Scott, Kent McDougall, and my NFL Players Association rep had all made similar comments. None of them had understood why I’d suddenly decided to let it all go, but I’d given this a lot of thought, and I was set on my path.
“At the end of the day, it’s not about throwing in the towel. It’s about what I want to be remembered for. And I for one won’t be satisfied until I hold every major record—all-time receiving yards, number of touchdowns, and total receptions—as well as secure another Super Bowl championship without an asterisk next to my name or without people always wondering how I achieved those accomplishments. Going forward, that will be my sole focus. So don’t get me wrong, Rory, I’m fired up, ready to play, and fully dedicated to earning those stats back next season. But this time one hundred percent clean so that no doubt remains if I deserve a place in the Hall of Fame.” I sighed. “But I’m also certain that fifty years from now, if the sum total of my legacy can be found in a single decade of my life, well, I’m not going to be satisfied with that either. So yeah, it’s all a risk. It’s always a risk. But like with everything else, the biggest risks have a habit of yielding the biggest rewards.”
A muscle ticked in Rory’s jaw—I evidently wasn’t giving him the sort of responses he wanted or expected. Still, he covered his annoyance well as he said, “That’s quite the change in attitude, and in a pretty short time period.”
I shrugged, hoping it came across to the viewing audience as sincere rather than dismissive. “The weeks off allowed me the space to work through my anger.”
“And was the altercation with the referee during the Bengals game, which resulted in your ejection from the game, an example of you working through your anger?” he asked, proving that he was definitely aiming to knock me off-balance in order to rile me up.
“That was an unfortunate incident that won’t happen again,” I said, delivering the line I’d cultivated the night before. I knew Rory would broach the topic, but I wanted to shut down his questioning swiftly and completely. I turned and looked directly at the camera. I doubted Hazel was watching, but just in case, I wanted it to be clear that my next words were meant solely for her. “The way I acted that day is not who I am as a player or as a person.”
And while I wished Hazel would grant me the benefit of the doubt and acknowledge that I was a different man now than the one who’d cockily walked into the shelter all those months ago, ultimately I just wanted happiness for her. It was why I’d asked Evelyn not to tell Hazel that I’d been involved with researching Rhubarb’s AKC history. I didn’t want Hazel to think I’d offered my assistance with selfish expectations.
I gazed back at Rory. A small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, the tiniest admission that perhaps he finally grasped that I was being genuine and not putting on an act—and maybe even respected me for it.
“Shifting gears, what other plans do you have for your career going forward?” he asked. “You’ve been a member of the Blizzards since you were drafted. With your contract up next year, do you plan to stay in Colorado or pursue different options?”
“I’m content in Denver, Rory. It’s home.” I leaned back in my leather chair and propped my ankle over my knee, thankful for the change in subject.
“I’m sure Blizzards ownership will be pleased to hear that, despite Colorado’s abysmal year, but you’re not married to the team,” Rory pushed. “You could go anywhere for the right terms and the right price. And since you stated you want to focus on the future and not dwell on the past, perhaps moving to a new franchise would be a fresh start and a new challenge.”
I nodded. “All valid points. But for me, I believe the fresh start can be found right here with the Blizzards. And the challenge, well, that’s obvious enough. It’s time I took on more of a leadership role, both on the team and within the community, and I think we know that should more than keep me busy.”
“I also hear you’ve recently adopted a pet,” Rory said.
“Olive. She’s a cavalier King Charles spaniel.” I chuckled. “Has a thing for Disney songs and old socks.”
“Sounds like you definitely have your hands full.” Rory smiled. “I guess volunteering at the dog shelter has had a positive impact on you.”
“In every way, Rory.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Hazel
“How did I let you convince me to put this on?” I asked Penny as I stood in front of the full-length mirror in my bedroom wearing a Blizzards cheerleading uniform. “I feel like one of Santa’s naughty elves. And I need a tan.”
I tugged at the hem of the skimpy silver-and-powder-blue Lycra skirt with white fur trim that barely concealed the tops of my thighs. The silver crystal snowflakes lining the deep plunge of the too-tight powder-blue crop top winked in the sunlight filtering through the windows.
“Hazel, you have a killer figure. Relax,” Penny said. “And besides, Chris took out a billboard for you. I don’t think you sporting some Spandex and chicken cutlets is too much to ask.”
“Chicken cutlets?” I asked, turning around with no small degree of dread.
“Yep.” Penny grinned with a wicked look in her eye, holding both palms up, and bouncing the bust enhancers so the flesh-colored silicone wobbled like Jell-O. Rutabaga’s head popped up from where he lounged on a pile of discarded clothing on my bed and eyed Penny’s offering. “Now, lean forward, and I’ll slip these babies in.”
“Oh, hell no,” I said, stepping away slowly. “My dignity is already shredded—I have to draw the line somewhere.”
Penny sighed. “Do you want to win Chris back or not?”
“Yes,” I mumbled. “But why do I—”
“Then quit complaining. And do I need to remind you that you’re the one who brought up the fact that Chris harbors a sexual fantasy of you decked out in a Blizzards cheerleading uniform? So really this whole grand gesture thing is your fault.”
“I told you that months ago. Plus, I was joking,” I protested, regretting that I’d ever divulged to Penny how Chris had mentioned me wearing the outfit during his initial volunteer shift at the shelter.
“I don’t recall you laughing.” Penny rolled her eyes, then hesitated. “Actually, if all goes according to plan, he’s probably gonna want to get you naked relatively fast, so maybe the cutlets aren’t the best idea. I’d hate for them to pop out while he’s . . . what’s the football equivalent of rounding second base?”
I didn’t have a clue—it all felt like touchdowns and roaring crowds to me.
“You’re assuming he’ll hear me out in the first place,” I said, my words causing a fresh wave of nerves and fear to rush through me.
Yeah, Chris had helped my mother discover Rutabaga’s lineage, but my mother had also since admitted that Chris had specifically requested that I not know about his participation. Which to me sounded like a nicer way of stating that he didn’t want me contacting him, even if to offer a simple thank-you. It didn’t bode well for what I was about to do.
“There’s only one way to find out.” Penny tossed the bust enhancers back into the package and walked over to me. Rutabaga leaped off the bed, pawing and sniffing at the open box. “Now let me fix your hair. It needs more volume and curls, and I don’t have all day. I’ve got that date with Tony later and need to get myself ready.”
I furrowed my brow. “Won’t Tony be at the toy drive with Chris?”
“Obviously. We’re grabbing dinner together after the event, and I need to up my game. Contrary to popular belief, it does require effort for me to achieve fabulous and fuckable.”
At least one of us would be scoring tonight.
An hour later, I was all dolled up and on my way to Blizzards stadium, Penny following behind me in her car. From his crate in the back seat, Rutabaga barked at everything from telephone poles to motorcyclists to squirrels skittering along bare tree branches. The streets had been plowed clean of snow, the pavement drying out under the bright winter sun. And while the temperature had warmed up outside, it was fa
r from a heat wave, lending a festive feel to the day. The city was still decorated with twinkle lights and red-and-gold bows, and the sidewalks bustled with post-holiday-season shoppers.
As I traveled across town, I tried to mentally prepare myself for a conversation I wasn’t sure I could prepare for. My heart pounded in my chest as I gripped the steering wheel, my palms slick with sweat. I felt queasy, my stomach a churning mess of anxiety.
I switched on the radio to the country music station in an effort to drown out the negative voice in my mind. The one that persisted in telling me I was too late and had already blown my chance with Chris. The one that continually reminded me that I’d done this to myself, that I’d been the one to close myself off, keep my heart and head so well guarded that I could very well have irrevocably damaged the best thing to happen to me, maybe ever.
I briefly considered turning around and going home, but then my mother’s comments about risk and reward echoed in my head, and I knew I at least had to try. No more playing it safe. If I wanted to show Chris, in a big way, that I was willing to put myself out there, then I had to see this through.
I pulled into the main lot packed with cars. The annual toy drive, which gathered gently loved presents for the Boys and Girls Clubs of Metro Denver, typically drew in a sizable crowd, but it seemed busier than in past years. Considering the Blizzards had been knocked out of the playoffs, it was surprising the fans would still come out in droves. I wondered if Chris’s recent interview on Face to Face had anything to do with the positive turnout.
Penny parked a few spots down from me. She was talking to someone on her cell—Grandma Rhea, if I had to guess, who was probably grilling Penny about her date with Tony. Penny waved for me to go on without her. I hadn’t been anticipating entering the stadium alone, and now the sick feeling had morphed into full-blown nausea.
I unlatched Rutabaga’s crate, and he bounded out of the back seat with the glee only a puppy could exhibit. I captured his leash before he escaped and scooped him into my arms.
“All right, buddy, it’s now or never,” I whispered, my voice trembling, but not from the cold. I kissed the top of Rutabaga’s head and inhaled his scent, gathering my courage, then strode toward the large gates adorned with a balloon arch and toy drive banner.
Organized chaos greeted me as I walked through the lower-level concourse and onto the field swarming with media and fans of all ages. Heaters dotted the sidelines, removing the chill from the air. Bruiser the Bear led kids through a basic football skills course. At the far goalpost Blizzards players collected the donated gifts, piling the packages in the end zone, while Tony, Ben, Dustin, and Austin posed for pictures and autographed merchandise.
As I moved through the throng in search of Chris, I passed the Blizzards cheerleaders instructing a group of young girls on their signature iconic dance, and a flash of insecurity burst through me. A few squad members shot me curious glances, but none of them asked why I was dressed in their uniform when it was obvious I wasn’t part of the team.
Rutabaga squirmed in my arms, eager to join in the melee. He didn’t deal in self-consciousness or possess any sort of shy, reserved nature. To him, everything was a fun new adventure. Great. I needed to take notes from a twenty-pound puppy who thought cat poop tasted like brownies.
I continued on my hunt, and yet Chris didn’t seem to be anywhere. My heart sank at the realization that me coming here today might have been for naught. Admitting defeat, I started my retreat to the parking lot when I heard a woman squeal, “Mr. December!”
I froze, then ever so slowly turned around, my heart lodged in my throat. Sure enough, there he was: Mr. December in the flesh. And god, he was devastating, especially in those jeans that hugged him in all the right places and the number eighty-nine jersey atop a tight white long-sleeved shirt that emphasized the breadth of his chest and shoulders. How was it possible that Chris had gotten even more attractive since the last time we’d seen each other?
I peered around the sea of people, only now registering that the majority of women were holding the Hunks for Mutts calendar. My uncle had offered to sell copies on the official Blizzards website, then donate the revenue from the sales to Rescue Granted and the shelter’s partner organizations. That single effort had raised more money in the last few weeks than I usually amassed in a year. And once again, I had Chris to thank for it.
“So, you going to stand here gawking at him or . . . ?” Penny asked, sidling up beside me. She’d swapped her red lipstick for a muted pink, no doubt at the suggestion of Grandma Rhea. Penny claimed her Greek family and their constant interference bothered her, but I knew she secretly appreciated their meddling and advice.
“Gawking doesn’t seem so bad,” I said, scratching Rutabaga behind the ears, more for my comfort than his.
As if sensing my presence, Chris scanned the field, then looked in my direction, his mouth dropping open at the sight of me. He wove through the crowd, snapping photos with fans and autographing calendars on his way over.
“Show time,” Penny murmured, plucking Rutabaga out of my arms and slapping my ass with a “Go get ’em, girl,” before nudging me forward. I hated her only a little.
“Hello, Hazel,” Chris said, his tone as unreadable as his expression when he finally reached me.
“Hi,” I said, willing myself to maintain eye contact. My heart was beating so hard and fast in my chest I was certain he could hear it.
His gaze swept over me, taking in my expertly styled hair, the revealing uniform, the tall silver boots with furry pompoms on the toes so pointed I had no idea how the cheerleaders performed in them. My chest expanded and contracted with labored breaths under his appraisal, and instinctively, my arms moved to cover myself, but I forced my hands to remain at my sides. I swore a ghost of a smile flitted across his lips. Or was that a smirk? Better than cold disregard, I supposed. Still, it wasn’t like Chris to act cagey or coy, and I didn’t know how to navigate this new attitude.
Finally, Chris gestured with his chin at where Penny was trying to teach Rutabaga how to high-five and receiving lots of doggy licks for her trouble and said, “Cute puppy. He yours?”
I nodded. “Yeah, someone with my best interests at heart brought him into my life.” Somehow my voice sounded steady, almost playful, even though my stomach felt as if it was trapped in a vise and my heart thrummed like a moth was caught in my rib cage.
“So you’re keeping him?” he asked.
“I named him Rutabaga. Well, actually my mother did, but I also thought the name was fitting, because Rutabaga sounds similar to Rhubarb, and since both dogs come from the same bloodline . . .” Stop rambling. I cleared my throat. “Can we go somewhere private to talk?” A small group had gathered around us, and I didn’t want an audience for this conversation.
Chris studied me with those piercing brown eyes that could see straight through me, and I resisted the urge to fidget under the scrutiny. “No, I think here is as good a place as any,” he said after a long beat, and what little confidence I possessed fizzled away.
A part of me—okay a big part—had hoped that once he saw me dressed in this ridiculous uniform he’d put me out of my misery and kiss me, but obviously that had been wishful thinking, because it was clear he wasn’t going to make apologizing easy. Not that I could blame him. After the way I’d treated him, I was surprised he was even talking to me at all.
I squeezed my eyes shut, inhaling deep, steadying breaths, then looked at him. “You were right.”
His eyebrows raised ever so slightly. “About what?”
“About me,” I said. “I misjudged you, Chris.”
“Really?” he said, crossing his arms. “You were pretty quick to cast me as an arrogant prick and believe my intentions were deliberately bad.”
“I know. I was wrong . . . and selfish.” I swallowed, my throat straining to push down the nerves that kept threatening to consume me. “I watched your Face to Face interview.”
“And?”
“I thought it was impressive and really bold.” I wanted to add that I was proud of him, but didn’t know how without it sounding patronizing, so instead I said, “But that’s not why I’m here.”
“Then why are you, Hazel?”
It was now or never to put it all out there. I took a deep breath and began what I’d been working up to all day. “I thought you were a risk to me, Chris. The plunge and the plummet, exhilarating and exciting, but also so dangerous. A relationship with you felt like a free fall, and I’ve experienced how unforgiving the ground can be.” I paused and searched Chris’s features for any impact my words might’ve had, but I could glean nothing. Still, I continued. “I painted you as a caricature of a person who only cared about himself because it gave me an easy excuse for refusing to be vulnerable around you. Because it was comfortable.”
I waited for him to respond, but he remained silent, staring at me, his gaze serious, unyielding. Enough to tell me he was listening, but not enough to reveal his thoughts.
“For so long, I convinced myself I needed to plant strong, stable roots that would guard me and support me and never let me down.” I bit the corner of my lip, needing a second to compose myself. “I was so terrified of making a mistake and regretting something, of losing my heart to you and risk getting hurt, that I used your ego and assertiveness as a force field. But that wasn’t fair.”
Chris uncrossed his arms, his expression softening, the edges of his voice shifting slightly as he said, “It was a little fair. I’m not exactly low maintenance or low-key.” He raked a hand through his hair. “I’ve had my share of moments where I behaved every bit like the man you accused me of.”
“It doesn’t matter anymore, because you’re not that person, and I know that. And anyway, I was only half right. You are a risk, Chris—you live full-out and all-in—but you’re also my safety net. Consistently there, right next to me.” I took a brave step toward him. “As much as I love Rutabaga—where he came from and the part of my childhood he brings back to me—I love the fact that you found him even more. That even when we weren’t together, when I’d been awful and unrelenting and scared, you were still thinking about what I needed. You focus on what’s best for me without expectation of credit or praise, and I’m sorry I’m so late in recognizing that.”
Rescuing the Receiver Page 25
