Intercepting the Chef

by Rachel Goodman

  Without Chris and me performing as a cohesive unit, a Super Bowl win was nothing more than a fantasy, and I hadn’t suffered through game after game of pain and scrutiny for this to be the year I didn’t bring home the ultimate prize. Especially since I wasn’t sure how many more seasons my body could withstand.

  Or how many more seasons I wanted to play.

  It was one thing to push through the pain, take the risks associated with each new hit, when the only commitments I had were to my teammates, the coaches, and the head office. But Gwen being in the picture changed everything.

  Since the Browns game, it was as if she’d finally let her guard down. It wasn’t anything overt. We weren’t dining out every night or strolling hand in hand through public spaces, but it was in the sound of her laughter, free and so full of life. Or in the way she no longer tensed when she’d accidentally brush up against me. Or in how we’d always end up at each other’s houses, cooking dinner and hanging out, then later tumble into each other’s beds. We’d found an easy rhythm, and it was almost as if Gwen had decided to let herself be carried away without the worry of being dragged under and losing herself in someone else.

  I still hadn’t pushed for us to label anything, though I wanted to. There was a reason the guys on the team joked about me being a serial monogamist. Casual wasn’t in my DNA, but for Gwen I was making the effort.

  Dad and Phil had warned me that Gwen—and the restaurant—could become a dangerous distraction. At the time I’d brushed off their concerns. But the truth was, “distraction” didn’t even cover it. A distraction was something that stole my attention momentarily. A passing interest, a blip. But Gwen and the restaurant were so much more. They were temptation, pure and simple. Both of them made me look toward the future, and for the first time see a life that didn’t revolve around football.

  And that didn’t bother me as much as it should.

  * * *

  After I’d finished my duties at the Salvation Army, I stopped by the restaurant to pick up the pumpkin pie I’d requested the pastry chef bake for me to bring to Thanksgiving at the Lalonde house. I half expected to find Gwen’s car in the parking lot even though Stonestreet’s was closed for the holiday. She’d become somewhat of a workaholic lately, scribbling notes in the margins of her journal, muttering about ingredients under her breath, and making mental reminders that were impossible for me to decipher.

  It seemed like an overly complicated process for determining the dishes to be featured on the nightly specials board, but Gwen was in charge of that aspect of the menu, so she could run it however she saw fit.

  Flipping on the kitchen light, I glanced around and smiled at the subway tiles that had been used as a dry erase board, sketches, messages, and emojis littering the walls. Not dissimilar to what it looked like when Chris got ahold of Coach’s playbook. I was glad that staff felt comfortable enough here to mark the space as their own.

  As promised, the pumpkin pie was in a box on one of the stainless steel prep tables. A note was taped to the clear plastic lid. Your mother is rolling her eyes —Gwen. I laughed. Hey, I might have exerted my influence as owner to swindle me a pie for tonight, but at least I hadn’t been dumb enough to ask Gwen to make it or buy dessert from the grocery store this year.

  Tucking the box under my arm, I strode into the office to check for any mail that’d been delivered since my last visit. There were several payroll forms that needed signing, a few packages from fans who’d thought they’d have a better shot of scoring an autograph if they sent their memorabilia to the restaurant rather than my designated PO box, and the newest issue of Sports Illustrated.

  As I was about to hit the light switch and lock up, my gaze caught on a letter, addressed to Gwen, sticking out from under a stack of invoices on the desk. Written on fine paper with a distinctive letterhead embossed in gold leaf was the title TK HOSPITALITY GROUP.

  Had she been nominated for an award? I edged out the sheet, wondering if she hadn’t brought it up for fear of drawing attention to herself. She certainly hadn’t made a big deal out of the positive review Stonestreet’s had received in the newspaper despite the praise that’d been directed specifically at her.

  Three lines into the letter, and I realized just how wrong my assumption had been. This wasn’t in regards to an award. It was a job prospect. Or rather, a confirmation of receipt of the sample menu she’d submitted for an executive chef audition. In Manhattan. Eighteen hundred miles away.

  Something she’d never once mentioned.

  Like an idiot, I’d believed we were making progress, breaking new ground, and that Gwen had settled and found her stride. All true, except that stride was potentially leading her right out of my life. Why in the hell hadn’t she told me? Was she just going to spring it on me one day that she was quitting the restaurant and moving across the country?

  Maybe there was more to the story. Maybe she was no longer even considering the opportunity. But if that was the case, then why had she submitted a sample menu?

  Gwen had mandated casual, and I knew the frustration and jealousy working through me weren’t entirely fair. But damn it, my opinion and feelings should count for something.

  It was time I started acting like it.

  * * *

  An hour later, as the sun was sinking below the horizon, the sky awash in shades of orange and blue, I rang the doorbell to Rose Lalonde’s home. Dad stood beside me, balancing the pumpkin pie on one hand as he blew hot breaths onto the other. The air had turned frigid and carried the musky, sweet scent of autumn leaves and smoke from burning fireplaces.

  Under the porch lights, I saw how his eyes were glassy and bloodshot, his skin flushed, though I knew not from the freezing wind or temperatures. I wondered if he’d at least made it until after the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade before breaking open the scotch. Perhaps I should’ve elected for something other than wine as a hostess gift.

  Apart from basic pleasantries, Dad and I hadn’t spoken much today—we never did on major holidays. They reminded us too much of Mom. Of fresh baked bread, of her secret-recipe cider, of her wide smile and bell-like laugh, and that sense of home we’d never quite recaptured after her death.

  The sound of someone fiddling with a lock filled the silence between us, and a beat later, the heavy wooden door swung open.

  “Happy Thanksgiving! Come in, come in,” Rose exclaimed. She ushered us in and hung our coats in the entryway closet. She took the pumpkin pie from Dad’s grasp, murmuring something about how he “shouldn’t have gone to so much trouble,” even though it was the same dessert we brought every year.

  “We appreciate you inviting us again, Ms. Lalonde,” I said, leaning down to kiss her cheek, glancing over her shoulder for Gwen, who was nowhere to be seen.

  Since leaving the restaurant, I’d been contemplating my options for how I should approach tonight. I could pretend everything was fine, then bring up the letter another day when we weren’t surrounded by family. Or I could pull her aside after dinner to demand answers and risk her shutting me out completely. Ultimately I’d decided to prod her into volunteering the information, give her a chance to be forthcoming, in case I’d simply read too much into the situation.

  “Logan, how many times have I told you to call me Rose?” She swatted my arm and laughed. “Chris and Gwen are watching the Redskins-Cowboys game, if you’d like to join them.” As if on cue, from somewhere in the house, yelling and clapping pierced the air. Rose shook her head and sighed, as if she’d been shouting for the two of them to keep the noise level down for the past several hours and had given up. “But first, let’s get you both a beverage and some appetizers to nibble on.”

  We followed Rose into the kitchen, and I deposited the bottles of Pinot Noir on the wet bar. The smell of cranberry sauce simmering on the stove and turkey roasting in the oven wafted to my nose, and my stomach rumbled.

  “Did Gwen coo
k?” I asked.

  Normally, Thanksgiving was the only meal Rose prepared all year—at least according to Chris—and even then it consisted of dry turkey and two plain sides that we all forced down with too much alcohol. So she’d either learned how to cook in the last twelve months or there was another explanation for the mouthwatering scents swirling around the room.

  “Of course not. Besides, if I allowed Gwen to prepare dinner, we’d end up with something atypical and unfestive.” Rose placed the pumpkin pie on the counter beside a large platter arranged with homemade gingersnaps and white-chocolate-chip cookies. “I just went a tad overboard with the caterer—it’s been five years since the whole family has been together to celebrate.”

  She winced, so slight I might’ve missed it if I hadn’t been staring at her, and I imagined she was thinking of Mom and how my family would never again be truly whole.

  Nobody spoke for a long stretch, the only sounds those of a tree branch scraping against the kitchen window, the voices of the sports announcers on the television in the adjacent room, and Dad tapping a rhythm on the counter with his thumbs. His typical magnetism—the boisterous laugh, confident voice, and eager interest in everything going on around him—was muted. If he weren’t so tall and wearing a green retro Seahawks sweater, he could have faded into the background.

  Finally, Rose adjusted the temperature on the oven and asked, “Bob, would you like wine? Beer? Champagne?”

  “Scotch, neat, if you have it,” Dad said, low, monotone. I wanted to suggest he switch to water but didn’t dare. Over the years, and after one too many public outbursts, I’d learned it was easier to let him drink himself numb than cause a scene.

  Rose pursed her lips but walked over to the wet bar and poured him a three-finger portion anyway, out of guilt or to placate, I wasn’t sure. Amber liquid sloshed up the sides of the glass as she handed it to him. Dad didn’t even say thank you, just threw back a hearty swallow and stared blankly at a bowl of cashews on the counter.

  “And for you, Logan?” Rose asked, her tone a little too chipper, too forced.

  I gave her a half smile to let her know I was sorry for Dad’s attitude despite him behaving this way every Thanksgiving. Though usually Chris and Gwen’s maternal grandparents were in attendance to act as a buffer for when the conversation had turned awkward or trailed off into silence. Except this year they were vacationing at an all-inclusive resort in Mexico—a gift from Chris.

  “Beer is fine, Rose,” I said. “Whatever you have cold.”

  She twisted off the cap of a Breckenridge Brewery Vanilla Porter, piled a plate with spinach-artichoke dip, baked Brie, and prosciutto-wrapped asparagus, and sent me on my way, leaving Dad and her alone to chat about . . . whatever they chatted about.

  I found Gwen and Chris in the family room, screaming as the Dallas offense ran a fake end-around play that eerily resembled the one we’d debuted last Sunday against the Vikings.

  “That was horseshit,” Chris shouted, chucking a wadded-up cocktail napkin at the screen. “Freaking copiers.”

  “Hello, Lalondes,” I said, careful to keep my voice relaxed, my tone upbeat. I leaned against the doorframe, noticing the decorative pillows strewn across the floor. No doubt a result of Chris flinging them around—his hatred of the Dallas Cowboys and its owner ran deep. Only Jerry Jones could posture and strut as if he commanded the best team in the league rather than a nineties throwback still trying to recapture its glory years.

  “Stonestreet.” Chris threw a halfhearted wave in my direction, not taking his eyes off the game. This morning he’d been stationed at the Denver Rescue Mission rather than the Salvation Army with the rest of us.

  “About time you showed up, Wonder Bread.” Gwen stood, a smile lighting up her face.

  She was inches away from wrapping her arms around me when she froze, as if remembering we had an audience. Beyond that hesitation, there was no hint, no indication that she was considering leaving. How could she be so casual? Did my feelings matter so little to her that it hadn’t even occurred to her that I might not want her to go? That I might think we had something worth pursuing? Worth sacrificing for?

  Apparently not.

  “Would you two just get over it and kiss already so we can refocus on what’s really important?” Chris said. “These cheaters are stealing our plays. Did you see that move, Stonestreet?”

  Gwen mumbled something under her breath, then pressed a kiss against the corner of my lips. “I’m going to check on my mother. See if she needs any help in the kitchen while you two . . . work stuff out.” She walked out of the room before I could warn her about my father and his mood.

  I sat beside Chris on the couch, a pillow separating us, and slid my plate onto the coffee table. “Home office is worried.” There was no point prolonging this exchange.

  He shrugged, pitching a few cashews into the air and catching them in his mouth. “What else is new?”

  “You serious about wanting to be traded?” I asked, sipping my beer, the taste of chocolate, rich dark malts, and vanilla heavy on my tongue.

  “Moderately.”

  “Stop being difficult, Lalonde. We both know you won’t follow through.” I stared down at the scabs covering my knuckles. I flexed my fingers into and out of a fist, watching the way the bruises beneath the skin stretched, the colors shifting from bluish purple to yellowish green.

  “How do you figure?” Chris asked.

  “Because after all the crap we’ve been through, I know how much you want to win that ring,” I said. “And you know just how close we are to achieving it. So what’s it gonna take for us to put this behind us?”

  “ ‘What’s it gonna take?’ ” he parroted, swiping the remote off the ottoman and muting the TV. “It’s going to take you finally being honest about where your head is at.”

  “It’s exactly where it’s supposed to be,” I said, which was only a partial lie.

  “Yeah, but for how long? What happens if things change for you?” His tone was cagey, as indecipherable as his face.

  Was he referring to my knee? Worried if I was physically capable of playing at the level required to keep us in Super Bowl contention? Or did he know about Gwen’s audition?

  “I’m handling it, feeling strong. Healthy,” I said. While I did feel stronger than I had in the past month, I was far from healthy. After all, it was win or die trying like Coach Wallace had stated.

  But that didn’t have to be the case with Gwen. Maybe, for now at least, I needed to let things play out, give her reasons to second-guess that opportunity in New York. God knew I couldn’t force Gwen to do anything, but maybe if I could show her what we could be outside of her career, ease her fears and allow her to picture a future that included the two of us together, then things would resolve themselves.

  “No. Personally,” he clarified, confirming he was talking about Gwen. “What happens if things go bad there? Is that going to be a distraction?”

  “Like I said, I’m handling it.”

  He nodded, though something in his expression indicated that Gwen wasn’t the one he was concerned about.

  “Dinner’s ready, boys.” Rose’s voice rang out, and we groaned in unison as we hauled ourselves up from the couch.

  I hadn’t even touched the appetizers she’d prepared for me. I was considering if I should hide the plate, but then, as if reading my thoughts, Chris snatched the dish out of my hand and scarfed down the mound of food in four huge bites.

  Chris wiped his fingers on his jeans and said, “Mom catered this year, so I’m not wasting any of this good shit. Plus, you know how awkward this meal always is. Gotta fuel up before I lose my appetite.”

  Wasn’t that the truth?

  “Come on. Let’s get this over with,” I said.

  “How is Bob on the scale today?” Chris asked as we swung by the kitchen and deposited my empty pl
ate.

  “A five based on his bloodshot eyes,” I said, trailing behind him into the dining room.

  Rose, Gwen, and Dad were already seated when we entered. Dad promptly stood, but didn’t offer any greeting as Chris claimed the chair beside him. I noticed that in addition to a full lowball tumbler of scotch, he had a glass of red and white wine at his place setting.

  “There you both are. Nice of you to join us,” Dad said, his voice laced with sarcasm, and I mentally readjusted what I’d told Chris a moment ago—Dad was probably closer to an eight on the intoxication chart.

  I slid into the seat next to Gwen. “The food smells amazing, Rose,” I said, gesturing to the steaming dishes spread around the mahogany table.

  She murmured her thanks as Dad fired off the opening shot. “Ah, but not quite as good as Gwen’s food. Isn’t that right, son?”

  “Gwen is an exceptional chef,” I said, unsure where Dad was heading with this conversation.

  “How convenient that you hired her to manage Stonestreet’s kitchen,” he said.

  “The critics certainly think so,” I said, dread sinking like a stone in my stomach.

  “I’m so glad your pet project is working out so well for you,” Dad said, now sounding as condescending and flippant as Phil. “Especially now that all your priorities are in one place . . .”

  Gwen raised a brow and glanced at me. I shook my head. She wasn’t accustomed to witnessing Dad in this state, nor was she aware that the holidays were the only time we all gave him permission to act like an asshole. After the New Year he’d mumble some halfhearted apology and all would be brushed under the rug until next year.

  It’d taken that first holiday season after Mom had died for me to fully understand that people dealt with grief in different ways. While I missed Mom every day, an ache I’d learned to live with but one that had never grown comfortable, I’d accepted her absence. Dad, on the other hand, compartmentalized the pain, walled himself off from the loss, refusing to discuss Mom except on rare occasions. And even then, instead of talking about her, he usually lashed out like he was doing tonight.