Rescuing the Receiver

by Rachel Goodman

  I’d considered reaching out to Hazel, but I was already getting kicked while I was down. Why shatter my ribs, too? And besides, I needed to preserve some modicum of dignity—I’d tried to show Hazel, repeatedly, that I’d changed, but she’d refused to see it.

  “I’m glad to see you’re still raging about the unfairness of it all.”

  Olive barked and jumped off the couch at the sudden boom of Logan’s voice. I glanced over at where he was leaning against the great room wall that curved in one fluid line into the kitchen.

  “By all means, Stonestreet, let yourself in like you own the place. No need to knock.” I put the television on mute and sat up. “Did my mom and sister send you?”

  “No, asshole, I sent myself.”

  “Shouldn’t you be broadcasting?” I asked, noticing that he was dressed for cold-weather practice—knit beanie, running shoes, navy mesh shorts—rather than for his cushy announcing job in a temperature-controlled studio.

  “I’m covering Monday Night Football this week. Good thing, too. I thought you were merely sulking during the last Lalonde family dinner with the whole not-speaking-to-anyone shtick, but apparently when the great Chris Lalonde sulks, he carries it to intervention-worthy levels.”

  “Who died and made you the next Dr. Phil?” I grumbled as Logan began picking up the various take-out containers strewn around the room. When he reached for the pizza box, Olive growled until Logan moved his hand away. That’s my wingwoman.

  “See, Olive approves of my lifestyle choices.” I scratched my jaw, the stubble creating a raspy sound.

  “Right now your dog is acting as the official garnish to your dirty martini. Seriously, dude, you’re in possession of a steam shower. Use it.” Logan sighed and shook his head. “But since you’re already marinating in a funk, it’s time you earned it. Let’s go. Five miles. Then, when you’re too tired to complain, I’ll hose you down.”

  I wanted to protest, but maybe some fresh air would do me good.

  I changed into my workout clothes and met Logan in the driveway. I noticed he’d grabbed a football from somewhere and was spinning the pointed tip on his finger. I remembered when he’d finally mastered that trick in middle school—you’d have thought he’d won the lottery with how excited he’d been.

  “Your knee capable of five miles?” I asked, stretching my quads. “Sure you don’t need me to push you in a stroller?” Though who was I kidding? Logan was in better shape now than he’d been in his last years as quarterback. Amazing what two reconstructive surgeries, extensive physical therapy, and retirement could do to heal a person.

  “Worry about your own performance, Lalonde. Plenty there to keep you busy.”

  “Where’re we headed?” I asked, blowing hot breaths onto my clenched fists. It was chilly enough outside that there was a bite in the air, but not frigid enough to penetrate bone-deep. Nonlocals always assumed Denver winters were harsh and filled with snowstorms. In truth, the holiday months were mild in comparison to the wet, heavy blizzards of springtime.

  “You’ll see,” he said, tucking the football under his arm and taking off down the cobblestone drive, leaving me scrambling to catch up.

  I gained on Logan quickly, following a beat behind him as he led us to the nature path behind my neighborhood. The sky was a perfect, cloudless blue, the sun causing ice to slip off the bare branches and thaw the hard earth littered with dead leaves.

  We ran in silence. I tried to let the steady cadence of my shoes pounding on the dirt trail lull me into a rhythm and quiet my mind, but even that seemed unattainable. My breathing was labored, sweat dripped down the back of my neck, and a cramp stabbed at my side. Fuck. Two weeks of crappy eating, wallowing, and denial had effectively neutered my athleticism.

  Logan turned off the path and cut through a grouping of trees that opened to a park flanked by sports fields that I immediately recognized. It was on this grass where we’d attended our first peewee practice, learned how to play the game that would someday define us, and later during our high school years, where we’d executed drills with Bob Stonestreet to hone our skills.

  “Go long,” Logan said, and without thinking, I sprinted ahead, relishing the crisp wind in my face, the burn in my lungs, and how the flex of my muscles felt good, like a revival. And when I stretched out my arms, completing a catch I’d made a thousand times, the rush of adrenaline and happiness that flooded through me took me by surprise.

  “What else you got?” I yelled, throwing the ball back to Logan, finally feeling like my old self again.

  “I-19, swing pass, bullet.” He jogged a few yards away and stopped at an imaginary line of scrimmage. Logan positioned his hands like he was ready to receive a snap and looked over at me, waiting for me to get in my stance. I set my feet and anticipated his signal.

  Logan called “Hike,” and I powered up the field, darting right and dodging tacklers who weren’t there before capturing the spiral in full stride and waltzing into the pretend end zone for a touchdown.

  Being here again, in this spot that held so many positive memories, stripped everything down until it was just two friends, a field, and a football. For a moment, it seemed as if everything that had happened with the ruling and Hazel had been a bad dream.

  Hours later, exhausted and warm despite the nip in the air, Logan and I started to traipse back to my neighborhood. “So that whole depravity scene in your living room earlier was rock bottom, correct?” he asked, wiping the sweat off his forehead with the hem of his shirt.

  “I’m not at rock bottom.” I pitched the football in the air, enjoying the late-afternoon sun on my face as the familiar textured leather landed in my palms.

  Logan chuckled. “Your trashed house, lack of hygiene, and one-sided conversations with referees indicate otherwise.”

  “Fine. I’ve been moping.” I shrugged. “Can you blame me?”

  “Even I won’t tell you that what the NFL did was fair. I’m simply wondering when you’re going to quit behaving like a pansy.”

  I cursed under my breath, but Logan shot me a prove me I’m wrong look. I couldn’t. Not really. Didn’t mean he had to be an asshole.

  “I’m not the one at fault here, Logan.”

  “Yeah, and how long are you going to sing that tune?” he asked, stealing the ball out of my grasp and flipping it end over end with his right hand.

  “All the way to the appeals board. My Players Association rep is already formulating a case against the league.”

  “So you’re not quite at rock bottom then, huh?”

  I stopped and rounded on Logan, trying to figure out just what the hell he was getting at. “What is that supposed to mean? You think I should accept the fact that the commissioner, in one easy swoop, destroyed my entire career?”

  Logan sighed and propped the football against his hip. “Don’t be a drama queen. Yes, it sucks, and yes, it’s unfair, but he didn’t destroy your career, Chris. You can still play. The suspension itself was light.”

  “But he wiped my record-setting season! My Super Bowl season, Stonestreet. It’s like I was never even there! All of it’s gone.” I picked a stick up off the ground and bent it until it splintered.

  “But it did happen. You were there. You remember it like it was yesterday, so what are you really afraid of? That it never happened? Or that you’ll be forgotten?”

  I bit back the thousand angry things I wanted to hurl at Logan and settled instead for a petulant, “So, I’m just supposed to act like I deserved my punishment?”

  “Chris, you swallowed performance enhancers. Who gives a shit when it occurred or if they weren’t banned at the time, so don’t pretend like you didn’t cross a major ethical line.”

  Logan shook his head and started walking again. I tossed the mangled stick aside and fell into step with him. If the situation weren’t so depressing, it’d almost be amusing. How many times had we made this journey as kids? Logan leading, me following, as I listened to him detail all the ways I’d managed t
o screw up everything from girls to grades to game routes. Thing was, he’d always offered a way to fix whatever mess I’d created. Once I’d gotten my head out of my ass and decided to hear him out, anyway.

  “I’m not arguing that it’s unreasonable for you to want to fight the ruling. Hell, you no doubt have a solid chance of winning an appeal,” he said. “But why even bother? To prove the commissioner wrong? For smug satisfaction? You possess plenty of that already. At the end of the day, where does any of it get you?”

  “Back in the history books—and the Hall of Fame.” Why was this so hard for him to understand?

  Logan stared at me like I was the dumbest friend he’d ever had. Which was probably true. But then, I was also the best friend he’d ever had, and we both knew it.

  “When are you going to understand that stats don’t define you? That if you continue to allow others to determine who you should want to be—who you’re expected to be—you will never be happy?” he asked, his voice laced with indignant frustration. “I thought you volunteering at Rescue Granted these last few months had taught you that the past doesn’t dictate who you are now, and there are such things as second chances and brighter futures.”

  It was like déjà vu. Because hadn’t Hazel tried to tell me the same damn thing and I’d refused to listen? Now I wondered if they’d both had a point, and I was merely too stubborn to realize it.

  “Easy for you to say,” I grumbled. Logan had made a successful transition from athlete to broadcaster. His perspective was a little skewed. “I’ve told you, Logan, I’m not like you. I’m not football royalty. I don’t have a cushy sports analyst job lined up now that my career is in the toilet. All I have to look forward to are—”

  “Car dealerships with your name slapped on the signage. I remember.”

  “Yeah, and how good do you think retirement is going to feel if I’ve got nothing to show for it but a couple of businesses I endorse and a name that was once familiar? Or worse, the butt of a joke that guys spout off in the locker room?”

  “I guess that depends on how you fill your retirement, Chris. Because right now, if you’re counting on a bunch of statistics to keep you warm and satisfied, then you’re going to be a sad, middle-aged asshole who haunts sports bars, reliving the glory years with anyone who’ll lend an ear.”

  There was no spite in Logan’s delivery, no condescension, just cold, hard facts. Logan was right—I knew that—but I didn’t have the first clue how to avoid the future he’d painted so clearly.

  “What exactly are you telling me?” I asked after several long beats of silence. “Because I’m not hearing any actionable advice.”

  “I’m telling you to quit looking back at the past all the damn time. With you, everything’s about what you’ve done and never about what you’re doing—or what you’re capable of doing. You’re already successful in every way that’s important. Why can’t you recognize that?”

  I’d been playing at an elite level for so long, juggling the constant pressure to reach further and run faster, that it’d become so easy for me to forget what it felt like to step onto the field because I wanted to—because it was fun; because football was home. No matter what other shit was transpiring in my life, I could always return to the place where I belonged.

  “So you’re suggesting . . .”

  “God, you’re dense,” Logan said, as we turned the corner onto my street. “Do you still enjoy being a wide receiver?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, then work with the rookies to prepare the Blizzards for next season. Act like the leader the team so desperately needs. Show the fans and media that you’re not some franchise player who’s only focused on himself,” he said. “And for fuck’s sake, shave, take a shower, and work things out with Hazel. Everything else is just noise.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Hazel

  No matter how often or how hard I cleaned Olive’s empty kennel, I couldn’t wash away the memories of Chris. Everywhere I turned, his scent, his smile, his damn singing haunted me. Nearly two and a half weeks had passed since our fight, and it still felt like I was living someone else’s life. Someone else’s nightmare.

  And now even the radio wouldn’t cut me a break. I’d traded the boom box music the dogs preferred for Sirius XM, but it seemed like every other song was some famous pop star covering a Disney classic. Right now Vanessa Williams was serenading me with her rendition of “Colors of the Wind” from Pocahontas.

  I switched the station to bluegrass country and dunked a sponge into the bucket at my feet, wringing it out. Still, soapy water sloshed on the concrete floor as I wiped the pen marks off the back wall—each a small, barely noticeable tick with a date, which I’d used to track Olive’s progressive exploration of her kennel beyond the comfort of her safety net. Behind me, Waffles whined and scratched at the wire door of his cage.

  “Sorry, bud, Olive’s not here,” I said, though I peeked beneath the stainless steel bed frame anyway. I couldn’t help it. I still hadn’t grown accustomed to the fact that my favorite cavalier had disappeared along with Chris. “Your turn’s right around the corner, Waffles. Any moment you’ll be driving off to your forever home.”

  And I meant it. Just a few days ago, Toffee had been adopted by a retired single woman who wanted what she referred to as a “Velcro dog.” Scottish terriers were typically a strong-willed, energetic, independent breed, but Toffee’s abusive history made him the perfect attachment companion. Waffles would get his chance soon.

  I continued to scour Olive’s crate until it shined brighter than a newly minted puppy tag, then moved on to the other kennels, scrubbing them with sudsy water and replacing the old beds, food and water bowls, and toys with new supplies from the most recent Petsville USA delivery—apparently Chris’s endorsement had brought in major business for the company, so donations to the shelter kept flowing in. Which was appreciated, since Rescue Granted was once again at full capacity with four new rehabilitation cases arriving next week.

  “Hazel, those kennels are as immaculate as they’ll ever be. Give it a rest already.”

  I spun at the sound of Penny’s voice, nearly knocking over the soap bucket with my knee. She swept into the room, setting this week’s fresh batch of baklava on the shelf. Snowflakes clung to her curly hair and dusted the shoulders of her leather jacket—an unexpected storm had dumped on the city this morning.

  My stomach rumbled. I’d forgotten to eat breakfast and was now famished. As it turned out, heartache was an exceptionally potent appetite suppressant, and as the void expanded inside me, it numbed everything else until even the most primal desires—sleep, thirst, hunger—went without my notice.

  “And yet, not immaculate enough,” I said to Penny over my shoulder, tossing the dirty sponge into the trash, then washing my hands in the sink.

  I strode over to the baklava, peeling away the foil and inhaling the mouthwatering scent of cinnamon, walnuts, and buttery phyllo. I removed a square and popped it into my mouth. For a moment, the honey-soaked pastry reminded me that I was still capable of feeling full again, of feeling something.

  “No amount of bleach and elbow grease will erase Chris, you know,” Penny said, then tugged off her gloves with her teeth.

  A fist gripped my chest at the mention of Chris’s name, squeezing the hurt tighter inside of me. It was so unfair. Only a short time ago, thoughts of him promised sunny, happy mornings after fun sex-filled nights. Now all of that was gone.

  I stole another piece of baklava, consuming it in one bite. “Maybe not, but cleaning gives me something to do.”

  But most important, mopping and sweeping and tidying prevented me from checking my phone every thirty seconds, hoping for a text or a voice mail. Or glancing at the shelter entrance repeatedly, wishing for a singing telegram—anything that told me Chris still cared—even though I’d made it clear he wasn’t welcome. My devastation and anger at his silence only served to dig the knife in deeper, so I cleaned—and tried to forget
him. Unsuccessfully.

  “Normal people get drunk or have random hookups when they’re moping after a breakup. But you throw yourself into work.” Penny shook her head, fitting the foil over the baking dish again. “It’s like I’ve taught you nothing.”

  I shrugged, licking honey off my thumb, and said, “At least organizing the rehab area for the new intakes is something productive.”

  “You know what else is productive?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

  “Firing nosy, chronically late best friends?” I smiled that sarcastic smile that Penny despised so much.

  “Forgiveness, as my grandmother always reminds me.”

  “Speaking of Rhea, how are she and Meatball getting along?” I asked, though it was a pointless question.

  Last week, Penny’s grandmother had unexpectedly stopped by the shelter to pick up Penny for an impromptu family dinner, and the moment Rhea had laid eyes on Meatball, I’d known they were the perfect fit. Rhea had bent down, grabbed Meaty’s jowly face, and declared that she simply must have a dog with laugh lines to rival her own. I’d only wished I’d thought of the match myself—and long before now.

  “Ugh, I can’t believe you let her adopt him,” Penny said, pinching my arm. “All of my favorite socks have disappeared, and when I confronted my grandmother about it, she said, and I quote, ‘Meatball needs new chew toys, and since your penis-blocking cotton isn’t doing you any favors, I killed two birds with one stone. There’s a lovely set of pumps in your closet, no socks required.’ ”

  I laughed. “Rhea has a point.”

  “Yeah, well, when it comes to Chris and forgiveness, so do I. Something you could benefit from considering,” she said, pinning me with a look before grabbing the baklava and exiting the rehab area.

  Sighing, I moved over to Waffles’ kennel and unlocked the door. I sat on the floor with my back against the bed frame. He curled into a ball beside my shoes, staring up at me with his big, expressive eyes until I rubbed his favorite spot above his tail.