’d never seen him react so strongly before.

  Rose shook her head, worrying her lip. “Fifteen yards? The Bengals linebacker hit his spine and could have permanently injured him, Kent.”

  Nodding, my uncle started to respond, but then he cursed under his breath and shouted, “Don’t do it, Lalonde!”

  Whipping my head around, I followed his gaze to see Chris standing inches away from the referee, his helmet off and his face visibly red even from way up here as he screamed his displeasure at the ref’s call. What was Chris doing? My stomach knotted up tighter than before as I instantly recalled the charity gala, the way he’d so effortlessly regressed into the person I hated so much when things hadn’t gone his way. The same person he was morphing into now.

  “Calm down, Christopher,” Rose cut in, interrupting my thoughts. “Control your temper.”

  But no sooner had the words left her mouth than Chris shoved the referee’s shoulder—hard—striking the final nail in his coffin. The referee took a few steps back, blew his whistle long and loud, and mimicked a you’re out gesture. Flipping him off, Chris stormed off the field and disappeared into the tunnels.

  “Fucking hell,” my uncle bellowed before barreling out of the suite, probably to go read Chris the riot act. While the Blizzards had scored a touchdown, Chris’s dismissal from the game surely meant bad things in terms of the team’s chances of winning this matchup. And Colorado needed a win if they had a prayer of securing a playoff spot.