CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Chris
“ You don’t have a hunchback inhabiting a bell tower somewhere, do you? Because that’s taking your Disney addiction a touch too far,” Hazel said, leaning forward in the passenger seat and staring out the windshield at my house situated at the end of the long cobblestone drive.
Moments ago, the sun had vanished behind the horizon, the moon now cutting through the clouds, a giant scythe in the sky. We’d been the last to leave the photography studio—it’d taken hours to clean up the calendar sets and return all the dogs to the shelter.
“How do you not go missing in a mansion that size?” she asked as the iron gates closed behind us and my car passed under the canopy of willow trees leading to the front door.
“GPS,” I said, flashing her a smile. “I consider it my French retreat in the heart of Cherry Creek.”
The ink had barely dried on my rookie contract when I’d contacted a Realtor about touring the property. I’d stumbled across the listing online and the description had immediately suckered me in. With its slate roof, stone and stucco exterior, countless windows, and opulent amenities, this ten-thousand-square-foot residence masterfully blends beauty and grandeur with the luxury and conveniences of today’s modern lifestyle. And damn if it hadn’t hosted one hell of a party on multiple occasions. Plus the breathtaking views of downtown Denver and the mountains beyond from the terrace had made the exorbitant price tag worth it.
“Chris, my uncle doesn’t even have a place this big and he owns the Blizzards,” she said, shooting me a shrewd look. “Not to mention he lives alone like you.”
“No, I used to live alone. Now I’ve got Olive to keep me company,” I said, peering in the rearview mirror at where she was curled into a ball snoring inside the crate in the back seat.
Hazel whipped around, as if searching for something, her eyes growing wide. “Did you grab Olive’s food and water bowl before we left the calendar shoot?”
I chuckled. “I’ve got it under control.”
“What about her leash and toys? Not that she plays with toys that often, but—”
“Hazel, relax.” I gently squeezed her thigh in reassurance. I parked beside the circular fountain and killed the engine. “Ready?”
I gingerly removed Olive from the crate, anchoring her small body against my waist, and escorted Hazel into the foyer, disarming the alarm and flicking on the lights. I set Olive on the large Persian rug so she could investigate the unfamiliar surroundings. Instead, she refused to budge from her spot, peering up at me with those big brown eyes that would someday be the death of me, and pawed at my shin.
“The world is your oyster,” I said in encouragement, bending down to scratch her floppy ears. “A wingwoman’s gotta fly, remember? Go after it.”
Olive stretched out her front legs and stuck her butt up in the air, then flopped onto her back to expose her belly. When I didn’t oblige her demands, she rolled over and, with a snort, trotted away.
“So what do you think?” I asked Hazel, tossing my wallet and keys into a bowl on the console table.
“Well, it’s certainly . . .” She trailed off, her voice echoing off the marble floors as she spun around the foyer, taking in the crystal chandelier suspended from the vaulted ceiling, the grand piano in the formal sitting room, the split staircase that curved up to the second floor.
“Magnificent? Stunning? One of a kind?” I grinned.
Hazel rolled her eyes, but a dimple had formed in her cheek that indicated she was holding back a laugh. “We’re still talking about the monstrosity that you sleep in every night, right?”
“Oh, that.” I shrugged. “You know, a home is a reflection of the owner, so as I stated before . . . magnificent? Stunning? One of a kind?”
Hazel shook her head, biting her lip as she continued to glance around, almost nervously, studying the interior as though she was a visitor in a museum rather than a welcomed guest. “More like intimidating. Imposing. Easy to get lost in.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll lay a bread crumb path for you,” I said, only half joking.
For the first time, I saw my house the way other people did—large, loud, pretentious—which might have fit my personality when I’d initially purchased the property. But I wasn’t so sure anymore. Hazel being here made the space feel warm and cozy and inviting. Perhaps she was what had been missing all along.
“I’m more concerned about Olive,” Hazel said, gazing down the hallway at where the little runt had disappeared. “She could hide while you’re away at practice. You wouldn’t realize there’s a problem until it’s too late. And who’s going to watch her while you’re on the road?”
“Way ahead of you. Follow me.” I rested my palm on her lower back and propelled Hazel through the house, past the great room, dining room, gourmet kitchen, and movie theater. “You’re gonna swoon over this.”
“I don’t swoon, Lalonde,” she said, though the slight lilt in her tone and the quickness of her response betrayed her words. Hazel was only kidding herself anyway. All she’d done today was swoon—at the half-naked Blizzards players, at the adorable Rescue Granted pups in costumes, at the half-naked Blizzards players posing with the adorable shelter pups.
I led her down a hallway and paused in front of the room adjacent to the laundry area that I usually used for storage, though I was certain Olive had already ruined the surprise.
“What’s got her all riled up?” Hazel asked, frowning at the way Olive had her whole body pressed against the closed door, her freckled muzzle working busily at the crack in an attempt to sniff out the treats concealed on the other side, her tail wagging so fast it was practically a blur.
I nudged Hazel forward. “Find out.”
“So bossy.” She grinned and twisted the knob. As the door swung open and Olive darted inside, she gasped. “When did you do all this . . . ?”
Hazel stepped into the room I’d outfitted into Olive’s own personal bachelorette pad, complete with a custom-made dog bed, surround sound speakers so Olive could listen to tunes, bins overflowing with toys and plastic bones, containers of specialty food I’d ordered just for cavalier spaniels, and a special grooming tub.
“A couple of weeks ago.” I shrugged, playing it off as though it was no big deal, though secretly I loved the awe in Hazel’s expression. “Penny’s the one who suggested the Lady and the Tramp decor.” And given the way Olive was burrowing in the blanket designed to resemble the red-and-white-checkered tablecloth from the movie, she approved of my choice. “I even installed a doggie door that leads to an enclosed space in the backyard for her to handle her business without the risk of jail breaking, and Gwen agreed to watch Olive when I’m out of town.”
Hazel faced me, hands on her hips. “So you’ve been planning to adopt Olive all along?”
“Well, not all along, but for a while now,” I said. I couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment my feelings about owning and caring for a dog had changed—probably around the time Olive had treated me like I was the only person in her universe and the guys had started to accept me as a leader and Hazel had looked at me like I was more than a pile of career statistics, like I was someone worth investing in.
She shook her head, as if at a loss for words, looking at me with an emotion I couldn’t quite read. Bewilderment? Delight? Adoration? Or was it something stronger . . . something deeper?
“I . . .” Her voice cracked. “I need a minute.” Then with trembling fingers, Hazel retreated back down the hallway, leaving me standing there dumbstruck.
“Where did I screw up, Olive?” I asked, still not understanding what had just happened. Olive stared at me, a Nylabone dangling from her mouth, as though she couldn’t be inconvenienced to care.
I closed the door to Olive’s room so she could explore her new home while I figured out how I’d misstepped with Hazel. I thought she would have appreciated all the preparation I’d done, but it seemed like I had vastly misjudged my efforts.
I found Hazel on the terrace, sitting in a lounge chair and staring up at the stars with her arms crossed over her chest—whether to protect herself from the wind or from something else, I wasn’t sure. At the whoosh of the glass door sliding shut, she stood and turned toward me. For a moment, the only sounds between us were the rustling of tree branches and the steady trickle of the waterfall flowing peacefully into my heated pool a few yards away.
“Did I take it too far with the Disney theme?” I asked, approaching cautiously.
I stopped close enough that I could touch her but kept my distance. The urge to wrap her in my arms, kiss away the walls she continued to build overwhelmed me, but I forced my feet to stay planted in place. Hazel had to be the one to make the first move.
“That’s the problem, you take it too far with everything,” she said.
“Meaning what?”
She sighed. “Meaning you confuse me. I hate your swanky car and your ostentatious house and your expensive taste in clothing, because those things aren’t you—or at least not the you I’ve come to know. But every time I start to think along those lines, you go and do something so extravagant and sweet and weirdly self-serving yet charmingly kind that I end up all confused again. And I just . . . Ugh!”
I stared at her, unsure how to process the pent-up rant she’d let fly from her mouth. On the one hand, it was one of the most honest and open things Hazel had ever granted me, but on the other . . .
“So, should I be offended, or . . . ?”
Hazel’s eyes flashed as she gazed up at me, a muscle working in her jaw that I found sexy as hell. “You know what? Shut up,” she ordered, then curled her fingers into the cotton of my sweater, tugged me flush against her, and pressed her lips against mine.
The confidence in her statement, the directness of her action, caught me off guard. But I wasn’t complaining. Not even a little bit. When Hazel’s tongue ran along the seam of my mouth and slipped inside, it was as if an electrical wire snapped and left desire vibrating in my veins.
I deepened the kiss, relishing in the moan that escaped from her throat. My hands roamed over her body, threading in her hair, traveling the length of her back, memorizing the curve of her waist. In that moment, I was both lost and found—lost in the taste of her and the sensation of her lips on mine, but found in her touch, her warmth, her passion. Hazel pulled away, and a feeling of disorientation swept through me, as though I’d awoken in a strange place and forgotten where I was.
“What brought that on?” I asked, taking in her tangled hair and swollen lips.
“Does it matter?” She stepped back, out of my reach, then unbuttoned her blouse, revealing a satin bra—black? Dark purple? No, navy—cut low over the swell of her breasts. The fabric glided off her shoulders and fluttered onto the paved stones of the veranda.
I swallowed thickly. “What are you doing?”
“What does it look like?” Toeing off her ballet flats, Hazel lifted a hand to the center clasp of her bra, watching the way my eyes followed the movement. My pulse began to thrum in anticipation, but rather than unfastening the hook, showing me what I so desperately craved, she trailed her fingers down her stomach—infuriatingly slow—to the waistband of her jeans.
“You’re fucking killing my self-control,” I gasped, my voice ragged and raspy.
Hazel shrugged, but a mischievous grin had spread across her face. “You’re the one who told me I need to erase my boundaries, embrace the wild and reckless.” Then in one fluid motion, she pushed the denim over her hips before flicking open her bra and letting it slide away.
At the sight of her in nothing but lace underwear, I felt the breath rush out of my lungs, and my heart pounded so fast and loud I could hear it in my ears. Goose bumps covered her skin, her nipples pebbling, and the moonlight cast the outline of her figure in a silver glow.
Hazel stepped back a few more paces, nearing the edge of the pool. Steam wafted off the water and licked up her calves. “It’s a nice evening for a swim, don’t you agree?” she asked.
The raspy timbre of her voice nearly set me off, and I had to clench my hands to force myself not to lose all restraint. I started to reply, but coherent thought vanished when Hazel removed the last piece of material concealing her body.
“You joining me, Lalonde, or do you plan to snuggle with Olive all night instead?” she asked, and with a wink, spun around and jumped into the deep end of the pool.
Stripping off my clothes in record speed, I dove in after her. Warmth enveloped me, the heat of the water searing my skin, which still held a chill from being outside. Chlorine stung my eyes as I searched for Hazel beneath the surface. I spotted her heading toward the shallow end, her feet kicking an easy rhythm. Her blond hair fanned out behind her like golden wings, the bright lights embedded in the sides of the pool making her appear almost ethereal.
Breaking the surface, I swam after her. Hazel yelped when I grabbed her foot. “Not so fast,” I said, gripping her hips and wrapping her legs around my waist so her breasts pressed up against me. She felt weightless in my arms.
“So you’ve caught me. Now what are you going to do—” she started.
Before Hazel could finish the sentence, I tossed her in the air, grinning as she landed a few yards away with a splash. Hazel popped up, sputtering.
“You don’t play fair.” She pouted, her bottom lip sticking out almost comically, and flicked water at me.
I laughed. “I’m not paid to play fair. I’m paid to win.”
“If you’re paid to win, then what do you call this?” Hazel put a hand around the back of my neck and leaned forward as if to kiss me, but just before her mouth grazed mine, she dunked me face-first under the water.
Oh, hell no.
After that it was a battle of splashing, dunking, the two of us wrestling for control. I never imagined being with someone could be this way—fun, easy, spontaneous.
“Enough of this nonsense,” I said, lifting Hazel over my shoulder and smiling at the squeak she let out.
I carried her to the hot tub connected to the pool, and Hazel hissed when I eased her body into the hot water. Switching on the jets, I settled myself on the bench, bubbles reaching my chin, and guided Hazel so that her legs straddled my lap. Her taut nipples brushed against my chest, and she sucked in a ragged breath.
Her green eyes shined in the moonlight. Water droplets clung to her lashes, and the mascara smudged under her bottom lids made her look rumpled, like I’d already had my way with her. My stomach tightened at the thought.
“C’mere,” I said, gripping the outside of her thighs and pulling her toward me to capture her lips. Her tongue slid against mine, and the taste of her nearly undid me. We kissed slow and languid at first, but soon the tempo changed from soft and teasing to frenzied and pleading. Our hands followed suit, transforming from seeking and stroking to grasping and unyielding.
Hazel twisted her fingers into my hair, tugging at the roots, and I groaned. Our kisses grew deeper, more urgent. With each passing second, the water in the tub seemed to become hotter, the bubbles more frantic. Every inch of me was on fire.
I broke away and trailed my mouth along the sensitive spot behind her ear, the curve of her neck, the hollow of her collarbone, sucking and licking and tasting the sweat that had beaded on her bare skin. When I dragged my teeth along the column of her throat and massaged the tender flesh of her breasts with my palms, flicking my thumbs back and forth across her nipples, she gasped and arched into me.
I drew a hard peak into my mouth, teasing it with my tongue, then did the same with the other side. Hazel moaned, lowering her hips and pressing her slick heat against where I was hard and throbbing. A low guttural sound tumbled from my lips, and oh fuck, I was ruined. Hazel rocked forward, sliding over me again, and whimpered. An uncontrollable hunger rippled through me, my breath hissing out through my clenched teeth.
“How serious are you about erasing your boundary lines?” I asked, my voice ragged from what little self-control I still possessed.
“What do you mean?” she asked, her own voice no more than a raspy whisper. Hazel searched my face through hooded, glassy eyes, her chest rising and falling in sharp, unsteady bursts. Tiny scratches from my stubble marked her skin, and a flush covered her body.
“I want to taste you . . .” I moved a hand between her thighs and pushed two fingers inside her, grinding my palm against her clit. “Here. Right now. In the cold air with you spread out on your back and bathed in moonlight.”
Hazel gasped and dropped her forehead to my shoulder, gripping the nape of my neck to hold me close against her.
“Is that a yes?” I continued to pump my fingers in and out of her as the hot tub water bubbled around us, no doubt heightening the sensation.
“What about you?” she asked between pants.
I furrowed my brow. “What about me?”
Leaning back, Hazel peered into my eyes with genuine puzzlement. “I mean, what pleasure do you get out of it?”
Of course it would seem incomprehensible to Hazel that pleasuring her brought me just as much pleasure. Once again she’d confirmed that no matter how much we’d talked about it, Hazel still adhered to a single guiding principle: Other people’s needs come first.
“Let me show you,” I said, brushing the wet, tangled hair off her shoulder.
She bit her lip, then nodded slowly. Picking her up, I laid Hazel onto the stone deck, drinking in her gasp as heated flesh met the ground, then gently pulled her toward me, so her ass barely hung over the edge of the tub. Steam rose off her, and the water glistened on her skin. I could only imagine how the harsh juxtaposition of changing from the hot water to the night air felt on her exposed body.
Kneeling on the bench, I gripped the outside of her legs, spreading them apart, and dipped my head between her thighs, covering my mouth over where she was wet and aching.
“Oh god,” she said, threading her fingers into my hair and rocking her hips up into me. I groaned, my gaze locked on the way her back arched, showing off the length of her neck and the curve of her breasts. Damn, she was gorgeous and all mine. I could devour this woman over and over and never grow tired of it.
A slow stroke of my tongue caused a gasp, and the light scrape of my teeth over her clit elicited a moan from deep in her throat. I set up a steady, persistent pace, licking and sucking, biting and plunging. Sounds of pleasure fell from her lips, and Hazel writhed against my mouth, abandoning all control.
Fuck, I could come just like this, driving her insane, banishing her inhibitions, silencing that pesky desire to take care of everyone around her except herself.
Soon the tendons in her thighs tightened, her whole body going rigid, as her desperate noises became high-pitched and strained. Hazel was right there. All she needed was a soft, slight shove and she’d tumble into the abyss. I slid my hands up around her waist and along her ribs, ghosting my fingers across her taut nipples, then thrust my tongue deep inside before circling her sensitized clit.
That was all it took.
Hazel cried out as her hips jerked wildly and her orgasm exploded through every inch of her body. If I experienced only this one moment for the rest of my life, I’d die happy.
There it was again, an emotion so intense and so foreign it eclipsed all else. I loved her. With soul-crushing certainty, I loved her. And I’d never felt more out of my element—or more alive.
It was a fact of life that whenever you were dreading something, the time before the event seemed to pass faster than normal. So I shouldn’t have been surprised that my judgment day with the commissioner’s office arrived at rapid speed—a week after the calendar shoot.
The hearing didn’t start for thirty minutes and already a crowd of reporters had formed at the entrance to the Blizzards training center. Fabulous. Gatorade splashed onto the thigh of my suit pants as the town car rocked over the rows of speed bumps leading to the front doors.
“Damn it,” I said, cleaning off the orange liquid with a napkin.
Scott cursed under his breath. “The vultures are circling.”
Yeah, and so were my nerves, spinning so endlessly in my gut that even Gatorade couldn’t settle it—I’d emptied the contents of my stomach twice this morning.
“Remember, chin up, shoulders back, expression neutral. We don’t want anyone interpreting guilt in your body language,” he said, as though we hadn’t discussed this a million times. “But keep your mouth shut. Leave the talking to me. Understood?”
“I got it.” My voice was sharp, my knee bouncing rapidly to the rhythm of the music filtering through the speakers. Why else was I paying Scott 15 percent of my earnings if not to protect my best interests?
“And whatever the ruling, don’t lose your cool. Save the anger for the privacy of your own home,” Scott instructed, as if speaking to a tantrum-prone toddler. “The NFL Players Association will handle any appeals.”
I nodded, though I couldn’t guarantee I’d comply with his request. Like I’d told Hazel, I refused to be made an example of or used to advance the commissioner’s agenda.
The town car pulled up to the curb. Here we go. I adjusted my tie in the rearview mirror and stepped out, cameras nearly blinding me as the media fired off questions from every direction.
“Chris, if your punishment includes a suspension, do you plan to appeal before the season is over or wait for the off-season?”
What do you think, Captain Obvious?
“With all the attention surrounding these allegations, how are you able to keep your mind focused on game fourteen against the Bengals in two days?”
By pretending leeches like you don’t exist.
“Are your teammates disappointed that you’re a distraction during such a crucial point in the season?”
Is your wife disappointed with your stamina in the bedroom?
“Chris, the Blizzards have somehow managed to salvage this season and position themselves for playoff contention. Are you concerned the results of this hearing could ruin your current six–seven record and the momentum Colorado has built?”
Is that rhetorical?
Per Scott’s instructions, I remained silent, focusing on my breathing and getting through the next couple hours unscathed. The moment I stepped into the reception area, calm washed over me. This place was home, where I belonged, and I wasn’t going to let today’s outcome jeopardize that.
Scott tapped me on the shoulder. “I’m going to do some rounds, get a read on things,” he said, jerking his head toward where Kent McDougall and Coach Wallace were chatting beside the gleaming Lombardi Trophy on display.
I glanced around the lobby, noticing that the majority of people milling about were Blizzards personnel and NFL Players Association spokespeople. No sign of representatives from the commissioner’s office, and I wondered if they were being held somewhere else. Smart, separating the defense from the opponent’s offense.
“Christopher, there you are!” My mother’s shrill voice bounced off the graphic murals painted on the walls that depicted various moments in Blizzards team history.
Cold dread replaced the nerves tightening my stomach. What was she doing here? Ordinarily I appreciated my mother’s support and encouragement, but not now. Not today. Her showing up for the hearing made me feel like a little boy who’d been called to the principal’s office.
“Sweetheart, you should have worn your navy suit with the silver-striped tie,” she scolded, her heels click-clacking on the marble floor as she crossed the room. “And really, do you own a comb? It looks like something’s nesting in your hair.” My mother kissed my cheek, and I smothered a groan when she wiped the lipstick mark off with her thumb.
“Mom, you know you can’t actually be present in the room while the hearing is going on, right?”
She waved me away. “I’m not clueless, Christopher. I’ll be leaving shortly.”
Gwen lingered a few feet behind her. Of course my sister had to be here, too. When had my sister ever missed an opportunity to watch and cheer as my charm failed and consequences struck? But to my astonishment, Gwen wrapped me in a hug and whispered in my ear, “I advised Mom against attending, but she insisted. I figured it best that I join her in case she needs reining in.”
“Thanks.” I pulled back and squeezed her arm. “Did you have to close Quince for this?” Gwen was dressed casually in black pants and a gray sweater, not exactly appropriate attire for working in a kitchen.
“No. I’m just not heading into the restaurant until later. And since I own the place, it isn’t a big deal.” She shrugged and smiled.
Except it mattered to me that Gwen had cared enough to shift her responsibilities to show her support. Despite being twins, Gwen and I had never been particularly close growing up, both of us on our own paths and pursuing our own passions. But ever since she’d returned to Denver from San Francisco last year, things had been changing between us. I was grateful for it.
“Logan here, too?” I asked.
Gwen shook her head. “He’s in Green Bay.”
“Christopher, where’s your lady friend?” our mother interjected, glancing around the reception area, the corners of her mouth pulling down into a frown.
“You’re joking, right?” Gwen asked, lifting a palm in exasperation.
“Mom, seriously?” I said at the same time.
“Enough of the attitude, you two. It’s a valid question.” Our mother adjusted the gold bangles on her wrist, the polished metal glinting under the overhead lights. “You can’t blame me for wanting to be introduced to the woman you’re dating, Christopher.”
“I think my love life should be the least of your concerns at the moment.” I sighed. “And anyway, Hazel’s busy with appointments at the shelter.”
“Actually, Chris . . .” Gwen tapped my arm and pointed to something over my shoulder.
I turned, my eyebrows rising in shock at the sight of Hazel striding through the training center entrance. Hazel had asked if she could attend today, but I’d told her this was something I needed to handle on my own. But now that she was here, I was glad she’d ignored me.
Meeting my gaze, Hazel began to walk over but hesitated, as if she was uncertain of her welcome where I was concerned. I smiled, and her shoulders relaxed, her expression softening. Yeah, I was damn happy she’d come.
As Hazel wove her way through the crowd, I leaned over to my mother and whispered, “Behave.”
She swatted my arm. “Relax, sweetheart.”
I stepped forward to greet Hazel, but my mother blocked my path, plastering on her best beauty pageant grin, and extended her hand. “You must be Hazel Grant. I’m Rose Lalonde. I’ve heard so much about you,” she gushed, like champagne out of a bottle.
My mother appraised Hazel up and down before nodding in approval. Could she act more blatant? Thankfully Hazel didn’t seem to notice—or she pretended not to.
“Only good things I hope?” Hazel gave my mother a warm smile of her own.
“Of course, dear. Of course,” my mother said, dismissing Hazel’s concern with a brush of her hand. “Christopher can’t stop talking about how smitten he is with you. I hope you’ll join me at the game this Sunday in the box designated for family of the players.”
Hazel began to answer—probably to inform my mother that she already had a permanent seat in the most important box at Blizzards stadium, the owner’s box—but my mother cut her off.
“And I’m so glad that you’ve been putting Christopher’s reputation to good use at the shelter,” she continued. “Though I do find it strange seeing my son half naked on that highway billboard every morning.”
Kill me now.
Hazel looked at me out of the corner of her eye, pink coloring her cheeks. Now I understood why I never mixed my romantic relationships with family—my mother couldn’t be trusted to filter her comments.
“Boundaries, Mom. We discussed this.” Gwen rolled her eyes, then exchanged hellos with Hazel and whispered, “I swear she’s usually more subtle.”
Our mother scoffed. “Well, excuse me for being invested in my children’s lives. I only spent fourteen hours in labor delivering you both.”
Hazel laughed, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, a move I now recognized as something she did whenever she was uncomfortable or uncertain. “It’s okay. Must be a parental thing. And I’d love to join you at the game on Sunday.”
“Really?” I asked her, not even bothering to hide the shock in my voice. Hazel had never seemed interested in watching me play or football in general, so I wasn’t entirely sure what this meant in terms of her feelings for me, but I knew it wasn’t insignificant.
Hazel bit her lip and shrugged. “Sure. It could be fun.”
“Excellent, dear,” my mother piped up. “We could drive to the stadium together, if you’d prefer.”
“Umm, well, actually Ms. Lalonde, I should probably meet you there, because I have this thing I need to do at the shelter beforehand,” Hazel replied, her words jumbling together, her expression panicked. Clearly the last thing Hazel wanted was to be trapped in a car with my mother in addition to being trapped with her in a box suite.
I caught Gwen’s gaze and mouthed, Can you please distract Mom?
She nodded, her chin bobbing ever so slightly. “Hey, Mom, I think Coach Wallace is waving us over.” Before our mother could protest, Gwen grabbed her wrist and led her across the lobby, tossing me a wink over her shoulder.
When they were out of earshot, I rested my palms on Hazel’s hips and said, “Sorry about that. Mom can be invasive sometimes.” I pressed a kiss to her forehead.
“It’s fine,” she said, clearing her throat. “Listen, there’s multiple surgeries lined up at the shelter. As much as I want to stay for the hearing, I can’t. I only swung by to wish you luck.”
Disappointment settled in my gut, and it was enough to ground me in reality again. Of course Hazel couldn’t hang around. And besides, my situation wasn’t her problem—or her battle to fight. It’s why I’d asked her not to come in the first place.
“I appreciate it—”
“Chris, they’re ready for you upstairs,” Scott interrupted. “I don’t want to keep the commissioner waiting.” His voice was hard as he scrutinized Hazel, clearly not recognizing her as Kent McDougall’s niece.
“Yeah, okay,” I replied, then squeezed Hazel’s hand and said, “I’ll see you later, okay?”
I started to follow Scott to the bank of elevators, but stopped at the sound of Hazel calling my name. I spun around. Her expression was serious, green eyes shining and analyzing—always analyzing.
“Just remember that no matter what happens in that room today, it’ll all work out in the end,” she said, so full of hopeful optimism and faith.
And for a moment, I believed her.
I rode the elevator up to the top floor of the training center alone, desperate for a few more seconds to gather my bearings. The steel doors slid open, and I inhaled a deep breath. Stepping into the empty reception area, I squared my shoulders and leveled my chin when I spotted everyone already situated inside the glass-enclosed boardroom.
I’d faced worse, I reminded myself as I made my way over. I’d outmaneuvered entire defensive lines. Shrugged off three-hundred-pound tacklers. Stripped half naked for a giant highway billboard. At the end of the day, I was the only one who determined my fate—and my future—and not even the commissioner himself could change that.
I entered the boardroom and a dozen heads spun in my direction. Kent McDougall and Coach Wallace nodded at me in unison. I settled into the vacant chair between Scott and the NFL Players Association’s representative, across the mahogany table from where the commissioner and his cronies were lined up in a row like a firing squad. Tammy, Kent’s s assistant, poured me some coffee and set the steaming mug on a coaster. I smiled but gently pushed the cup aside. Caffeine was the last thing I needed—I felt plenty wired on my own.
Standing, the commissioner adjusted his tie and cleared his throat. “Chris, we appreciate you meeting with us today,” he started, as if I had a choice in the matter. “Let’s get the hearing over quickly—I think all of us are eager to put this incident in the past.” His voice was matter of fact, bordering on sympathetic, like he was doing me a favor, but his expression did nothing to hide the fact that he held me at his mercy—or that he enjoyed it.
“Happy to be here,” I said, flashing a smile as fake as my tone, wishing I was anywhere else.
Scott kicked my shin while the commissioner shot me a look that told me to shut my mouth. Apparently, I was here just for decoration. I swallowed back another smart comment and gazed out the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the outside practice fields and the west side of downtown Denver in the distance.
The commissioner reclaimed his seat and smoothed down the double-breasted suit jacket he’d probably had cut to imitate the physique of every quarterback in the league—strong shoulders, broad chest, tapered waist. And while he didn’t naturally come by the build of a star athlete, he owned the self-importance in spades. His tight-lipped arrogance had always impressed me. From franchise players to the sports media, the commissioner accepted zero shit from anyone. I’d just never expected to be on the receiving end of his you-done-fucked-up-and-now-you-gotta-pay stare.
The commissioner flipped open the folder placed in front of him and pulled out a packet of papers, giving them a quick scan. I noticed only members of his staff possessed documents. Guess the rest of us weren’t entitled to the information they contained. Sure, that was fair. Then again, in the NFL, fair was just another four letter word that began with F.
“Chris, as your agent has no doubt communicated to you by now, my office has concluded its investigation.” The commissioner put down the papers with a heavy sigh and gave me a stern look.
I nodded for him to continue, but he remained silent. It seemed as though he wanted to draw out the suspense and make me sweat. After several more quiet seconds, the commissioner cleared his throat again, the sound more grating than before, and said, “And you have been found in violation of several league policies.”
At least he was straight to the point about it.
“Which ones?” I asked, knowing full well which specific policy I’d disobeyed.
“Yes, I’m also curious,” Kent McDougall cut in from the other end of the table.
“The most obvious, of course, is the NFL’s policy on performance-enhancing substances, as well as integrity of the game,” the commissioner said. Which was the NFL’s catchall policy to mean: We reserve the right to screw up your life for any reason and for any offense, perceived or otherwise.
Kent mmm-hmmed and leaned back in his rolling chair, propping an ankle over his knee. “Integrity of the game is a bit overarching, if you ask me. Care to elaborate on which portion of that policy Chris violated specifically?”
In his typical fashion, the commissioner steamrolled right over Kent’s question and continued. “Kent, you know better than anyone that the last thing this league needs is another rules-don’t-apply-to-me player with an ego bigger than his billboard.” He kept his eyes trained on me.
So that was his tactic: insulting me in an attempt to rile me up so I’d cause a scene. The commissioner was going to have to try harder than that. I was damn proud of the billboard I’d done for Rescue Granted and all the positive press and donations it’d brought to a cause I’d grown passionate about.
“I didn’t take you as someone who complained about free publicity, Commissioner, but I’ve noted your concerns about me following the rules,” I replied. Could we just get this over with already?
Closing the folder and moving it off to the side, he rested his elbows on the table and laced his fingers together in a way that indicated I was about to be on the receiving end of a scolding. “Chris, given your flagrant disrespect for NFL standards of conduct, my office has agreed on a penalty that I believe appropriate. As such, per the sanctions outlined in the performance-enhancing substances policy, you have been assessed a fine of $150,000 and suspended without pay for the last two games of the season.”
He searched my expression—for shock or some other childish emotion, I wasn’t sure—but whatever he was expecting to see there was going to leave him sorely disappointed. Scott had already warned me that this would be the outcome. It didn’t make the commissioner’s decision just—or justified—but at least I’d been prepared for it and could suit up for Sunday’s matchup against the Bengals. Still, me sitting on the bench for our last two games would severely worsen the Blizzards’ chances of securing a playoff spot.
“I understand.” I glanced out the corner of my eye at Scott, who mouthed, Good news. I wouldn’t exactly call anything about this situation good. “I appreciate you making the time to conduct a thorough review and discuss your decision with me personally, Commissioner.”
I stood to exit, but he held up a hand and said, “Not so fast, Mr. Lalonde. I’m not finished.”
Groaning, I raked my fingers through my hair and dropped back into my seat, my patience wearing thin. I’d already accepted my punishment, so what more did he want?
“While ultimately the NFL is part of the entertainment business, the league doesn’t operate like the WWE—there’s no scripts or fixed matches. We hold sportsmanship among franchises and players above all else and take a significantly more aspirational approach to our brand, our teams, and ultimately, the health of our players,” the commissioner said. “Your past doping behavior tipped the scales and created an unfair environment, one that secured your team a Super Bowl championship.”
“Except I didn’t—”
“Yes, I’m aware of your claims that you stopped taking Meldonium once it was put on the banned substances list, but your positive test result contradicts that and also calls into question your previous behavior and what other illegal substances you may have been using. I shouldn’t need to remind you, Chris, that when you entered the hallowed halls of this franchise, you knew the expectations that lay at your feet—and you chose to trample over them as if they were beneath you, an act that I for one will not tolerate.” He sighed and shook his head, as though he actually felt bad about whatever blow he was about to deliver. “It’s impossible for me to punish the Blizzards as a result of your transgressions, but I can attempt to rebalance the scales and strip you of your individual accolades.”
Strip me of my accolades?
“I’m sorry, Commissioner, I must have misheard you. Is it really the NFL’s intention to retroactively penalize me for a rule that wasn’t in place at the time of my drug use?” I asked. Beside me, the representative from the NFL Players Association murmured his agreement, which could only mean positive things in terms of a potential appeal down the road.
But instead of answering my question, the commissioner looked me square in the eye, took aim, and pulled the trigger. “In light of the findings of the investigation, all your receiving statistics from last season will be purged from NFL records. Permanently.”
His words hit me so hard and so unexpectedly it forced the air from my lungs. The world tilted on its axis, and everything around me turned fuzzy. A dull ringing filled my ears, like what happened when I sustained a hard hit.
“You seem confused about the last part of your punishment, Chris.” The commissioner chuckled—actually fucking chuckled. “But I’ll remind you that the NFL is not a court of law or a democracy or a goddamned place of forgiveness. The moment you signed your contract, you entered into my kingdom. And my kingdom is a dictatorship, so if I want to strip your stats because it pleases me to do so, then I’m going to strip your stats. Am I understood?”
He can’t do that, I told myself. And yet he just did.
With a single definitive sentence, the commissioner had erased the most successful season in my football history, invalidated me as the league’s leader in catches and receiving yards, destroyed my Hall of Fame chances.
White-hot anger flooded through me as the realization of that last thought sunk in. Had this been the commissioner’s plan all along? To ruin my career and me with it? I knew the man was a no-nonsense asshole who relished making examples of players who screwed up, but ripping away stats I’d earned on my own merit before I’d even started doping was so far beyond absurd I couldn’t comprehend it.
“Chris, you can, of course, pursue an appeal through the players’ union and the collective bargaining agreement, but until then the ruling stands,” he said, tugging down the sleeves of his suit jacket, as if this was merely another licensing negotiation or a meaningless interview for a new intern. “My world. My rules. We’re done here.”
Scott and the NFL Players Association rep jumped to their feet, threatening a lawsuit. Kent McDougall yelled at someone on his cell phone, and Coach Wallace had already made his exit. I could hardly process any of it, my rage so raw and visceral that my heart threatened to burst from my chest.
Pushing back from the table, I stormed out of the boardroom and down the stairs through the concealed entrance of the training center to the back parking lot. Because if I didn’t get out of there immediately, I’d do something dangerous and reckless. Like tear the whole building down, then burn the rubble to ash.