“Zero out, bullet A, cougar,” I shouted to the guys in the huddle, calling out that the next play was a fake handoff quarterback scramble. My heart beat fast and hard against my rib cage, and sweat dripped down my face, along the back of my neck, soaking into my pads and the collar of my jersey.
“Are you sure that’s right?” Chris asked, a thin sheen of sweat and dirt coating his face.
“If that’s what Coach Ashley wants, that’s what we’re gonna do,” Tony cut in, resting his scratched-up hands on his knees, his once silver-and-powder-blue uniform now bloodied and grass-stained.
Chris nodded, but the hard set of his jaw and glint in his eyes meant he disagreed. I prayed Chris wouldn’t do something brash and stupid—something he’d been known to do in the past when he wasn’t getting enough playtime action. We needed to stay in sync if we had a chance in hell of coming back from behind.
In unison we all yelled, “Blizzards,” and broke apart. I stepped up to the line to set up the next snap, silently repeating the call that Coach Ashley had signaled from the sidelines. Ordinarily he’d be up in the coach’s box dictating formations to me through my earpiece, but the Superdome was so loud we’d had to resort to old-school hand gestures.
I waited for the whistle, focusing on the steady cadence of my breathing and the sound of the blood rushing in my ears. Except nothing could drown out the thunderous roar of seventy-five thousand New Orleans fans all fired up and lusting for retribution after last year’s loss to the Blizzards.
Surrounding us, homemade posters waved in the air, announcing Saints pride and allegiance to the only city in America where it was acceptable to gorge on beignets all hours of the day.
The whistle rang out. Dropping back, I faked the pass and spun to my right, narrowly avoiding getting tripped up. I was met outside by a Saints linebacker, but I instantly changed direction in a juke that knocked another linebacker off his feet. The move afforded me enough time to assess the field, and I found some daylight, accelerating around the left end and easily outrunning the defensive tackle. I sprinted for nine yards, capturing a first down, before I was pushed out of bounds with a hard shove.
The whistle blew again with eight seconds left on the clock. I quickly looked over at Coach Ashley, who mimed the next call, and joined the guys in the huddle.
“Punch left, eighty hot, K-6 burst, yellow,” I said, indicating a long pass to Olson downfield, the wide receiver who lined up opposite of Chris on the left side of formation.
We all hollered “Blizzards” again and took our positions. Only I noticed Chris trotted out to the right rather than to the slot he was supposed to. I wondered if he’d heard K-66 for the blocking assignment instead of K-6. Chris was meant to aid in picking up the linebacker blitz, but with him aligned so far out it was going to create a wide-open path that’d leave me unprotected.
“Uh, Stonestreet, you’re going to need to make quick work of getting free and clear,” Tony shouted, who’d also recognized the same thing I had.
“Chris,” I yelled, trying to raise my voice above the incessant cheering. “Six! Not sixty-six!” I needed to correct his mistake, but with only three seconds left on the play clock, there was no time. I lined up and took the snap.
Moving back into my throwing stance, I was about to wind up when a Saints cornerback charged me, but before he could make the tackle, I dodged and leaped over a Blizzards lineman on the ground. Setting my feet, I launched the football toward the goalpost, drawing Olson to the center of the field as planned. For a moment, I lost sight of the ball in the lights before its silhouette came back into my vision. Olson caught the pass effortlessly more than forty yards downfield and strode into the end zone as the clock to halftime reached zero.
A textbook play.
I jumped up in celebration as an explosion of pain engulfed me. Then everything went black.
* * *
I jolted awake to the steady beam of halogen lights passing overhead as I was wheeled down into the bowels of the stadium. Good news was I hadn’t been knocked out long enough to warrant the hospital. Bad news was every part of my body throbbed.
“What the hell happened out there?” I asked a member of the training staff.
“Illegal late hit from Jones,” he replied, talking about the Saints linebacker who was known for his fury as much as his skill on the field. “Got ejected from the game.”
“Guess he didn’t appreciate our last-second touchdown,” I joked, except I knew that the tackle never would’ve happened if Chris had been in the right position.
As much as I hated myself for even questioning his intentions, I couldn’t help but wonder if Chris had really misheard the call or if he’d hoped that when I saw him downfield, I’d throw to him rather than to Olson and he’d strut into the end zone like a peacock on display, claiming ownership for leading the team to a one-possession game.
I quickly dismissed the thought—Chris was my best friend and strongest ally. He’d never do anything to put me in harm’s way.
“Now you just need to clinch a win to really rub salt in the wound,” the staff member said as I was rushed into the visiting-team locker room. The rest of the team filed in behind me, all appearing beat up and exhausted in their heavy pads and dirt-marked uniforms. The guys broke into their offensive and defensive positions and veered off to their respective ends of the locker room.
The medical staff moved me onto a padded table in the training room. My jaw clamped tight, smothering my groan, as a jolt of pain pierced my head like a spear had been shoved through my skull. Before every away game Coach Wallace always told us, “Home is where the hurt is,” reminding us that the home team would do everything imaginable to make us uncomfortable on their turf. And damn did the Saints do a superb job of bringing the hurt.
Immediately the medical staff started working, taping bags of ice around my torso, both shoulders, and my bad knee that felt as unstable as a row of dominos.
Dad had been right when he’d once told me that my first day as an NFL quarterback was the last day I’d ever be 100 percent healthy. Except I’d joined the league already damaged, my torn ACL shadowing me like a bad omen.
Doc Baxter shined a light in my eyes, pulling down my lower lids and searching for any impairments. “How does this feel? Any sensitivity?” he asked, pressing his thumb against my right cheekbone. I winced and sucked in a breath—I had no idea I’d even been cut. Old bruises ached under my skin, while new ones formed on top of them.
“I’m fine,” I said, brushing him off. I loathed being poked and prodded—I wasn’t a doll.
Coach Wallace, along with Offensive Coordinator Ashley, entered the training room. Wallace had his hands clasped behind his back the way he did when he paced the sidelines, anger simmering beneath the surface. Coach had the mouth of a pirate and the temper of a drunk even though he never touched alcohol. His face was a deep ruddy color, a sharp contrast to his shocking white hair and bushy eyebrows. He was sixty-five years old, but physically he looked a decade younger due to his own obsession with running and strength workouts.
Wallace watched from the corner as Doc inspected me. He didn’t say a word, didn’t move, didn’t even blink, but his steely, harsh expression clearly indicated that I was useless unless I played. Coach Ashley followed his example, though his face read more worried than stony.
Random outbursts of emotion—enthusiastic rally cries and curse-laden rants—filtered in from the main locker room. At one point, the sounds of a heated altercation between Olson and Chris filled the space, and once again I found myself doubting Chris’s earlier actions. The coaching staff stayed silent, allowing Doc to perform his magic.
“Roll onto your side a bit, Stonestreet,” he said, grabbing a needle full of Toradol from the array of numbing agents lined up on the laminate counter. “You’ll feel a pinch and a burn. But the drug should take the edge off almost immediately.”
I did as Doc instructed like we hadn’t gone through this ritual at least a hundred times since I’d been drafted—me and three-quarters of the team who’d constantly needed to hide the torture brought on by the brutality of the game. Every station in the training room was occupied with players requiring a heavy dose of ibuprofen or some other potent cocktail of pills and shots, retaping, or stretching. “We gotta keep those traumatized tendons from tightening up,” I heard a member of the medical staff say.
Coach pushed off the wall and came to stand beside me. “Logan, we’ll have you back out there by the start of the second half. New Orleans won’t know what hit ’em.” His tone brokered no debate, no question if my body or my mind were up to it, no clearance from Doc Baxter. The Blizzards needed me. Period.
“I wouldn’t recommend that,” Doc said, not bothering to glance up from where he was sliding the needle into the fleshy part of my ass. “Not if you want to preserve the season. The drug will mask his injuries but it doesn’t treat them. Sending Logan back onto the field is dangerous—he won’t be able to sense if he’s doing greater damage.”
“Logan’s capable of handling another half,” Wallace said. “We need him to hold the line tonight.”
“I disagree,” Ashley interrupted. “I think we better start warming up Fitzpatrick.”
“The newbie quarterback? Against the Saints defensive line?” Coach shook his head and crossed his arms over his chest. “We’ll be peeling turf off every player on this team with a shovel. He’s nowhere near ready to face a team like New Orleans.”
I wanted to be offended that they were discussing me as though I wasn’t here, but this was par for the course—to them I was just another puppet: Pull my strings and watch me dance.
“Better that than risk losing Stonestreet for the season. You and I both know what’s at stake, Wallace. What we’re all aiming for,” Ashley countered. “Our upcoming games are softer.”
“You think the Chargers defense will be ‘softer’?” Wallace asked with a scoff.
Ashley sighed. “Okay, so we’ll put him on the field against San Diego, then sit him out against Oakland. Logan can rest, rehab, then be ready for the Browns at home. We’re still early in the season—the Blizzards can weather the loss.”
“Not against New Orleans. Not after we crushed them last year. Not if we’re going to face them in the Super Bowl like everyone predicts.” Coach Wallace’s face was getting redder—any moment his patience would blow. “We need the win, and for that, we need Stonestreet.”
Finally recognizing my presence, he looked at me and asked, “You can play through the discomfort, right, Logan? I know you’d rather quit than take the loss.”
Discomfort? Sure, if that’s what you wanted to call every bone in my body feeling as though nails were being hammered into them even with the drugs pumping through my system.
Before I could respond, Tony walked into the room and said, “The vultures outside are already speculating how long Stonestreet’s off his feet. Always clamoring to see the great ones fall.”
Of course Tony was accurate, but not in the obvious way. Anytime one of us performed wounded, he was considered a hero. A warrior. A man. It took something major—a compound fracture, a complete tear, a massive concussion, to remove a player from the game. Execute while injured, fight through the agony, shut up and accept it—it was all expected. An honored tradition in football.
Pain didn’t even register as an excuse, and any further argument was pointless. I was going back out there whether I wanted to or not. The coaches knew it. Doc knew it. The media knew it despite their speculations—I could only imagine what Tom Phelps was already writing about this whole mess.
“Fucking hell,” Coach Wallace yelled, veins popping out of his neck. “Stonestreet is a goddamn franchise quarterback. He’ll win or die trying before he’s off his feet. Ain’t that right?”
“Win or die trying,” I repeated, echoing what I’d told Gwen last Monday night at her house—this was the price I had to pay to achieve my dream.
CHAPTER
ELEVEN
Gwen
A week later and I still hadn’t gotten that damn kiss out of my head. The way it’d seemed as if Logan’s whole being had been focused on the act. How his tongue had traveled down my neck, his grip steady on my hips. The way he’d wrapped my legs around his waist and pressed his hard, firm body against mine.
It felt as if my every waking moment had been consumed with the memory. That and wishing Logan would do it again. Or perhaps it was my turn to show that he wasn’t the only one skilled at this game. And given the massive hit he’d sustained during the Saints matchup, he could probably use some TLC.
Ugh, stop it. I was supposed to be maintaining strict professional boundaries, not erasing them.
A weight settled on me and I jumped, glancing at my mother’s hand resting on my wrist.
“Gwen, do you want the apple cider or the hot mulled fruit?” She gave me a polite smile, inclining her head toward the barista at the register.
When I only blinked at her, my mother sighed and ordered me the hot mulled fruit, then shuffled us in the direction of the pickup area. “Why have you been so preoccupied lately?” she asked, putting her wallet back into her purse and grabbing the abandoned New York Times on the station with the stirrers, napkins, and cinnamon.
“I just have a lot on my mind,” I mumbled. At least developing the dishes to be showcased on the nightly specials board had kept me somewhat distracted all week, but now, on my day off, my thoughts were running rampant.
Our drink order popped up at the counter, and we took a seat at a table near the door. The windows were fogged up, and outside the wind was blowing hard enough to whistle.
“Bets on how late Chris will be?” I asked, wrapping my hands around my drink to warm my fingers.
We were supposed to meet him at the quaint Italian joint across the street from the coffee shop in a half hour to celebrate the Blizzards’ narrow-margin win. The team plane had arrived from New Orleans two hours ago, which should’ve given him ample time to decompress and get changed, but my brother had a vanity routine that rivaled Dolly Parton’s.
My mother took a sip of her chai latte and said, “Patience, sweetheart. He’ll be here when he’s ready. Busy yourself with some culture while we wait.”
She unfolded the newspaper and handed me the Living section, and I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. While she perused the front headlines, I skimmed through the Fashion & Style, Travel, and Weddings & Celebrations spreads, periodically staring out the window at people going about their daily business. I smiled, observing a little girl tugging on a leash in an effort to stop her dog from jumping in leaf piles dotting the sidewalk.
Before long, my mind drifted back to Logan, the gasps and moans that had tumbled from my lips when he’d lifted me onto the butcher block and kissed me harder, deeper. It was as if he’d known exactly how to read my emotions, give me exactly what I wanted. I could only envision the desperate pleas he could elicit from me if he put that capable mouth on other parts of my body.
“You’re daydreaming again.” My mother’s scolding voice snapped me back to the present.
“I was people watching,” I said.
My mother mmm-hmmed, studying my face, and I hoped the heat in my cheeks wasn’t betraying my vivid imagination.
Avoiding her gaze, I sipped my mulled fruit and flipped to the Food section, eager to discover what new flavor combinations my fellow chefs were creating in the nation’s culinary capital. Only everything inside me froze, except my heart, which plummeted to the pit of my stomach as my gaze landed on a photograph of Stephen lounging on a bar stool in his new Lower Manhattan casual eatery. The headline proclaimed MUDHEN TAVERN SHINES WITH A MODERN SPIN ON RUSTIC FARE.
With blood rushing in my ears, I scanned the article. It was a typical restaurant pr
ofile that both highlighted strengths and pointed out areas of improvement while covering all the basics—standout dishes on the menu, wine list and the cocktail program, dessert offerings, dining room ambience, and service. Overall it appeared the New York Times critic had greatly enjoyed his visit—he’d even included a brief question-and-answer section at the end of the feature.
Kevin Wells, Critic: So, it seems you’ve found another bright young talent to cultivate in Mudhen’s sous chef, Olivia Bryan.
Chef Durand: [Laughs] Well, it works so well in Hollywood.
Kevin Wells: You’re certainly a star in your own right, what with Brindille earning a third Michelin star.
Chef Durand: I suppose, but it helps that Ms. Bryan is someone who’s both eager to learn and naturally talented in the kitchen.
Kevin Wells: As opposed to?
Chef Durand: As opposed to those chefs with traditional training, a mediocre skill set, a penchant for dramatics, and a tendency to take credit for other people’s successes. But really, we’re not here to discuss old business. I’ve moved on, and I’m better for it.
Before I could locate the rational part of my brain, I tore the article and Stephen’s smug picture into pieces, over and over again, then dumped the handful of hate-confetti into my hot mulled fruit for good measure.
What. An. Asshole.
“Gwendolyn, what has gotten into you?” My mother pressed a hand to her chest, face aghast.
“A pompous dick, which will never, ever happen again.”
“Sweetheart! Language!” she hissed, glancing around the coffee shop to see if anyone had overheard.
“Sorry. Pompous prick rolls off the tongue much better.”
Intercepting the Chef Page 13
