Intercepting the Chef

by Rachel Goodman

  “You act like you’d rather be anywhere other than offering your time for an event your brother cares deeply about,” my mother said, still deftly packing lunches. “To say nothing of the fact you’re here representing the very restaurant that hired you as a favor to him. Given all the Blizzards community has provided you, I don’t think a few hours of your time is asking that much.”

  Oh, where to even start with that comment? As usual, my mother had managed to criticize me in a multitude of ways while praising my oh-so-perfect twin, who, incidentally, was flirting with a cute nurse at the medical station instead of setting up equipment like he was supposed to.

  He caught my disapproving stare but waltzed over like he’d just been inducted into the football Hall of Fame. “How’s it going over here?” he asked, stealing a baby carrot from a bowl and chewing so loud it sounded as if it were being broadcast over the stadium speakers. “Making progress?”

  “Are you hungry, sweetheart?” my mother asked Chris, tilting her face toward him so he could kiss her on the cheek. Even in ninety-degree weather—Denver was having an abnormally hot September—her complexion remained shine-free and her hair flawlessly coiffed. I was almost certain my mother repelled perspiration. “Your sister can throw something nutritious together for you before the activities begin.”

  “My overprivileged twin can grab a sack lunch like everyone else,” I said, wedging another slippery square of fake cheese that somehow smelled like yellow highlighter between slices of overly processed carbs. “Chris doesn’t need me.”

  “No, but occasionally you need me, Gwen,” he replied.

  “Anyway, I hope everything goes swimmingly, Christopher,” my mother said, smoothing the shoulders of his practice jersey. “I love this event, watching you and your teammates teach and inspire those young boys. I still have such fond memories of all the years you participated as a child. Like when you earned the first-place trophy in the Receiver Rumblin’, Stumblin’, Fumblin’ Challenge, beating out players almost twice your age.” There was a faraway gleam in her eyes, as if she were reliving her own accomplishments rather than a blip on my brother’s radar.

  Logic would suggest that while my mother would be proud of her NFL star son, it would be my father who’d be in awe of Chris’s massive athletic success and essentially forget about his only daughter, focusing all his attention on my brother. But the complete opposite was true. My father didn’t know the difference between a touchdown and a throwdown, and my mother probably knew the rule book—and every referee who dared blow a call—better than half the coaching staff.

  Chris rarely mentioned it, but I knew the oversight bothered him. That there’d been times he’d wished for the sort of father who took pride in his son’s accomplishments. I knew better than anyone that our father’s attention came with the weight of expectations, and while he had little interest in reliving his high school years via Chris, he was certainly invested in reliving his early career—and the later years that might have been—through me. Still, I at least had cherished childhood memories to fall back on—my father teaching me how to julienne carrots or caramelize sea scallops or twirl spaghetti noodles into nests. I could only imagine what Chris would give for just one memory of playing catch with our father.

  “I plan to whip the kids into shape. Show them a thing or two from the master,” Chris said, practically puffing out his chest.

  “Careful, doofus,” I said, hip-checking him out of the way so I could drizzle more lemon vinaigrette into the pasta salad to moisten it. “There’s already enough hot air inside you to float a blimp. Any more and you may explode.”

  “This idiot bothering you ladies?”

  I jumped at the sound of Wonder Bread’s voice, my heart rate speeding up. I snuck a peek at him—I couldn’t help it. He was smiling, a dimple dotting the left side of his cheek. How had I never noticed that small imperfection before? His golden blond hair was windblown, but in a purposeful way, and his workout gear—blue mesh shorts, grayish-silver Blizzards Lycra shirt, Nike shoes—should have screamed All-American sports hero, but instead Logan radiated trouble.

  “Good morning, Logan,” my mother said, flashing him the megawatt smile she typically reserved for my brother. “You seem ready for today.”

  “It should be a fantastic event,” Logan said.

  “And you played a wonderful game against the Raiders last night,” she said.

  “Thanks, Rose.” Logan scratched the back of his neck in his signature Aw, shucks way that my mother had always eaten up.

  “Stop being such a suck-up, Stonestreet,” Chris cut in, lightly punching his arm. “Everyone’s aware of who the real star is.”

  “You’re so humble and reserved, I’m not sure how anyone could forget about you,” Logan said, then peered at me. A smirk ghosted his mouth, and I wondered what memory caused that expression. “And great to see you, Gwen.”

  “Hello, Logan.” I busied myself with counting the finished lunches, ignoring the way his proximity clenched and twisted my stomach or how the broad outline of his pecs was visible beneath the fabric of his shirt.

  “I almost didn’t recognize you without your black uniform,” he said. “You look good in all those spirited colors.” Logan moved closer to me, his bright blue eyes glinting as he appraised me up and down.

  A warmth spread up my neck, and I prayed he hadn’t noticed. I’d promised myself that when I saw him today, I’d act composed, professional, but my traitorous body was betraying me, functioning on its own volition.

  “I almost didn’t recognize you without a helmet. Living dangerously today?” I asked.

  “He’d better not be,” Bob Stonestreet said as he appeared next to his son. He was followed by Phil, Logan’s agent. “My boy knows better than to engage in risky behavior during the season. Can’t afford an injury now.”

  In matching Blizzards blue polos, khaki slacks, and loafers, Bob and Phil looked like the midlife equivalent of Tweedledee and Tweedledum, save for the aura surrounding Bob. Growing up, I’d considered Bob Stonestreet larger than life, football royalty the same way my father had been in the culinary world, but studying him now, I saw none of that man. Only a retired athlete still trying to hold on to his glory days through his son.

  “Robert, isn’t it sacrilege for you to be wearing anything but navy and bright green?” my mother asked, opening a cooler and grabbing another bag of apples. “How would the Seattle fans react if they saw that embroidery of Bruiser the Bear above your breast pocket?”

  Bob chuckled in a way that said, Don’t be silly. I’m Robert Stonestreet. “Rose, the fans support me no matter which mascot I’m wearing. You know that.”

  My mother tsked. “Yes, well that doesn’t mean it’s not in poor taste.” She placed the last of the lunches in a bin, then walked over to where some of the other volunteers were separating the brown bags into piles for each age group.

  “Phil, Dad,” Logan said, nodding his head toward each of them. His tone was clipped, formal, nothing like how it’d sounded moments before. “Great day for supporting youth football.”

  “Why are you two in this tent instead of with your team in the stadium?” Phil asked Chris and Logan. “The buses of children will be here any minute.”

  “So what? It’s not like the event can begin without us. Relax.” Chris tossed a bow-tie pasta noodle into the air, catching it in his gaping mouth in a stunt I’ve seen him do since elementary school.

  Phil ignored him and stepped closer to Logan. “You need to be at the stadium. I want you front and center when the buses arrive. We’ll pull a few of the boys aside for some spontaneous photo ops with the media. I’ve ensured the inner-city buses are up first, so the optics are primed for maximum effect.”

  “Is that really necessary?” Logan replied without an ounce of warmth in his voice. “They’re kids, not props. And that’s not what this event is about.”
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  “Seriously, dude, chill out,” Chris cut in.

  “I’m talking with my client,” Phil snapped. “This doesn’t concern you, Lalonde. Go make yourself useful somewhere else.”

  Chris mumbled a “Fuck off” under his breath, then strolled away, leaving me standing there like a stage extra that didn’t belong.

  “Logan, everything’s a prop to you right now.” Phil clasped Logan’s shoulder. “I thought we discussed this. Your brand is every bit as important as your game this year. If the city loves you, the front office loves you. If the front office loves you, you get paid.”

  “Money isn’t everything, Phil,” Logan said, shifting so that his agent’s hand slipped from his shoulder. “Not to me.”

  “Maybe not to you,” Phil said, his stance becoming aggressive and rigid. “But what about to the community? To the people this sport employs? To the bars and restaurants that see a boom when you win? To the tourism industry, the hotels, the transportation divisions? A successful franchise, backed by a successful and popular quarterback, pulls in millions every season. Millions that help keep our economy healthy. I’m here to make sure you get your fair share of that. All I’m asking is for a little cooperation.”

  “Phil’s right, son.” Bob Stonestreet leveled Logan with a stare that indicated it wasn’t up for debate. “You need to consider all the implications. This isn’t just about winning.”

  Logan, visibly deflated, raked his fingers through his hair and sighed. I suddenly felt protective of him, as if he were being bullied. “Yeah, okay. I’ll head over to the stadium,” he said, sounding exhausted, as though he truly believed the weight of the city rested on his shoulders.

  I wanted to write off his agent’s speech as ridiculous and overblown. And to a degree, it was. But it did support the city, draw tourists, inject new money into the economy.

  Still, I couldn’t help wonder, if Logan wanted all this, then why did he seem so burdened? Why did it seem as if all the fun had been sucked out of a game that once energized and fulfilled him?

  But then, I thought, glancing around, there were no pads here, no cheering fans or loud music. No scores or victories or any of what I assumed someone like Logan lived for. So maybe professional athletes, much like the rest of the world, were only lucky enough to love one part of their job and the rest was a tedious price to pay for pursuing a passion. God knew, as much as I loved cooking, loved menu planning, I didn’t love the private events, the boring catering or, even worse, creating schedules and dealing with distributors. Maybe it was the same for Logan.

  “I’ll join you, Wonder Bread. I should make sure the food stations in the stadium are set up the way I requested,” I said, wiping my hands on a towel. “I’ll even race you to the entrance.”

  He nodded, relief evident in his eyes. “It’s a bit early for you to be receiving an ass kicking, isn’t it? But if you insist.”

  Bob Stonestreet shook his head. “Son, you need to rest your knee, especially with the Ravens next Monday and the Steelers the following Sunday.”

  “Dad, I’m kidding,” Logan replied, exasperated.

  We walked across the parking lot to the stadium in silence. The wind picked up, and I lifted my hair off my shoulders to allow the breeze to drift across my neck. While still sweltering, the day was bright and so blue it looked artificial, the clouds floating high in the sky resembling cotton candy.

  “So, your agent’s a charmer,” I said after a bit, shielding my eyes against the sun to look at Logan. The light caught his golden highlights, and my fingers itched to comb through those strands.

  “Phil means well, but, yeah, his delivery could use some work.”

  “And your dad . . . I don’t recall him being so . . . intense,” I said. Dedicated, sure. Demanding, sometimes. But above all else, Bob had always been encouraging. Hell, he’d been the nurturing father figure Chris had so desperately needed.

  “He just wants me to experience his same successes.”

  “And do you?” I walked faster to keep up with Logan’s long strides. He must have noticed the increase in my pace because immediately he slowed down.

  “Do I what?” Logan asked, a crease forming between his brows.

  “Want his same level of success?”

  “Of course I do.” He laughed, that carefree expression he wore so naturally returning, but then he glanced away, as if worried I’d see something secret in his face I wasn’t supposed to.

  We approached the stadium entrance as the first bus was pulling up. Reporters and photographers were gathered under the giant Blizzards Bowl banner and balloon arch adorning the main gates, ready to welcome the kids to the festivities.

  “Wait here. I don’t want you trapped in this,” Logan whispered in my ear.

  “No, it’s okay. I’ll find my way in,” I said, waving him off. “Go do your thing. Seriously.”

  He winked, then plastered on his showstopping grin and jogged over to where the first boy was departing the bus. Cameras flashed, members of the media swarming them. How did Logan handle this kind of attention day in and day out and not feel like a bug under a magnifying glass? Then again, he’d been dealing with this sort of scrutiny since his days at the University of Oregon, so perhaps he was accustomed to it.

  I watched him pose for pictures and autograph footballs, smiling at the kids who practically glowed from meeting their favorite player, before sneaking around the perimeter of the crowd toward a side entrance.

  A hand gently grabbed my wrist. “Excuse me, Ms. Lalonde, a moment of your time?”

  I looked at the woman who was roughly my age with a brown bob and a bronzed tan. She stared at me with a fierce gleam in her eyes. I couldn’t place her, but she seemed vaguely familiar.

  Selecting the recorder app on her cell, she hit the red button and held the phone up to my mouth. “Are you attending the event today with Logan Stonestreet?”

  “No, I’m supervising the lunch prep and service,” I said, annoyed that she was interrupting my schedule. I needed to be checking if the lunch tables were arranged correctly and if the water bottles had been filled. “I’m sorry. I didn’t catch your name.”

  She smiled but it was more patronizing than genuine. “Andrea Williams from the Colorado Post.”

  Oh, right. Entertainment reporter. Logan met my gaze from across the crowd and frowned. I turned away from him to deal with the woman who still had her phone shoved in my face. It wasn’t like he could intervene anyway. He had his own audience to entertain.

  “Well, Andrea, how can I help you?” I said, forcing a polite voice, reminding myself that ultimately I was representing the restaurant. I needed to play nice.

  “So, you’re in charge of catering,” she said, though by her snide tone I got the feeling she already knew the answer.

  “I’m the executive chef at Stonestreet’s. The restaurant donated the food for today,” I replied, ducking into the concourse surrounding the stadium, hoping she’d take the hint that I was busy and didn’t have the time or the patience for her questions.

  “Right, right. Well, you certainly work fast,” she said, staying in sync beside me despite her four-inch stilettos and constricting pencil skirt. “Though that’s understandable given what you left behind in San Francisco.”

  The hair on the back of my neck stood on end, and I had to focus on keeping my gait smooth and steady. How the hell did she know about what had happened at Brindille? My fallout with Stephen had circulated around the culinary world, but she was a rumormonger in Denver. Not to mention, that story was below her pay grade. Why did she care?

  “It was time for a change,” I said, wishing my mother were around. She may not approve of all my life decisions, but if there was one thing she hated, it was idle gossip. She’d do what I couldn’t and get rid of the gnat.

  “I’d counter that you traded up.” Andrea tittered, the sound echo
ing off the silver- and blue-painted concrete walls. “Frankly, I applaud you. Logan Stonestreet has appeared on Denver’s most eligible bachelor list four years running. Doesn’t matter if he’s involved with someone, he always receives top billing.”

  I was sure Andrea had curated that list, but what was her motivation now? To rile me up? Make me feel insecure? Whatever it was, I had no intention of indulging her.

  “Have you met his ex, Nicole? Tall, gorgeous, body that rivals a supermodel’s?” she continued, confirming she was pursuing the jealousy angle.

  “Logan and I maintain a strictly professional relationship,” I said, trying to mean it as I descended the stairs to field level. “We grew up together—our families have been close for a long time. When I was searching for a new position, he came through.”

  “I’m sure he did,” she said, a smirk curling her gloss-slicked lips. “I can only imagine your interview process was more rigorous than the other chefs he vetted. More . . . physical, shall we say?”

  I stopped cold even as the woman had the brass to laugh at her own insinuation. “Excuse me?” I asked.

  “Oh please, honey, you’re hardly the first woman to climb the corporate ladder by sleeping with the boss,” Andrea said. “It worked so well for you in San Francisco—until it didn’t, of course—so why wouldn’t you apply the same technique here? And really, who could blame you? Logan’s a prime cut of beef, which is your specialty, I believe.”

  That’s it. I needed away from her before my temper surpassed my common sense. How dare she insinuate that everything I’d worked so hard for—everything I’d earned—had been achieved with me lying on my back instead of through dedication and talent. But then a more insidious thought entered my mind: Was she right? If I hadn’t been sleeping with Stephen, would I have still been promoted so quickly through the ranks at Brindille? I shook my head, pushing away the notion that I was anything like how Andrea had described, trying to ignore the knot of doubt in my stomach. I never should have allowed myself to get involved with Stephen. How could I have been so stupid?