CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Chris
When I was first drafted to Denver’s roster, my route running had been unpolished and sloppy. I’d executed mostly slants and bubble screens and curls. Basic plays. I’d gotten away with it, never having to improve my skills, because my sheer force and athletic ability had allowed me to beat any opposing team’s cornerbacks and safeties. I’d made the wide receiver position look as simple as it was in Madden—move a few steps, swivel in a certain direction, race downfield, capture the ball, and carry it into the end zone. Easy peasy.
It’d taken my first Blizzards practice for me to realize that my flashy but unrefined style wasn’t going to cut it in the NFL—a lesson I owed to Logan.
We’d been best friends since we were kids, playing football together all throughout peewee and high school, and I’d followed his college career at Oregon. I’d watched how he’d been performing the same way he’d done with me, so I should’ve been prepared to suit up with him again. But when training camp arrived, it’d quickly become obvious that Stonestreet was on a whole different level from the rest of us. He’d showed up to win.
During an initial warm-up drill, Logan had thrown the ball to me so hard and so fast it’d broken my thumb and pinkie on impact. But that’d been only the beginning. Stonestreet had me cutting and weaving and sprinting all over the damn field, zipping the ball this way and that, never letting up until I’d caught each pass perfectly even though my lungs were screaming, my legs were on the verge of buckling, and my fingers were on fire with pain.
That first day, I’d learned that if I wanted to be a Hall of Famer, one of the elites, I needed to push myself harder and rise to Logan’s level. And rise I did. It’d been magic, the two of us playing together, always in sync.
And now it was my responsibility to form that same connection with Fitzpatrick, something that had been building between us but was not cemented yet. A quarterback could have all the measurable assets—a strong arm, speed, agility—but if he couldn’t read the field, understand what his teammates were thinking with a quick glance, the offense would fall apart the way it almost had during last Sunday’s game against the Raiders.
The Blizzards had started off strong, fluid, but as the quarters progressed and the crowd noise grew deafening, Ben hadn’t been able to fully decipher my body language or interpret my gaze, which nearly enabled Oakland’s defense to trample us. Somehow we’d managed to hold on and put another mark in the victory column, but the team couldn’t afford for a similar situation to happen again. Only four games—four chances—remained for the Blizzards to deliver a comeback for the ages.
And that started now, right here on this practice field, where the bond between receiver and QB was formed. Ben had great football IQ—he just needed to sharpen it, something my years of experience could aid him in.
“All right, remember to trust your instincts,” I said, setting my feet on the line of scrimmage.
I’d asked the training staff to set up a twenty-foot-wide screen in the middle of the field, fifteen yards from where I stood. The drill was simple but effective, simulating a game-time situation, and one that would help Ben anticipate my position, sense where to throw when he couldn’t trace me with his eyes.
“Ready when you are,” I yelled.
Ben nodded, waited a few seconds, then called, “Hike!”
I sprinted straight ahead, cut sharply to the right, and dashed behind the barrier. Locking my hands so that my thumb and index fingers overlapped, palms facing in Ben’s direction, I reemerged into view as the ball landed square in the pocket I’d created. Flawless execution.
“That’s how it’s done! Now let’s rehearse an over-the-shoulder play,” I shouted, tossing the ball back to Ben and returning to my spot on the line.
I set my feet again, then on his signal, ran downfield, slightly tilting my left shoulder. A few beats later, I glanced over the side I’d indicated to see a tight spiral sailing high above. I formed my hands into a basket in front of me, and the ball collided seamlessly with my gloves.
Bingo!
We immediately transitioned into a scramble drill, mimicking what happened during a game when a play fell apart. I situated myself wide to the left of Ben and waited for him to drop back, then bolted along the sideline. Peeking behind me, I noticed Ben roll out and dart to his right, faking as though a defensive end was chasing him, and I redirected my route back toward him to provide a passing option. Our eyes connected, and Ben made the cross-body throw, hitting me between the numbers on my jersey as planned.
For the next hour, we repeated the three drills until we’d accomplished them with 100 percent precision and accuracy. In the past, I’d always been the one to accept coaching, never provide it, but every time I huddled up with Ben it felt as if I’d caught a high, long ball by just the tips of my fingers. It was the sort of success I wasn’t accustomed to but enjoyed all the same.
“Hey, Lalonde, the big cheese wants to talk to you,” Coach Ashley hollered from where he paced near the watercooler, waving a cell phone in the air.
Why was Kent calling me? For a moment, I wondered if there’d been a new development in my doping case, if another bomb was about to be dropped, but then I remembered how that kind of news would come from Scott or my NFL Players Association rep, not Blizzards ownership. I bet he wanted to discuss strategy for game thirteen against Kansas City.
I tossed the football to the equipment manager and jogged over to Coach Ashley, who handed me the phone before joining the other staff members in collecting the various gear scattered around the turf to bring inside the training facility.
“What can I do for you, Mr. McDougall?” I asked, sitting on a bench and wiping the sweat off my neck and forehead with a towel even though the temperature outside was near freezing.
“Any idea where my niece is at?” Kent asked above the sounds of traffic and people yelling in the background.
“At Rescue Granted, I assume,” I said, keeping my voice casual. I wasn’t about to tell him that Hazel had been avoiding me since our argument and that I actually had no idea of her whereabouts.
“No, I already tried her at the shelter, and her cell went straight to voice mail,” he said, his tone adopting a concerned edge. “Could she be at a special event? I really need to reach her.”
“Oh, now that you mention it, I think Hazel had a meeting at the courthouse regarding an animal cruelty case,” I said, recalling the large calendar posted on the wall in the office that had today blocked off in red. “She’s probably tied up dealing with that.”
Kent sighed. “Okay, thanks.”
“Is there something I can do for you?” I asked, removing my gloves and untying the laces on my cleats.
“No, it’s personal business. Hazel’s mother is having a bit of an emergency and requires transportation,” he said, almost acquiescent, as though this sort of thing occurred often. “I’d drive Evelyn myself, but I’m in New York at NFL headquarters discussing policy changes thanks to your little screwup. I’ll have one of my drivers fetch her.”
I flinched. It’d taken only two days after my call with Scott before the whole world had found out about my upcoming hearing. Asshole reporter Tom Phelps had made sure to bring up the news at every opportunity during the Raiders postgame press conference, reinforcing to the sports community that my positive test result hadn’t been forgotten—or forgiven.
“I can go get her,” I said.
“That’s not necessary, Chris.”
I stood and flung the towel over my shoulder. “Neither is sending a driver. Practice just ended, so I’m heading out anyway. Give me the address, and I’ll pick up Evelyn.”
Yeah, I was sucking up, hoping to get back into Kent’s—and Hazel’s—good graces, but I also genuinely wanted to help. The only way I could be any more eager would be if Hazel had called me herself. And, okay, maybe Kent had only contacted me because he was searching for his niece, but the fact that Kent hadn’t laughed at my suggestion mattered. And, if I played my cards right, perhaps my effort would matter to Hazel, too.
“It’s not that I don’t appreciate the gesture, Chris, but Hazel’s mother can be . . . difficult during the best of times,” he said, which wasn’t a surprise given everything Hazel had told me about her mother’s history with her father.
“Well, I happen to specialize in difficult women. As it turns out, I’m working with one right now . . .” I was only partially joking.
Kent chuckled. “Yes, I’m aware my niece can be high-strung.”
That was an understatement. “In all seriousness, I’ll pick up Evelyn,” I said, heading toward the locker room, desperate for a shower. “It’s not an inconvenience.”
“Are you sure, Chris?” he asked, the background noises disappearing, as though he’d stepped back inside headquarters. “Evelyn’s out in Castle Rock at an antique fair. Apparently her car got stuck in the mud. My sister doesn’t usually drive, so she wasn’t prepared for the rough terrain made worse by the recent snowstorm.”
Dear god, what was I offering? Castle Rock was over an hour away from the training center, and even though it was still midmorning, I needed to soak in an ice bath and study film.
“All the more reason I should go,” I said in spite of my reservations. The smile on Hazel’s face, the trust in her eyes, would be worth it. “A hired car will cost a fortune. Plus, I’ve got my truck.”
“Am I to assume that you’ll be looking to end your rehab at Rescue Granted in exchange?” he asked. Good ol’ Kent McDougall lived and breathed by the rules of business: Not even the most noble of deeds came for free.
“Hell no. I’m only just now getting settled,” I said, though Hazel might disagree. Given how things currently stood between us, she might jump at the opportunity to get rid of me.
“So, that display of you two kissing in the newspaper wasn’t only for show?” he asked. “You and my niece are together?”
“We’re figuring things out . . .” Not exactly a lie.
“I’m glad. I always thought you might be good for Hazel, and she for you. Do I need to remind you how much I dislike it when I’m wrong?”