CHAPTER NINETEEN
Chris
The last time I’d appeared on Face to Face with Rory McMillan, I’d been too confident, too self-righteous. Amazing how a few months, an embarrassing fall from grace, and a complete life implosion could humble you.
Rory was already seated in his leather wing chair, barking at someone on his cell while flipping through interview questions, as the hair and makeup team got him camera-ready. I stayed off to the side, not in the mood for idle chitchat or awkward conversation. In truth, this was the last place I wanted to be, but if I was going to prove to the NFL community that I wasn’t the same arrogant, reckless wide receiver I’d once been, then I needed to publicly acknowledge my mistakes. And there was no better outlet to do that than on America’s most watched sports show.
Around me, the crew hustled about, everyone laser focused on their last-minute tasks. Scott was deep in conversation with the executive producer, hopefully performing his agently duty and warning the producer to keep the interview simple and direct. No surprises or ambushes. Though I couldn’t imagine what other shit could possibly be dumped on me now.
The Face to Face theme music blared throughout the studio, announcing sixty seconds to on-air. I gulped down some water and claimed my seat on the set, wishing like hell I could loosen my tie and dim the blazing stage lights. Ending his phone call, Rory waved away his beauty brigade and pocketed the note cards.
“Back for round two, Mr. Lalonde? I do hope you remembered to bring your gloves this time.” He smiled, smoothing his Bob Costas side-part hair in the reflection of the monitor positioned above my head. And like Bob Costas, Rory didn’t age, his face as smooth as an ice rink after the Zamboni machine had run over it.
“Forgot them at home, I’m afraid,” I said, refusing to engage. At least Scott had negotiated that there’d be no live-viewer call-in questions—it was my turn to control the narrative.
The theme music faded, and the campy announcer’s voice introducing the show filled the room.
“Good evening, folks. Chris Lalonde, Colorado Blizzards wide receiver, is joining me in the studio tonight.” Rory angled his body toward the camera and smiled, his perfectly capped teeth flashing under the bright lights, then faced me. “Given the way our previous interview ended and how your name has been splashed all over headlines with increasing frequency these days, I’m surprised you agreed to return to the show, Chris. What made you decide to come back?”
“I didn’t leave on my best foot the last time we spoke. I’d like to change that and allow Blizzards fans and the NFL community to hear my perspective.” I clasped my fingers and rested them in my lap, keeping my posture relaxed, my expression natural.
It was difficult to tell, but based on the way his spine straightened and his gaze hardened, it seemed as if I’d caught him off guard with my answer. Good.
Rory cleared his throat and said, “In that case, let’s dive right in to the questions, shall we?” His usual warm, inviting tone had taken on an edge, as though he recognized I wasn’t here to play his game and he was now on alert.
“Ready whenever you are, Rory.”
“Your suspension has resulted in two additional losses for the Blizzards and an embarrassing overall six–ten season record. Now that your prison sentence is over, how are you feeling about the severity of the punishment? Especially since Colorado has been eliminated from the playoffs?”
I shifted in my seat. Gloves were off, then. Fine. I’d just as soon get the worst of the questions out of the way up front. “While I don’t agree with the entirety of the commissioner’s decision, I respect his authority and have chosen to move past the whole ordeal and toward something more positive.”
“So, you’re not going to fight the ruling?” he asked. “Even Tom Phelps, head sportswriter for the Denver Morning News, and one of your harshest critics as of late, believes an appeal is warranted.”
A miracle, since asshole Tom Phelps hadn’t cut me a break in weeks, and I had no clue what part of my situation had changed his position and attitude about me. Still, I wasn’t pandering to him or anyone else. This was about me.
“I’ve allowed my critics to have too much of an opinion already. I’ve come to realize it’s a waste of energy and productivity to focus on the past. My time is much better spent on looking ahead to the future.”
It’d taken a few days, but I’d finally forced myself to acknowledge the truth in Logan’s words. I lived and breathed football, found purpose in it, but now understood that it didn’t define me or dictate my future. In fact, it hadn’t been until Logan dragged me out to our old practice field that I’d fully appreciated just how fortunate I was in that regard.
Logan had been at the peak of his game professionally but was miserable in his role as team leader and quarterback. How many other athletes were in similar circumstances? How many players continued to perform not because they still possessed a genuine passion for the sport or felt a driving force pushing them to excel but rather for the paycheck? Because they felt stuck in a vicious cycle and couldn’t see another path to happiness?
“That’s great to hear, but have you considered that the choice you make today could resonate for years? Potentially locking you out of the Hall of Fame?” Rory asked, bringing me back to the present. “The career span of a pro athlete, especially in a contact sport like football, is brutally short. Can you really afford to lose a year of statistics? Of your life? Your legacy?” He leaned into me, almost instinctively, as if eager to hear what juicy sound bite I’d let slip.
“I’ve considered all the things you mentioned, but I’m the one who screwed up. It’s irrelevant that the first instance of me taking the Meldonium was early on in the season or that it wasn’t a banned drug at the time.” I squared my shoulders as the weight of my mistakes hit the floor like obsolete gym equipment. “The point is, I tarnished my reputation and the game I love for no reason other than my own ego and insecurity. Whether or not it violated league rules as written doesn’t matter.”
“You know, Chris, you’ve never seemed like the type to throw in the towel so easily.”
Scott, Kent McDougall, and my NFL Players Association rep had all made similar comments. None of them had understood why I’d suddenly decided to let it all go, but I’d given this a lot of thought, and I was set on my path.
“At the end of the day, it’s not about throwing in the towel. It’s about what I want to be remembered for. And I for one won’t be satisfied until I hold every major record—all-time receiving yards, number of touchdowns, and total receptions—as well as secure another Super Bowl championship without an asterisk next to my name or without people always wondering how I achieved those accomplishments. Going forward, that will be my sole focus. So don’t get me wrong, Rory, I’m fired up, ready to play, and fully dedicated to earning those stats back next season. But this time one hundred percent clean so that no doubt remains if I deserve a place in the Hall of Fame.” I sighed. “But I’m also certain that fifty years from now, if the sum total of my legacy can be found in a single decade of my life, well, I’m not going to be satisfied with that either. So yeah, it’s all a risk. It’s always a risk. But like with everything else, the biggest risks have a habit of yielding the biggest rewards.”
A muscle ticked in Rory’s jaw—I evidently wasn’t giving him the sort of responses he wanted or expected. Still, he covered his annoyance well as he said, “That’s quite the change in attitude, and in a pretty short time period.”
I shrugged, hoping it came across to the viewing audience as sincere rather than dismissive. “The weeks off allowed me the space to work through my anger.”
“And was the altercation with the referee during the Bengals game, which resulted in your ejection from the game, an example of you working through your anger?” he asked, proving that he was definitely aiming to knock me off-balance in order to rile me up.
“That was an unfortunate incident that won’t happen again,” I said, delivering the line I’d cultivated the night before. I knew Rory would broach the topic, but I wanted to shut down his questioning swiftly and completely. I turned and looked directly at the camera. I doubted Hazel was watching, but just in case, I wanted it to be clear that my next words were meant solely for her. “The way I acted that day is not who I am as a player or as a person.”
And while I wished Hazel would grant me the benefit of the doubt and acknowledge that I was a different man now than the one who’d cockily walked into the shelter all those months ago, ultimately I just wanted happiness for her. It was why I’d asked Evelyn not to tell Hazel that I’d been involved with researching Rhubarb’s AKC history. I didn’t want Hazel to think I’d offered my assistance with selfish expectations.
I gazed back at Rory. A small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, the tiniest admission that perhaps he finally grasped that I was being genuine and not putting on an act—and maybe even respected me for it.
“Shifting gears, what other plans do you have for your career going forward?” he asked. “You’ve been a member of the Blizzards since you were drafted. With your contract up next year, do you plan to stay in Colorado or pursue different options?”
“I’m content in Denver, Rory. It’s home.” I leaned back in my leather chair and propped my ankle over my knee, thankful for the change in subject.
“I’m sure Blizzards ownership will be pleased to hear that, despite Colorado’s abysmal year, but you’re not married to the team,” Rory pushed. “You could go anywhere for the right terms and the right price. And since you stated you want to focus on the future and not dwell on the past, perhaps moving to a new franchise would be a fresh start and a new challenge.”
I nodded. “All valid points. But for me, I believe the fresh start can be found right here with the Blizzards. And the challenge, well, that’s obvious enough. It’s time I took on more of a leadership role, both on the team and within the community, and I think we know that should more than keep me busy.”
“I also hear you’ve recently adopted a pet,” Rory said.
“Olive. She’s a cavalier King Charles spaniel.” I chuckled. “Has a thing for Disney songs and old socks.”
“Sounds like you definitely have your hands full.” Rory smiled. “I guess volunteering at the dog shelter has had a positive impact on you.”
“In every way, Rory.”