Rescuing the Receiver

by Rachel Goodman

  A short while later, the hinges on the rehab area door creaked, and I looked up to see my mother stroll in with a black-and-tan Rottweiler puppy in her arms. At the sudden intruders, Waffles bolted upright, barking like a banshee. My breath caught in my throat at the sight, my expression no doubt revealing my utter shock.

  Ordinarily, I’d assume the Rottweiler had been found on the side of the road and had been brought to the shelter for care, but this was my mother we were talking about. Which could mean only one thing—she’d gotten herself a pet. Standing, I brushed Waffles’ coarse white hair off my jeans and secured the door to his kennel.

  “Hi, Mom. Who’s this?” I asked, walking over and scratching behind the Rottweiler’s ears. The shy little thing couldn’t have been older than eight weeks, if I had to guess.

  “This is Rutabaga,” she said, straightening his collar. “Isn’t he cute?”

  “Yeah, really cute,” I said, a lump forming in my throat. Rutabaga looked so much like Rhubarb as a puppy—they even had the same facial markings—that I momentarily forgot Rhubarb was gone. “He’s also drooling all over your Chanel coat.”

  My mother shrugged, as if she didn’t store all of her vintage designer clothing in vacuum-sealed bags in her closet. “Well, that’s what the dry cleaner is for, sweetheart.”

  “Uh-huh. And what are you doing here with Rutabaga?” I asked, conceding that maybe I’d jumped to the wrong conclusion. Maybe my mother had been out with a friend for lunch and had stumbled upon the dog wandering around the streets and had brought the puppy to me so I could find him an adoptive home.

  But then she cleared her throat and said, “Introducing you to him since he’s family now. Rutabaga was very well behaved in the car—you’ll be so impressed when you see how sweet he is in temperament,” and I was reminded again that I should trust my instincts when it came to my mother.

  “So, you’re going to keep him?” I asked. My mother already became overwhelmed when she felt out of her depth. How was she going to handle all the tasks involved with raising a Rottweiler?

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Hazel. We both know a pet would be disastrous for me,” she said. “Rutabaga is for you.”

  For me?

  “I’m not understanding . . .”

  “Are you acting deliberately obtuse, Hazel?” My mother sighed. “Anyway, after our exciting journey over here, this little munchkin probably needs to use the potty. Come outside with us.”

  I started to protest, but she plopped the dog in my arms, swept past me, and headed in the direction of the yard. I ground my teeth and forced myself to count backward from ten.

  Rutabaga licked my chin, and before I could stop myself, I buried my nose in his furry neck and inhaled the scent of pure puppy deliciousness. Instantly, I was a little girl again, scared and vulnerable and desperate for a friend. Tears stung my eyes even as I breathed in memories of Rhubarb and the uncomplicated adoration that only a puppy could provide. Rutabaga dropped his chin on my shoulder and heaved a huge, exhausted sigh.

  I was so, so screwed.

  * * *

  My mother was sitting on a bench in the covered picnic area when I’d finally composed myself enough to join her. Cottony snowflakes swirled against the whitewashed sky—not even the Rocky Mountains in the distance were visible. But the chill in the air was more of a subdued cold, one that stole away body heat slowly.

  I let Rutabaga loose in the grass to roam and do his business. The snow crunched under his paws, a thin layer of ice crumpling to the softness underneath, as he trotted over to the obstacle course set up on the far side of the yard.

  “What did you mean Rutabaga is for me?” I asked, wrapping my jacket tighter around my body and settling beside her on the bench.

  “Exactly what it sounds like,” she said.

  “Mom, you know I won’t accept a dog from a pet shop—”

  My mother scoffed and cut me off. “Rutabaga is hardly from some puppy mill operation, Hazel.”

  I sighed. “Okay, fine, but breeders are still included in my earlier statement. My entire purpose here at Rescue Granted is based on the idea of adopt, don’t shop.”

  “I know that, sweetheart, though I think in this case you’ll make an exception. But patience—we’ll get into all that in a moment,” she said, patting my leg.

  Ugh. I hated when my mother drew things out. We both knew disaster loomed. Why not just face it?

  “What’s going on, Mom?”

  “I’m staging an intervention,” she said in her come-on-Hazel-do-keep-up tone.

  I bumped her shoulder. “That’s usually my job.”

  She nodded and offered a small smile in return. “Which is only one of the reasons it’s so important that I do this, sweetheart. It’s time. And since you refuse to listen to Penny . . .”

  I shook my head. “I don’t need an intervention.” She was treating me like I was some kind of hermit living in squalor with hundreds of plants as friends.

  “Yes, well, your argument with Chris proves otherwise.” My mother adjusted her scarf, her hair swishing with the movement.

  I cut my gaze away, over to where Rutabaga was attempting to climb up the slide. He made it halfway, but the curve of the slope sent him tumbling back down to the ground. And yet, even though he’d failed, he shook himself off and tried again.

  When I looked back at my mother, her expression had softened, the bright Christmas lights strung on the underside of the picnic area roof casting red, blue, and green across her face. My mother shifted her body closer to mine and placed a palm over my hand. My chest clenched at the tenderness of the gesture.

  For a long beat we sat in silence. Finally, my mother cleared her throat and said, “Hazel, you think I don’t realize what a burden I am to you. How difficult I can be to handle. But I do see it. Every day.” Her voice was gentle but serious, and the unguarded honesty in her words caused my vision to blur and my throat to tighten.

  “Mom . . .”

  “No, sweetheart, it’s okay. This needs to be said.” She squeezed my fingers. “You’re not wrong, Hazel. I am a challenge. It’s not like I want the past or my issues with your father to rule my life, despite what you may believe, but I don’t know how to act any different. In a way my anxiety and dependence are almost comforting for me. But that’s not the life I want for you.”

  “I have a great life, Mom. I’ve got friends and the shelter and you.”

  A sad smile pulled at the corner of her mouth, mirroring the sorrow in her eyes. “If I truly believed that you had everything you wanted—that no part of your life was built on fear or caution—then I wouldn’t mention anything at all. But I’m living proof of what those things bring, Hazel. And I won’t see you deny yourself a full and exciting future. I can’t. If I only do one thing right as your mother, then by God, it’s going to be this.”

  “So how does getting me a puppy change that?”

  “Hazel, you know better than anyone that a puppy can change everything,” she said. “So I’m certain you’ll find the time for Rutabaga, and when you’re ready, you’ll also find your way to happiness.”

  Once again, memories of Rhubarb flashed through my mind. The way she’d stick her muzzle between the shower curtain and clear liner just so I wouldn’t be alone. Or how, even as a ninety-pound adult, she’d crawl into my lap during a thunderstorm. Or when she’d bring me a half-eaten vegetable from my uncle’s garden after playing outside, her face one big doggie grin.

  “And I have faith that Rutabaga is especially well suited for you,” my mother continued.

  I furrowed my brow. “Why?”

  “You don’t notice the resemblance?” My mother gestured toward Rutabaga, who was now digging an impressive hole in the yard. If he was anything like Rhubarb, he’d promptly take a nap in it.

  Wait . . . surely not?

  “Is he?” I swallowed hard, unable to voice the thought.

  “Yes,” my mother confirmed. “Rutabaga is from the same bloodline as Rh
ubarb. So while I understand your displeasure over my purchasing a puppy rather than adopting, I figured this special case appropriate.”

  As much as I wanted to argue, I couldn’t. Because she was right. A long time ago, a dog had rescued me, and looking at Rutabaga now, knowing where he’d come from and all that he represented, I decided to allow this one small exception.

  “I didn’t think Uncle Kent remembered where he’d gotten Rhubarb,” I said. “How’d you find the breeder?”

  “That’s quite a story, actually. Your uncle was able to track down the receipt of purchase—that man keeps records of everything—but the breeder had since retired. So then it was a matter of tracing American Kennel Club bloodlines through the registry.”

  My mother couldn’t follow her own GPS presets home, let alone run complicated database searches. How had she managed all of this?

  She must have recognized the confusion clouding my expression, because she laughed and said, “Don’t give me too much credit. Obviously I had assistance.”

  “I . . . I need to call Uncle Kent.” I started to stand, but my mother captured my wrist.

  “Hazel, wait,” she said, pulling me back down. “I can understand why your uncle would be your first inclination. But, unfortunately, he was as clueless as me when it came to this matter. Chris is the reason Rutabaga is here.”

  “Chris?” I said in disbelief.

  “He was so patient with me, both when he picked me up from the antique fair and then again recently, when I was adamant about discovering Rhubarb’s lineage but didn’t have the faintest idea how to go about it.”

  “So you reached out to ask him for help and he did?” I asked, my heart tripping over its own beat.

  “Why is that so hard to fathom, Hazel?” she asked. “I think you’ve terribly misjudged him.”

  Even after everything that had happened between us, after all the horrible words I’d thrown at him, without hesitation, Chris had stepped in to aid my mother. Just like that. Again. Because that’s the sort of person he was, genuine and caring and willing—a realization that was sinking in too late.

  My throat closed up and my eyes stung, but I blinked back the tears. “What if you’re wrong? What if Chris is the same as I’ve always worried he’d be?”

  “The better question is, what if I’m right? You have to invite everything in—the good, the bad, the ugly—or at the end of the day, you have nothing at all. You spend so much effort ensuring you never regret anything that you fail to truly live—or love.”

  “I don’t want to make a mistake.” Boundaries were safe, predictable, and I was so terrified to misstep. Especially in regard to someone like Chris, who pushed me out of my element and forced me to question decisions that had once come so naturally. But perhaps that was the whole point. Hadn’t I already experienced the thrill of spontaneity, of passion, of love with him?

  “I know you don’t want to make a mistake or risk getting hurt, sweetheart. But sometimes mistakes are life’s greatest blessings. Was it a mistake to stay with your father for so long and put us both in continual danger? Absolutely yes. But do I regret marrying him?” She shook her head and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear the way she used to when I was a little girl. “Not in the least. He gave me you, after all, and I wouldn’t trade that for all the heartache in the world.”

  “I love you, Mom,” I said as Rutabaga bounded over and dropped a pinecone at my feet like he’d captured the grand prize. I chuckled. Yeah, he was definitely related to Rhubarb.

  My mother stood and dusted flecks of dirt and ice off her coat. “What’s that sports cliché your uncle is always spouting? ‘No risk, no reward ’?” She nodded to herself. “Yes, that’s right. Seems appropriate here. The way I see it, Chris isn’t a mistake. He’s a risk worth taking. When are you going to wake up to that fact?”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Chris

  The last time I’d appeared on Face to Face with Rory McMillan, I’d been too confident, too self-righteous. Amazing how a few months, an embarrassing fall from grace, and a complete life implosion could humble you.

  Rory was already seated in his leather wing chair, barking at someone on his cell while flipping through interview questions, as the hair and makeup team got him camera-ready. I stayed off to the side, not in the mood for idle chitchat or awkward conversation. In truth, this was the last place I wanted to be, but if I was going to prove to the NFL community that I wasn’t the same arrogant, reckless wide receiver I’d once been, then I needed to publicly acknowledge my mistakes. And there was no better outlet to do that than on America’s most watched sports show.

  Around me, the crew hustled about, everyone laser focused on their last-minute tasks. Scott was deep in conversation with the executive producer, hopefully performing his agently duty and warning the producer to keep the interview simple and direct. No surprises or ambushes. Though I couldn’t imagine what other shit could possibly be dumped on me now.

  The Face to Face theme music blared throughout the studio, announcing sixty seconds to on-air. I gulped down some water and claimed my seat on the set, wishing like hell I could loosen my tie and dim the blazing stage lights. Ending his phone call, Rory waved away his beauty brigade and pocketed the note cards.

  “Back for round two, Mr. Lalonde? I do hope you remembered to bring your gloves this time.” He smiled, smoothing his Bob Costas side-part hair in the reflection of the monitor positioned above my head. And like Bob Costas, Rory didn’t age, his face as smooth as an ice rink after the Zamboni machine had run over it.

  “Forgot them at home, I’m afraid,” I said, refusing to engage. At least Scott had negotiated that there’d be no live-viewer call-in questions—it was my turn to control the narrative.

  The theme music faded, and the campy announcer’s voice introducing the show filled the room.

  “Good evening, folks. Chris Lalonde, Colorado Blizzards wide receiver, is joining me in the studio tonight.” Rory angled his body toward the camera and smiled, his perfectly capped teeth flashing under the bright lights, then faced me. “Given the way our previous interview ended and how your name has been splashed all over headlines with increasing frequency these days, I’m surprised you agreed to return to the show, Chris. What made you decide to come back?”

  “I didn’t leave on my best foot the last time we spoke. I’d like to change that and allow Blizzards fans and the NFL community to hear my perspective.” I clasped my fingers and rested them in my lap, keeping my posture relaxed, my expression natural.

  It was difficult to tell, but based on the way his spine straightened and his gaze hardened, it seemed as if I’d caught him off guard with my answer. Good.

  Rory cleared his throat and said, “In that case, let’s dive right in to the questions, shall we?” His usual warm, inviting tone had taken on an edge, as though he recognized I wasn’t here to play his game and he was now on alert.

  “Ready whenever you are, Rory.”

  “Your suspension has resulted in two additional losses for the Blizzards and an embarrassing overall six–ten season record. Now that your prison sentence is over, how are you feeling about the severity of the punishment? Especially since Colorado has been eliminated from the playoffs?”

  I shifted in my seat. Gloves were off, then. Fine. I’d just as soon get the worst of the questions out of the way up front. “While I don’t agree with the entirety of the commissioner’s decision, I respect his authority and have chosen to move past the whole ordeal and toward something more positive.”

  “So, you’re not going to fight the ruling?” he asked. “Even Tom Phelps, head sportswriter for the Denver Morning News, and one of your harshest critics as of late, believes an appeal is warranted.”

  A miracle, since asshole Tom Phelps hadn’t cut me a break in weeks, and I had no clue what part of my situation had changed his position and attitude about me. Still, I wasn’t pandering to him or anyone else. This was about me.

  “I’ve all
owed my critics to have too much of an opinion already. I’ve come to realize it’s a waste of energy and productivity to focus on the past. My time is much better spent on looking ahead to the future.”

  It’d taken a few days, but I’d finally forced myself to acknowledge the truth in Logan’s words. I lived and breathed football, found purpose in it, but now understood that it didn’t define me or dictate my future. In fact, it hadn’t been until Logan dragged me out to our old practice field that I’d fully appreciated just how fortunate I was in that regard.

  Logan had been at the peak of his game professionally but was miserable in his role as team leader and quarterback. How many other athletes were in similar circumstances? How many players continued to perform not because they still possessed a genuine passion for the sport or felt a driving force pushing them to excel but rather for the paycheck? Because they felt stuck in a vicious cycle and couldn’t see another path to happiness?

  “That’s great to hear, but have you considered that the choice you make today could resonate for years? Potentially locking you out of the Hall of Fame?” Rory asked, bringing me back to the present. “The career span of a pro athlete, especially in a contact sport like football, is brutally short. Can you really afford to lose a year of statistics? Of your life? Your legacy?” He leaned into me, almost instinctively, as if eager to hear what juicy sound bite I’d let slip.

  “I’ve considered all the things you mentioned, but I’m the one who screwed up. It’s irrelevant that the first instance of me taking the Meldonium was early on in the season or that it wasn’t a banned drug at the time.” I squared my shoulders as the weight of my mistakes hit the floor like obsolete gym equipment. “The point is, I tarnished my reputation and the game I love for no reason other than my own ego and insecurity. Whether or not it violated league rules as written doesn’t matter.”

  “You know, Chris, you’ve never seemed like the type to throw in the towel so easily.”