A miracle, especially given what the trainer who was riding beside me in the ambulance had told me. A New England defender had hit me while I was airborne, torquing my body in such a way that the upper portion of my back and head had crashed into the turf first. I’d scored the touchdown, but I’d also briefly lost consciousness.
“All right, Stonestreet, just hang in there. You’re going to feel better soon,” the trainer said as the ambulance pulled up to the emergency room.
The doctor on call and several nurses met us outside and whisked me into an examination room. In the next instant, the hard board I was strapped to was turned on its side. A nurse held my neck straight while the doctor pressed his fingers along my spine. The white stars in my vision had returned, and nausea continued to burn in my stomach. My whole body throbbed as if it were a giant, agonized pulse of pain.
At least you can feel your toes. It was like a chant now, something for me to hold on to.
The board was removed and I was placed on a slightly more forgiving surface. After that everything became a haze of bright lights, needles, questions, and the endless stretch of hallways between CT scans and X-rays. I had no idea how long I’d been here—hours if I’d had to guess, though I couldn’t be sure. The moment I’d arrived, time had blurred.
For all that I’d hated being moved, jostled, poked, and prodded, it was far better than where I was now, sequestered in a private room, counting the ceiling tiles, desperate to get this uncomfortable brace off my neck, and wondering if I’d be able to see the season through let alone continue my career. At least there was still a season left—the team had taken the lead my fall had secured them and run away with the rest of the game.
The Blizzards were headed to the Super Bowl against the Saints. I should be feeling euphoric—it was everything I’d always wanted—but all I could think about was how would I possibly outlast sixty minutes against the toughest and strongest defense in the league. I wasn’t sure I had the mental fortitude, let alone the physical capability, to take the hits victory demanded.
But I’d figure it out. I had to if the team had any chance of winning.
A knock on the doorframe startled me. The doctor entered, holding a folder, along with Dad and Coach Wallace. “Hello, Logan, I’m Dr. Evans,” he said, his expression kind but stoic. “How are you feeling?”
“Like I got rammed by a bus.” My voice came out as a scratchy whisper, but at least my eyes had finally started to focus and the ringing in my ears had stopped.
“That’s to be expected after the tackle you endured.” He glanced down at the folder, then up at me again. “Are you aware of what happened to you earlier tonight?”
I attempted to nod, but the cervical collar restricted the movement. I groaned at the dull ache that spread through me.
“Don’t try to use your neck yet. Just words.” Dr. Evans walked over to my bed, lifted the stethoscope off his shoulders, and put it against my chest.
“Yes, I’m aware,” I said. It felt like razor blades were cutting my throat apart it was so dry.
Dr. Evans manually inflated the cuff wrapped around my upper arm to check my blood pressure. “On a scale of one to ten, how much pain are you in? Ten being excruciating and one being you feel perfectly fine.”
Hell if I knew. “Five?”
Bruises ran up and down my arms, and I could only imagine what my ribs and thighs must look like. Multiple IV lines pumped pain medication and fluids through my veins at regular intervals, and I was wired to a device that measured the oxygen in my blood. Connected to all this observation equipment, I felt like a car at a mechanic shop.
Dr. Evans scribbled notes on my chart, then fiddled with one of the machines behind me. “Let’s see if that helps. Now, I’m happy to report that your CT scans have come back normal, so I can remove this C-collar,” he said, unclasping the brace around my neck.
Relief flooded through me, and I noticed the tension flow from Dad’s face and shoulders as well. If the CT came back clear, that meant there was no trace of bleeding in my brain. Still, with too many aches and pains to catalog, I knew the doc had led with the good news to make the blow of the bad sting a little less.
“But?” I asked, my muscles stiff, my mobility only moderately improved without the brace.
“But you’ve suffered a concussion and a minor tear in the anterior cruciate ligament of your left knee,” Dr. Evans said, closing my folder and tucking it under his arm.
Dread replaced the relief. A concussion I could handle—there was time to recover, time to regain my bearings. But an injury to my left knee in addition to the old one in my right that I’d been compensating for and protecting all season, since college if I was honest, that was another matter entirely. I couldn’t afford this now, not when I was so damn close to the prize.
“How slight a tear?” Coach Wallace asked, finally stepping forward from the wall, his face a thundercloud of worry. “Can he still take the field in two weeks?”
So no worry for me, not that I could blame him. The back office was riding him to deliver a championship—no question that’d be next to impossible if he had to make such a substantial change to the starting line at the eleventh hour. If I was out, it’d mean the entire offense had to be restructured to adjust for a different playing style, a different vibe. If I couldn’t manage my pain and own my responsibilities to the team, everyone would suffer for it.
“I wouldn’t advise it,” Dr. Evans said, shaking his head. “Logan got lucky. Partial tears are rare—and far easier to treat in both the short term and the long.”
“Great.” Coach grunted. “So, treat it and let’s get him back onto the field.”
“It’s not that simple—this isn’t something that can be remedied in a week or two, and playing on a compromised knee seriously increases the chance of a blowout.”
“How big an increase are we talking?” I asked, staring up at the ceiling, ignoring the way Coach swore, the way the doctor sighed, and the complete silence coming from my father.
“You want odds?” Dr. Evans asked.
The muscle in my jaw popped twice. “I just need to know what’s possible.” From the corner of my eye, I watched as the doctor shrugged.
“It’s possible you go out, everything goes your way, your knee remains intact, and we treat the injury in the off-season.”
Coach clapped his hands twice. “That’s all we needed to hear, Doc.”
“I said possible,” Evans continued. “Now let’s talk about what’s probable. It is probable that someone exerting excessive force on a partially torn ACL will suffer a full rupture. Add in Logan’s history of similar injuries and his odds increase dramatically.”
“An old injury to a different knee,” my father said, standing and walking to the foot of my bed, his voice quiet but firm. “And injuries are part of the price we pay to play the game—Logan knows that.”
Of course I did. I’d heard variations of that statement only at least a thousand times since I’d laced up my first set of cleats. Though that didn’t mean that putting on my pads, representing the Blizzards name on my jersey, wasn’t sometimes a constant battle of mental strength and desire—even more so recently. But I was paid to fight through whatever the game threw at me, ignore the doubt.
“That may be, but I’d be remiss if I didn’t explain that Logan’s history of similar injuries weighs against him, as does the fact that his right knee has never been as strong or as stable and is unlikely to compensate well for the left, and there’s a perfect storm for a catastrophic injury.” Dr. Evans leaned over me, making eye contact. “You also need to consider your advanced age.” He spoke like I was ready for a double hip replacement, rather than someone nearing thirty. “Recovery will be longer, harder, and you’ll never get back to one hundred percent. Logan, you need to consider what an injury like this will mean ten, fifteen, twenty years from now.”
> Except I couldn’t. No professional athlete could worry about the cost, the toll on the body it took to compete at the highest levels, day in and day out. Winners worried about one thing and one thing only: winning. And I sure as hell hadn’t practiced every single second since I’d been drafted chasing the ring, the legacy, to give up on a maybe. To quit when it hurt. I’d take the risk—I’d rather live with a broken body than the constant question of what might have been. This was the path I was meant to follow, as Mom would have said.
“How soon can I suit up?” I asked. The words were barely out of my mouth when Gwen stormed into my room, the lanyard holding her executive suite pass swinging from her neck.
“What do you mean you intend to suit up?” she asked, her voice sharp and angry.
“Gwen, now is not the time—” Dad started as Coach Wallace cut in.
“Miss, you’re not supposed to be in here.”
Coach grabbed her elbow—a dangerous mistake given the temper flaring across her face. Gwen shot him a glare through puffy, bloodshot eyes, and he dropped his hand. She’d clearly been crying, and I wondered how long she’d been waiting, worried and uninformed, and worse, how long she’d been eavesdropping. It occurred to me that there were probably others in the hallway doing the same.
Dr. Evans cleared his throat. “Gentlemen, let’s give Logan and his guest some privacy.” He cast a sideways glance at Gwen as he stepped toward the door. “Please keep the visit short. It’s late, and Logan, you need your rest.”
Coach Wallace mumbled something under his breath, his face growing a deeper shade of red, but did as he was instructed. Dad nodded, patted my wrist, then followed Coach out of the room, giving Gwen a wide berth. Dr. Evans hesitated in the doorway, clearly wanting to say something more but deciding against it. With a “good night,” he turned and left.
“You’re going to continue to play after what happened out there tonight?” Gwen asked, the click of the door punctuating her fury.
I scrubbed my hands over my face, exhaustion sinking into my bones until everything felt so damn heavy. “I have to.”
“You don’t have to do anything,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest. “And especially not this, not after what the doctor told you about your knee and the potential consequences.”
“Gwen,” I said, reaching for her, wishing she’d move closer. No luck. I dropped my hand. “I can’t think about any of that right now.”
“Really? Because I think those consequences are the only thing you should be focusing on right now.” The anger in her voice had dulled somewhat, replaced with astonishment and irritation. Like she couldn’t comprehend the words coming out of my mouth.
How was I supposed to respond to that? While I appreciated her concern, I refused to reintroduce my earlier uncertainty or rehash it all again. I’d made the decision, resolved myself to play.
“It’s just one more game,” I said.
Gwen turned away from me and studied the muted television on the wall. Her usually steady hands were trembling slightly. She took a deep breath, then faced me again. “How can you be so selfishly self-destructive?”
“Right. Because I chose to land on my neck,” I said, my frustration finally bubbling over. “It’s not like I examined all of my options and purposefully settled on the one that resulted with me being knocked unconscious. It’d been a split-second decision, and one I’d make again.”
My willingness to run the ball and absorb the hits was what set me apart. Why didn’t Gwen understand that I could no sooner change my physical measurements than I could change the way I approached my role as quarterback?
“Do you even hear yourself?” she asked, shaking her head as if my explanation was childish. “Logan, did you even consider how terrified I was watching the medics cart you off the field on a stretcher? Do you have any idea what went racing through my head in the waiting room? The fears that kept coming, each one worse than the last?”
“You think I didn’t have those same thoughts?” I asked through gritted teeth. “That I didn’t question if I’d ever play again?”
“And that’s really all you care about, isn’t it? The game,” she spat, like the very sport I’d built an entire career on was some immature hobby.
“Football is my entire existence, Gwen. So what is it that you expect me to do? Give up the one thing that defines me?” She of all people should know what it means to be so completely committed to something, to the pursuit of excellence and victory. To want to make a lasting mark on a profession that’s more than a job, more than a small sliver of life. “Since I was a kid, all I’ve ever wanted is to win a Super Bowl. I’ve slaved for it, breathed for it. And now that I’m this fucking close to attaining it, you want me to what? Quit?”
“If your health is at stake? Yes. That’s exactly what I expect, and if you cared about me at all, it’s what you would do,” she said, pacing like a caged tiger at the foot of the bed. “But then you thrive on reckless behavior, even if it only gets you a little further ahead of the game.”
“Maybe my ambition is clouding my judgment,” I said. “At least I have the nerve to chase down my dreams and do what’s required to achieve them.”
“You sound just like him.”
“Who?”
“My father,” she said, peering straight into my eyes as though she’d finally accepted a harsh truth she’d always known but had refused to believe until now. “His passions consumed him and then destroyed him—and our family. His relationship with Chris is nonexistent, my mother is some woman he once loved, and he hangs all his hopes on me while he works on a cruise ship in the middle of the ocean. And all because he didn’t see the line. Because he couldn’t recognize when to step back, learn how to find happiness with what he had instead of focusing on what he didn’t. I can’t watch the same happen to you. I won’t. I’ve already learned that lesson once.”
“That’s a load of crap,” I said.
“Is it?” she asked, arching an eyebrow. “Because right now all I see when I look at you is a man obsessed with winning, a man whose aspirations rule his life to the point he’s blinded to all else.”
I pushed myself up in the bed despite the jolt of pain that shot through me, no longer willing to lie there and take her accusations. “Why in the hell do you even care? You’re going to New York. You’re the one who’s running away.”
She opened her mouth to respond, then quickly snapped it shut.
“Yeah, I know all about the position with the TK Hospitality Group,” I said, cold and hard, like rocks breaking glass. “Probably shouldn’t have left the offer letter in Stonestreet’s office.”
Hurt, anger, and betrayal burned in her gaze, smoldering at the fringes. “Maybe the next time you go snooping, you’ll take the time to actually talk to me instead of jumping to conclusions.”
“Snooping? It’s my restaurant.”
“Yes, snooping. And if you were better at it, you’d know that I turned down the damn job. For you, I might add. Which was clearly idiotic since your only concern is football. Screw those who love you.”
I half laughed. I couldn’t help it. “Love me? You can’t even be seen publicly with me without breaking out in hives and turning it into a production.”
“Yeah, but that was something I was working on. For you! I went to the gala, for you!” she shouted.
“Are you kidding? That’s the best you can come up with?” I said, my voice rising, bearing down on hers. “What do you want, Gwen? A fucking medal for going to an event that I had to practically bully you into attending?”
No doubt everyone on this floor could hear us, but thankfully the nurses left us alone.
“At least I was willing to try. What exactly have you sacrificed to be with me, Logan?” she demanded, gripping the bed frame.
“You never bothered to ask me for anything! You held me at such a distanc
e the only things I had left to offer were patience and the goddamned specials board,” I yelled. “So stop ducking and weaving and using ‘us’ as an excuse. If you’d ever actually envisioned yourself in New York and truly felt that the position would advance your career, you would’ve told me about the offer in the first place. But you didn’t because you’re scared.”
“Oh? And what the hell am I scared of?” she asked, straightening her shoulders, posture defiant.
“Stepping outside your comfort zone and failing. Showing any sort of vulnerability,” I said. “I think we can both admit that you accepted the position at Stonestreet’s knowing it was beneath your talents.”
“I told you after what happened with Stephen that I needed a fresh start.”
“Fuck him. Stephen’s an asshole and not even worth your time,” I said. “But you allowed him to determine your value as a person and as a chef. And instead of facing him head-on and standing up for yourself, finding an even better job at an even more prestigious restaurant, you came back to Denver to bury your head in the sand before running off again. I wouldn’t exactly consider that striving for your goals or putting yourself out there.”
It was a low blow given the circumstances of why she’d left San Francisco, but honest nonetheless. She was capable of so much more.
“Except I did put myself out there. For you, when I turned down the offer,” she said. “Obviously that was my mistake since it’s abundantly clear where your priorities are. You’ve proven I was right to be guarded.”
“How? Because I’m determined to fulfill my responsibilities to my team and to myself? Commitments I made long before you came along.”
“So you admit you’re choosing your passion over me.”
“Why shouldn’t I focus on the one thing I know for sure?” I asked.
“Are you serious? Know for sure?” she said, throwing her hands up in the air. “Logan, why are you prioritizing a sport that tears you down and doesn’t even make you happy anymore?”
“Prioritizing over what? You’re the one who lied to me. Who didn’t trust me enough to share that part of your life with. Which shouldn’t be a surprise since you’ve never trusted me with much.” My head was pounding. I was desperate for fifteen hours of uninterrupted sleep. “You’ve never given me any indication that you’re interested in something serious or led me to believe there’s a solid future between us even when I pressed for more. Makes it hard to fathom that you gave up a career-defining position for me, and it sure as hell doesn’t give you the right to demand things from me now. You either want something casual and don’t get to care what I do with my life. Or you care enough to picture a future with me. You can’t have both, Gwen.”
Intercepting the Chef Page 25
