I sighed, scratched my jaw. “This is a physical game and sitting out is part of it. I just didn’t perform as well as I needed to. I have to be better, correct my mistakes, and take my coaching. There are always opportunities for improvement, and I’m dedicated to doing those things.”
The response was barely out of my mouth when the ESPN reporter fired out, “Can you take us back to what was going through your head when you threw that pick six in the fourth quarter?” He was referring to the pass that’d been intended for Chris but was intercepted and returned for a touchdown.
“I was trying to make a significant play. I had the matchup I wanted but wasn’t able to put the ball where it needed to be,” I said, another canned answer, my voice on autopilot.
“There were reports that you may have suffered a significant injury during the New Orleans game three weeks ago. Can you speak on that and how it’s affected you, especially against Cleveland tonight?” another writer chimed in.
“I’m fine. If I hadn’t fully recovered, I wouldn’t have suited up,” I said, lying through my teeth. And everyone in the room knew it. But just as I was expected to fight through the pain, I was also expected to pander to the press. “Thank you all for your time.”
I started to stand, but of course Tom Phelps, being the prick he was, had to get in a final jab. “There’ve been rumors circulating that you’re romantically involved with the executive chef of your new restaurant. I noticed Gwen Lalonde was sitting in one of the luxury boxes tonight. Could her presence have been a distraction for you?”
I kept my expression neutral despite the shock I felt at his words. Gwen had showed up? Fucking figures. I wanted to laugh at the irony of it all. I’d played like crap because I’d thought Gwen hadn’t come, only to have the worst performance of my career with her in the stands.
“Or she could’ve been in attendance because Chris Lalonde is her twin brother. Do you have a legitimate question pertaining to football, Tom? No? Great.”
I exited the media room before I did something reckless that would get me possibly suspended and definitely sued for shattering Tom Phelps’s jaw. Anger was still thrashing through me when I walked back into the locker room still packed with guys, everyone appearing battered, bloodied, and stunned as they silently changed into their street clothes.
Chris sat on the bench in front of his dressing stall, tying his boots. He already had on his coat, a scarf was wrapped around his neck, and a pair of gloves were pinched between his teeth.
“Lalonde, you’re up next,” I said.
“I’m not talking to reporters. Not after that humiliation.” Chris stood and grabbed his gym bag, zipping it closed.
“You have to.” I moved to my locker, ignoring the searing agony that shot up my leg with each step.
“I don’t have to do anything. The commissioner himself can slap me with a fine,” he said, and I noticed he wouldn’t meet my gaze. Him and the rest of the team, who were acting as though this whole exchange wasn’t transpiring.
“Listen, today was a disaster, and I take full ownership for that—”
“Congratulations on the self-awareness, Captain Obvious,” he muttered.
“But we’re professional athletes,” I continued, peeling off my T-shirt and tossing it onto the floor. “We need to show the home office, the fans, and the rest of the league that we can accept our losses and come back stronger.”
“Come back?” Chris laughed, short, dismissive. “Like last year’s playoff performance? Like the year before when we blew a three-touchdown lead in the wild-card game? Or how about something more recent? How about tonight in the third quarter when you pussied out and threw for the stands instead of the end zone? Comebacks take balls, Logan, and as far as I can tell you’re only using those to screw my sister.” He looked at me, his eyes cold and hard.
“Watch your mouth, or I won’t be the only one missing balls.”
Chris had never been overly protective of Gwen, so while she’d never been officially off-limits, she hadn’t been up for grabs either.
“I care about her,” I added, choosing my words cautiously, unsure how forthcoming I should be about my feelings given this was not the time or the place for this conversation.
“Oh, you care about her? Like you care about this season?”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“Yes, I heard you,” I said, my patience running thin. “What did you mean by it?”
“It means what is going on with you?” Chris shouted. “Your interest in this team, your job as QB, securing a championship—it all seems to diminish by the second.”
Was he kidding? All I’d ever wanted was a Super Bowl ring, and he had the gall to challenge my dedication and loyalty?
“What’s going on with me? You’re the one who’s only out there for himself. Altering formations, giving up on your routes, not finishing your blocks,” I yelled back. During the Saints matchup, I’d convinced myself that Chris hadn’t heard the call over the roar of the fans, but that sort of behavior had become a pattern the last three games.
“Because I’m supposed to be a winning franchise player! But do you see me winning, Stonestreet?” He stepped closer so he was inches from me, his face growing redder. “I’m an elite receiver and the best damn one on the offense, and I don’t intend to waste the best years of my career with a team that can’t deliver when it matters.”
“We’ve had two losses this season. Two out of nine games. So what’s this really about?” I snapped, though I refused to allow this argument to escalate beyond raised voices despite how much he was gunning for a fight. We’d been through too much crap, too much history, to risk a twenty-year friendship.
We stared at each other a moment, the silence like a ticking bomb.
Finally, Chris sighed and shook his head, as if the fight wasn’t worth it anymore. “I’m not like you, Logan. I don’t come from football royalty. I didn’t ace the Wonderlic. Hell, I barely graduated college. After this career ends, there’s no steakhouse or sports analyst job waiting for me. This, right here, the NFL, is my life. My only legacy. I need to make it count.”
At his confession, the angry fire inside me died out. I’d been so focused on what the game meant to me, the birthright I had to live up to and surpass, that I hadn’t considered how football mattered in different ways to different people—or bothered to notice how much my best friend needed it.
“I know you carry the weight of the team and franchise on your shoulders, and I get the pressure you’re under.” Chris scooped his keys and wallet off the shelf in his locker. “But this is all I have, Logan. So whatever it takes, get your priorities straight.”
As I watched his retreating form, I wondered if I was a self-indulgent asshole for even entertaining endeavors outside of football during a season that was perhaps our best shot at a championship. Because Chris was right. I did have paths forward once I left the NFL—the restaurant, maybe a broadcasting gig, and who knew what else my agent could dig up if I allowed Phil to start looking.
And even as I told myself to lock those thoughts down, to focus on the game, images of Gwen and me together years down the road, re-creating Mom’s dishes in Stonestreet’s kitchen, refused to leave my head.
* * *
Hours later, after everyone had left, I sat on a bench alone in the now dim locker room, staring down at my hands. My eyes traced the hardened calluses and cracks running along my palms, my mind flashing through the last few hours, an endless loop of instant replays highlighting my mistakes.
Despite what Chris had claimed, I knew in my gut that the Blizzards were a team that could deliver when it counted and that could go all the way. It’d require intelligence, patience, perseverance, and most of all grit, but our offense had been stitched together from fabric that was stronger and more impenetrable than granite. We just needed to execute, recapture
the magic and organic spark that’d been present during those first seven games.
And I needed to get my body back into playing form. The sharp, stinging pain I’d felt before had dulled to a throb thanks to the ibuprofen and Toradol shot I’d received from Doc Baxter. Ice bandages were secured around my ribs, my passing arm, and both knees, my skin numb under the intense frigid contact. A towel was tied around my waist, but I still couldn’t bring myself to shower off the stale sweat, mud, and grass stains that had dried on my skin, as if they were a form of punishment.
Unexpectedly, a loud, steady voice called out from behind me. “Logan? Are you in there?”
Shit. Gwen.
I dropped my head into my hands, exhaling. Had she been waiting for me this whole time?
I glanced over my shoulder to see her standing among the oversized dressing stalls, gear, and equipment.
Immediately relief flooded through me. No matter what else had happened tonight, Gwen had come to the game and she had stayed. Whether it was out of worry or loyalty or something she was still too hesitant to label, I didn’t care. Someone was in my corner. Until now, I’d never realized how much I needed that.
“Hey,” Gwen said, a half smile ghosting her mouth. “Rough night?”
She leaned against the wooden frame of Tony’s locker in black knee-high boots and a leather bomber jacket I could smell from across the room. Radiating attitude, Gwen looked like one of the motorcycle poster models that had plastered my bedroom wall as a teenager.
“One for the record books,” I said, removing the cold compresses on my knees and tossing them onto the floor.
“Wanna talk about it?” she asked.
“Which part? There were so many memorable moments.” I reached for the Velcro closure under my armpit and winced.
“Let me help.” Gwen rushed forward, and with meticulous movements, she unwrapped the bandages around my torso and shoulder. A hiss escaped from between her teeth when she saw the baseball-sized bruises along my ribs and below my collarbone. An uneasy expression crossed her face. Gingerly, she ran her fingers over my chest, her touch feather-soft yet sending a hum of energy across my skin.
“It looks worse than it feels,” I said, though that’d be a different story once the drugs wore off.
“Liar.” She shrugged out of her jacket, folded it on the bench, and sat down beside me. “But after the beating you barely survived, I’ll let it go. But later we’re going to discuss why your picture is next to the definition of reckless behavior.”
I sighed.
Gwen got annoyed when I dismissed her concerns, but what she didn’t understand was that I couldn’t simply change the way I played the game. That would be as difficult as learning to breathe underwater. She didn’t understand that to be competitive at this level, I had to run the ball and take the hits in the only way that made sense to me. All out. Aggressive. No reservations or fears.
And in fact, it was because I’d been distracted and not playing like myself out there today that I’d been pounded to shit and back. But I wasn’t about to tell Gwen all of that—arguing with her was what had gotten me into this mess to begin with.
Silence stretched between us. I focused on the cracks in my palms again. Finally, I said, “So, you came.”
“I dragged Missy along with me.”
“For protection?”
“Ha-ha.”
“What made you change your mind?” I asked.
Gwen shrugged, as if she weren’t entirely sure of her answer. “I meant it when I said I wanted to keep things casual, low-key, but my outright refusal felt selfish and unreasonable, and that’s not really who I am. Besides, I figured it’d be a great way to see if I could trade you in for an upgrade,” she said, a playful note entering her tone. “Those Lycra pants leave little to the imagination, and you players are so helpful, what with how you all are constantly bending over.”
I chuckled. “And survey says?”
“I need a second look. Hold on, let me grab my phone. I can bring up ‘Too Sexy’ and you can make your case,” she said, pretending to dig in her jacket pocket.
“So that’s why you hung around after the game.”
“And because I could use some cheering up.”
I raised an eyebrow. “You could use it?”
“You weren’t the one barricaded in the WAG box all evening,” she said with something kinder than scorn. “But I suppose we could cheer each other up. Unless you’d rather be left alone . . .”
I shook my head. Now that Gwen was here, the last thing I wanted was to be by myself.
“Sorry you were out there waiting for so long.” I released a long, slow breath. “It’s just . . . after losses like this, I get stuck in a cycle of negative thoughts and it’s hard for me to get out of it.”
Her expression softened. “Yeah, I heard the press conference. But, Logan, you didn’t play those sixty minutes solo. The entire team is responsible.” She shifted toward me, her bare leg brushing against mine. “If anything, my brother needs to accept some of the blame and apologize. It was like he was purposely sabotaging the offense.”
I nodded, though now I understood that Chris felt undervalued and underutilized on a team that was underperforming. But he’d come around eventually. He didn’t have a choice if we were going to make a comeback.
“I guess now would be the appropriate time to tell you that he’s aware something is going on between us,” I said, watching her face to gauge her reaction, surprised when her expression remained unfazed.
“And you trust my brother’s limited intellect to decipher what that thing is?” she asked. “I love the guy, but he’s not exactly known for his astuteness.”
“Seriously, he was upset earlier. Not so much about you specifically, but still mad. I’ve never seen him like that,” I said, not understanding why Gwen wasn’t at least a little annoyed, especially after her insistence that no one know about us.
“Chris is an unpaid spokesman for Trojan condoms. He’s hardly one to judge my sex life.” Gwen gave a small laugh, as though impressed with her own quip. “But come on, we both know Chris well enough to recognize he wasn’t angry about us. It was just the most convenient weapon at his disposal that he could use against you. And since we’re sharing, your ex, Nicole, seemed particularly personable . . .”
I groaned and had to resist the urge to bang my head against my locker a few dozen times. “Was she rude to you?” I asked.
“No, because I told her I was there to support Chris,” Gwen said. “And apparently she was there to support half the defense.”
“Sounds like her,” I said.
Nicole was the stereotypical jersey chaser—the kind of woman who only cared about getting into the latest clubs, ordering expensive champagne she had no intention of paying for at fine restaurants, and being seen and photographed out on the town with pro athletes. The kind of woman who wouldn’t be caught dead in a deserted locker room with a losing quarterback. And to be honest, for a long time, women like Nicole were the ones I’d wanted and pursued. They were fun and outgoing and up for anything. But then either I’d changed or maybe the women had, because now they all looked tired and reeked of desperation.
“To tell you the truth, at first I was jealous of Nicole,” Gwen said, tucking her long dark hair behind one ear. My fingers twitched to bring the strands forward again. “Which I know I have no right to feel since I’m the one who insisted on casual.”
“Why on earth would you be envious of her?” I asked.
Gwen was nothing like Nicole in the most desirable way. She had her own life, a career she was passionate about, and she said what was on her mind, which I found refreshing after an endless string of girlfriends who’d done nothing but agree with me. Gwen was sexy as hell, even when she was arguing with me—the way her cheeks would flame pink while her eyes burned cold, her fiery personal
ity stirring me in ways I’d never experienced.
She shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. Because after spending time with Nicole, I actually feel sorry for her.” Gwen’s gaze was steady on mine, so purposeful and intense it felt like a touch. When she spoke again, her voice was almost charged. “Nicole was so busy looking for the next shiny toy she completely missed the real prize right in front of her.”
A thrum of electricity coursed through me at her words. Wrapping a hand behind her neck, I pulled Gwen toward me and pressed my mouth against hers, kissing her like I had nothing left to lose. Gwen’s lips were warm and soft, parting with a breathy sigh as her tongue slid against mine.
I dragged my knuckles along her ribs and stomach, loving the way her muscles jumped under my touch even through the soft fabric of her dress. When my teeth nipped the tender spot below her jaw, Gwen made a sound—half gasp, half moan—and threaded her fingers into my hair, tugging me closer.
I scooped her up and placed her straddling my lap, hissing as her knee grazed the bruise along my side. Still I didn’t stop exploring her mouth, the hollow of her throat, the exposed skin above her dress collar. I kissed her in a way I’d never let myself—frantic and hungry and so desperate I felt like a man who had suddenly seen the light after being chained up in the dark. My heart was beating hard enough that I swore it could break through my chest.
Gwen leaned back, lips swollen, hair knotted, and with an expression I couldn’t quite interpret.
“Is everything—” I started, my voice ragged.
She brushed a finger against my mouth to silence me, then raised her arms toward the ceiling, peering down at me with a mischievous grin and heavy-lidded eyes. Never in my life had I been so grateful to be forced to shut up. I grabbed the hem of her dress and peeled the fabric over her head, tossing it onto the floor.
Her breasts swelled above the black cups of her bra, rising and falling with her shallow breaths. Desire boiled low in my stomach. My fingers wandered up to feel the softness of her skin, to memorize every curve and dip of her body, but Gwen pushed my hands down to my sides.
Intercepting the Chef Page 17
