CHAPTER FIVE
Chris
Fourth quarter with a minute forty-nine seconds left on the clock, and the Blizzards were on third and seven on our own forty-yard line, trailing Atlanta 21–17. It was a one-possession contest that was ours to win—a miracle considering how badly the game had started. The moment I’d emerged from the tunnel to step onto the field, the usually cheering and chanting Colorado fans had booed me—actually fucking booed me. Then during the first quarter on two separate drives, Fitzpatrick had thrown shitty passes to Dustin Olson, wide receiver opposite me on the line, both of which had resulted in Falcons interceptions that returned for touchdowns.
Somehow the offense had managed to rebound, earning back-to-back touchdowns of our own late in the second quarter followed by a field goal early in the third, while the defense had allowed only one additional Atlanta score. And yet the boos and shouts from the crowd grew louder.
“Zipper, tiger, whistle sling,” Ben shouted from the center of the huddle, indicating I was to run a post route—an easy play that should lead to a waltz into the end zone if everything went according to plan.
“Think you can maneuver that, Lalonde?” said Austin Thompson, tight end from Stanford now in his second season on the team, his tone sharp. White field paint, grass stains, and black greasepaint marks formed a collage on his once pristine silver-and-powder-blue uniform.
“Worry about your own damn position,” I said, cracking my scratched-up knuckles, wishing I could crack them on his jaw. I’d had almost no hands-on time with the ball, and I was itching to make a play.
“We’re going home in skirts if the two of you don’t shut the hell up,” Tony cut in, shielding his eyes from the sun floating bright in the sky like a gold coin. Through the grill of his helmet, a thin layer of dirt covered his cheeks. “Now let’s play the damn game.”
In unison we all yelled “Blizzards” and broke apart. I took my spot wide left of Ben on the line and waited for the snap, concentrating on the steady rhythm of my breathing, my gaze locked on the spot upfield I needed to reach to successfully complete the pass. My heart beat fast and hard against my chest, and sweat stung my eyes and dripped down the back of my neck, soaking into the collar of my jersey and the shoulder pads beneath. My muscles throbbed and my bones ached from the countless hits I’d endured over the last three hours.
The whistle rang out, and I looked over at the center’s fingers wrapped around the ball. The moment I recognized movement, I shot forward like a bullet fifteen yards straight ahead, dodging and racing around Falcons linebackers and cornerbacks charging me, before turning at a forty-five-degree angle toward the middle of the field, my hands out and ready to make the catch.
A perfect spiral sailed into my gloves, but as I spun to sprint toward the goal line for a touchdown, a safety sideswiped me and the football slipped out of my grip, bouncing onto the grass. Fuck. Thankfully my instincts kicked in, my body acting on its own volition, and I rushed after the ball, falling on top of it to recover the fumble.
Fuck, I mentally scolded myself again as I ran to join the rest of the offense in the huddle. But there was no time to focus on my massive screwup. The whistle blew again, and I glanced at the clock—a minute ten seconds remained until the game ended. We could still finish this.
“Blue striker, zero-dash, gunshot,” Ben yelled above the thunderous roar of the crowd, specifying a crossing route.
“Understood.” I kept my attention on the ground in front of me in order to avoid the angry glares of my teammates, so hot and intense I didn’t know how their eyes weren’t burning holes through the fabric of my uniform.
Everyone clapped and split off to find their positions. I lined up just outside Austin, struggling to catch my breath as adrenaline pumped through my veins. The noise around the stadium had risen to ear-splitting levels.
Once again, I studied the center’s hands on the ball. He initiated the snap, and I bolted forward five yards before quickly cutting across the field, using the other offensive players to shield me. As I continued to dart through the heavy flow of traffic blocking me, I glanced over my shoulder to see the ball gliding across the sky. I extended my arms to complete the catch, but the football was flying too high, forcing me to jump up to capture it. The laces collided with the tips of my fingers, but I couldn’t get a solid grasp on the ball. It swept past me, landing straight into the palms of a Falcons linebacker waiting a few yards beyond.
The player was quickly dragged to the ground, but it didn’t matter—the damage had been done. Atlanta had secured an interception. Just like that, the game was over.
Storming off the field, I ripped off my helmet and headed straight for the tunnel. There were still forty-three seconds left on the clock, but what was the point of hanging around when Atlanta would take a knee? I’d gotten my ass kicked—no need to witness the celebration like a chump.
As I walked under the pass-through, something wet and hard hit my cheek before landing on the ground in front of me. “Eat that, Lalonde,” yelled the fan, who had just pelted me with a snowball soaked in beer. The frustration and anger surging through me threatened to boil over, and I clenched my fingers into tight fists, desperate to connect them with that guy’s face, but I continued walking.
Fuck. A fumble and an interception during the final clutch moments of the game? What in the hell had happened to me today? From the very first drive, I’d performed like an amateur, unable to find my groove, my footing slow and sloppy, my hands clumsy and weak. It didn’t help that the atmosphere around Blizzards stadium had felt tense and combative, thick with the promise of violence from the fans. Or that ever since the drug allegations had been levied against me, none of my teammates—apart from Tony—had seemed to acknowledge my existence unless it was to call a formation or issue an order. Hell, over the last two weeks I’d had more interaction with the opponents’ defensive line than my own offense.
Shoving open the locker room door, my heart hammering against my rib cage, I furiously started tugging off my gear. After everything I’d dedicated to this franchise—all the big plays, brutal tackles, and impossible catches—these fucking fair-weather Colorado fans had the audacity to boo me in my hometown stadium? Me? The guy who, less than a year ago, had been instrumental in bringing home a championship? I picked my cleats up off a bench and slammed them against a stall so hard the wood vibrated, sending chunks of turf flying.
The locker room door opened again, banging against the concrete wall. The rest of my teammates filed in like troops coming off a battle, their fury heavy around me, and moved to their respective stalls. Head Coach Wallace followed, briefly glancing at me before striding into his office without uttering a word. I noticed Ben and Dustin were missing—they were probably still out on the field explaining to the sideline reporters why the Blizzards offense had fallen apart. Again.
I glanced over to where Austin was tearing off his sweat-and-grass-stained jersey. “Hope those performance enhancers were cheap, Lalonde. They haven’t done shit for your game,” he said, his voice dripping with resentment. Amazing how being only one year out of his rookie season had suddenly bestowed him the balls to talk to me like a veteran.
“Maybe if you’d learn to block and protect those of us who actually touch the ball, my game wouldn’t have gone to shit, Thompson,” I said, tossing my pads on the floor.
What was the point of defending myself? No one cared to educate themselves about the details surrounding my drug use—when I’d started, when I’d quit, the fact that I was actually innocent in all of this. I’d provided the franchise a reason for the team’s crappy performances, and the guys and front office were more than happy to capitalize on it. It was certainly easier than admitting the Blizzards had lost the magic that’d been present during our Super Bowl run last season.
“Plenty of blame to go around, ladies,” Tony said, his tone annoyingly similar to Hazel’s when she broke up a dogfight over a squeak toy. “One player ain’t enough to win or lose a game.”
“Don’t waste your breath,” I said, grabbing my towel before making my way to the showers, which were thankfully deserted.
Guys like Austin acted as though I’d violated their trust, broken some sort of code, but it wasn’t like my teammates were saints either. Everyone apart from Logan had some sin marring their record—public intoxication, assault, reckless endangerment. The boys only cared about my fuckup because I’d been caught. Hell, it was practically the league’s motto that anything went as long as no one found out.
Still, with the way the commissioner’s investigation was ramping up, I couldn’t really blame the team for using me as a convenient scapegoat. Not when they were constantly being hounded with questions from the press, not when the Blizzards’ Super Bowl–winning season would be studied and dissected. If the NFL planned to treat me like a blemish that needed to be scrubbed from their otherwise hallowed halls, then how could I blame the guys for following their lead?
I moved under the scalding spray and dropped my chin to my chest, allowing the high-pressure jets to pound against my aching muscles and wash away the beating I’d taken on the field.
“Lalonde, media area. Now.” Offensive Coordinator Ashley’s voice echoed off the tiled walls. Great.
I’d skipped the press conference last week in Tampa Bay—and paid the fine—but there was no weaseling out of it this time. Not after a home game. Kent McDougall himself would drag me in front of the cameras for my public flogging. Whether justified or not, I was required to accept my role in the Blizzards’ disastrous display of football today and do it with a smile on my face.
Dressed in a suit and standing outside the press room, I cracked my knuckles and reminded myself that I was still Chris-fucking-Lalonde. Super Bowl champion. First-round draft pick. NFL leader in catches and receiving yards. Ladies’ man and singer extraordinaire of Disney tunes. I’d been blessed with exactly three gifts in this life—my athleticism, my charisma, and an arrogance that ensured I used both to my advantage. I could handle a few reporters.
I stepped into the room, cameras flashing from every direction, and adjusted the microphone on the podium set up on the stage. And because my day couldn’t get any worse, the lead sportswriter for the Denver Morning News spouted off the first question.
“The crowd was screaming for your blood today, Chris. Did their anger have an impact on why your performance was so subpar?”
Yes.
“No. When you’re down on the field, there’s only energy and noise and fuel for the next play,” I said, not bothering to mask the irritation in my voice. With vultures like Tom Phelps, it was better to shut them down quick and early.
“So it doesn’t bother you why your usually supportive fans are pissed? Whether it’s because you’re a cheater—or a loser?” Tom pressed, because of course he couldn’t leave well enough alone.
I gripped the sides of the podium, so hard my knuckles were white. “Despite the positive result on the drug test, I am confident the commissioner’s investigation will clear me of the allegations.”
Just last week, on the advice of Scott and my NFL Players Association representative, I’d voluntarily submitted myself to another round of blood work and urine samples, all of which had come back clean.
“And for that matter, are you concerned your legacy will be diminished by the investigation into your doping?” he continued.
“Last I checked, one bad season in an almost ten-year career doesn’t ruin a legacy.” At least I hoped it didn’t. Football was everything to me; the only thing waiting for me in retirement was a beer gut and a string of car dealerships with my name on them. The NFL was my whole life. I had to make it count.
“Then how would you categorize all these losses?” he asked, his recorder brandished like a scolding finger. There was something wrong with people like him, who got sick satisfaction out of ripping others apart. He’d relished in tearing Logan down at every opportunity, but I’d largely escaped his notice. Until now.
“As fucking losses, Tom,” I said, not even caring about the fine I was about to be slapped with for cursing on national television. “And yeah, those losses suck. It’s frustrating. But let’s be real—we were always going to have to regroup in the wake of Logan’s departure—”
“ ‘Regroup’ is a nice way of putting it, Chris,” he said. “Because right now, with a two–seven record and from an outsider’s perspective, it seems like this is less an issue of ‘regrouping’ and more an issue of trimming the deadweight and starting fresh, free of aging veterans and expensive egos.”
Did this guy ever quit?
I sighed. “Look, write what you want, Tom, but don’t put words in my mouth. The Blizzards failed to execute out there today. The franchise has young players in several key positions, and teamwork takes time to finesse. We’ll find our groove,” I said, glancing around at faces that had once welcomed me. Now all I saw were adversaries. “Does anyone else have a question?”
“Pro Bowl discussions are beginning. Do you think you deserve an invitation in light of your recent lackluster performances, and do you think your illegal behavior should preclude you from consideration?” asked Wendy, the Colorado Post sportswriter, from the last row of chairs.
“Is that a no, you don’t think you should be invited, or no, you should not be precluded from consideration?” she asked.
“Take it however the hell you want, Wendy,” I said, then promptly exited the stage, earning myself another fine. At this rate, I’d be broke by the end of the season. The coaching staff and front office would scold me later for abruptly ending the interview, but I wasn’t going to continue to stand there and absorb these reporters’ blows.
Pissed off, I walked back through the now-deserted locker room, discarding my jacket and tie in my stall. Normally when I played a shit game, I called my favorite lingerie model-slash-hookup, Stacy Wilson, and we’d burn a few calories and a whole bunch of frustration together. But she’d made it clear last week that she only spent her time with winners, so I guess there was no point reaching out.
Which left me with few options. Drink alone? Go home to an empty mansion I didn’t really like? I could call Gwen, but she was probably at Quince prepping for tonight’s dinner rush. Logan was in New England covering the Patriots-Bengals game for Fox Sports.
My phone buzzed with a text from my mom. I tapped the message icon to find a picture of her kitchen counter littered with everything needed to whip up a tray of Fruity Pebbles marshmallow treats—the only food apart from peanut butter and jelly she could cook. Since my peewee football years, my mom had prepared those delicious confections whenever I’d lost a game or played like crap. And still to this day, I loved everything about our ritual and those cereal treats—the bright colors, the sugar, the way they made me feel like a kid again. As irritated and pissed off as I felt, my lips twitched with the ghost of an old familiar smile. At least I had one good thing to look forward to later.
I typed a quick reply to my mom, telling her I’d drop by her house tomorrow, then got in my car with no particular destination in mind, utterly surprised when half an hour later I pulled into the parking lot at Rescue Granted. Sure. Why not. It was, after all, a haven for the sad and pathetic. I’d fit right in.
I killed the engine and went through the staff entrance around the back. In the office, Penny was filing paperwork in the cabinet behind her desk. I knocked on the doorframe.
Turning around, Penny smiled, did her usual eye dance over my body, and said, “You’re not on the schedule until tomorrow.”
“I know. I was in the area, so I’d figured I’d swing by,” I said, glancing around the room to prevent her from reading the lie on my face.
“Well, Hazel’s not here at the moment. She’s at one of our clinic partners picking up Snowcone, a Maltipoo,” she said, shoving a drawer closed with her hip. “But since you’re here, Waffles could use an extra wander around in the yard.”
I grabbed a green leash with geckos on it off the hook and headed into the rehabilitation area. Show tunes were playing on the boom box today, and I looked into Olive’s kennel hoping to find her freckled muzzle sticking out from beneath the bed, but she was nowhere to be seen. I’d coax her all the way out eventually—I just had to be patient.
I rolled up my shirtsleeves and moved over to Waffles’ kennel. He was conked out in the middle of the floor, sleeping on his side with his missing leg facing the ceiling, and surrounded by plastic bones. Damn, the little Westie could snore louder than dogs three times his size. I could only imagine the sort of dreams he was having.
I rattled the wire on his crate. “Come on, Waffles. Let’s go chase some chickens.”
At the sound of my voice, he perked up, tongue lolling to one side and tail wagging, and he trotted over to the door as if being a three-legged creature had never slowed him down. The sound of the door unlatching sent Waffles into a frenzy of barking and jumping.
“Hold your horses. I need to get this on you first,” I said, pulling him out and securing the leash to his collar. As I relocked his kennel, Waffles nearly ripped my arm out of its socket with his tugging and scrambling toward the yard entrance. With this level of excitement, one would think he was headed to Disney’s Animal Kingdom.
I followed Waffles outside and over to the grassy area, which was flanked by trees on all sides. It’d warmed up slightly from this morning, and the sky was so bright and blue it was hard to believe it was November. The scent of dead leaves in the air was the only clue that fall was here to stay.
Giving a big lead on his leash, I waited for him to do his thing. The dog spent more time circling and sniffing for a space to squat than I spent picking up a woman, which, now that I considered it, was probably more of an indication of my personal habits than his. But seriously, would Waffles just find a damn spot to pee already?
“What’s the deal, bud? This yard not good enough for you?” I asked.
He looked at me, his big brown eyes suddenly interested, and ran over to where I was standing. He sniffed around my shoe, then pawed at my leg like he wanted his ears scratched. I figured one of us should feel better, but as I bent down to pet him, he leaned to his left and whizzed all over my tailor-cut pants.
“Hey! A little warning next time, Waffles!” I groaned, hauling him back inside so I could clean up. This was exactly why I didn’t do dogs.
Locking him in his kennel, I used the sink in the storage area to wipe off the urine as best I could, but damn, the fabric smelled like rotten asparagus. What in the hell had Waffles been drinking? Though after the day I’d had, I didn’t know why I was surprised a dog had pissed on me. It was Crap on Chris day, after all, and this episode was just the cherry on top. But spotting what looked like a container of gingerbread cookies on one of the shelves immediately made me feel better. Maybe my luck is changing, I thought.
Stealing the plastic container, I headed back into the rehab area and sat with my back against Olive’s kennel. I popped the lid off, and the smell of cinnamon and pumpkin hit my nose, making my mouth water. After games, I typically consumed my weight in steak, but I hadn’t felt hungry until now. The cookies were shaped like bones and fire hydrants, and I wondered if Hazel baked in her spare time to alleviate stress. I could think of better, more physical ways to relieve anxiety, but who was I to judge?
I took a bite, then another. The texture was a little hard and crumbly, but the flavor, more savory than sweet, reminded me of the treats Gwen used to whip up every Thanksgiving when we were kids.
“You know what you need, Olive? A mantra,” I said, breaking off some cookie and tossing it into her kennel. I heard shuffling, and when I peered over my shoulder, I noticed the piece was gone. “Mine’s FIGJAM. Stands for ‘fuck, I’m good, just ask me.’ ”
Olive snorted, clearly unimpressed, and I had to admit that it sounded ridiculous to my own ears, too.
“I think that might be a bit advanced for you though. Too many letters.” I tossed in another chunk, bigger this time. Olive crawled out to snatch it, but before she could hide again, I reached into the container for a fresh cookie and dropped the whole thing into Olive’s kennel, right on the other side of where I was seated, forcing her to come over to me if she wanted to eat it. “How about BWE, short for ‘best wingwoman ever’?”
Olive shimmied from nose to tail, gaze glued on the cookie, then huffed and stared up at me with big sad eyes.
“Wingwoman’s gotta fly, kid,” I said.
She huffed again, then belly-crawled forward, her tail thumping against the kennel floor, before she began nibbling.
“See, best wingwoman ever,” I continued, mentally doing a happy dance. Not only had I persuaded her out from under the bed, but she was close enough for me to touch. And now that I was staring into those huge brown eyes that bulged out of her little round head, I was rethinking my stance on dogs being little more than destructive drool machines. Because Olive? She was certainly cuter than the chubby baby Logan and my sister were bound to produce eventually. “With your teddy bear face and my charm, we could walk into any bar and I could pick up any woman.”
“Any woman?”
I immediately dropped the nearly finished cookie into my lap at the sound of Hazel’s voice and met her gaze. One of her eyebrows was raised in a challenge.
“Yep, any woman. Even you, stubborn Hazel Grant.” I tore off another bite of cookie and chewed gleefully, relishing in the way her cheeks had turned red. Whether she wanted to admit it or not, Hazel was feeling some feelings about dear ol’ me.
She glanced at Olive lying on the floor near her kennel door but didn’t comment. Still, I could tell Hazel was impressed by the way her mouth quirked up on one side.
“Why do you smell like urine?” she asked, scrunching up her nose and scrutinizing my appearance.
“I’m having a rough go of it, okay?” I said, mock affronted. In reality, my day had just gotten a whole lot better with her arrival. She was wearing those jeans I loved, the ones that invited me to imagine how the fabric would feel against my fingers as I peeled the denim over curves that had me picturing all the ways Hazel Grant could be a handful.
“And those dog biscuits are making it better?”
I frowned, studying the treat in my hand. “Dog biscuits? These are gingerbread cookies . . .”
Hazel laughed and shook her head, her honey-blond hair glimmering under the fluorescent lights. “Hate to break it to you, champ, but things are about to get worse for you. Those are homemade dog biscuits—a recipe I’m trying to help loosen Olive’s bowels. She’s been constipated lately.”
“You’re kidding, right?” I asked, horrified.
“Well, about the digestive part, yes,” Hazel said with a wink. Damn, she was beautiful when she joked around. “But you’re still eating dog treats.”
“Well, whatever, they’re tasty.” I pitched the rest of the biscuit into the air, catching it in my mouth and polishing it off in one gulp.
“Thank you,” she murmured, voice quiet. Hazel stuffed her hands into her pockets and leaned against Sausage and Beans’ kennel, looking everywhere other than at me, as though she was self-conscious of the compliment.
“Well, if you’re interested in thanking me properly, I’ve got a few suggestions for some workplace incentives you could implement,” I said, wiggling my brows.
Hazel sighed. “You can’t seriously believe that will work on me.”
“No, but I figured everyone else has shot me down today, so why deny you the thrill?” I shrugged.
She rolled her eyes, muttered something to herself, then said, “Oh, for heaven’s sake, get up off the floor and come with me.”
“Where are we going?” I asked, standing and brushing the crumbs off my pants.
“Somewhere that will cheer you up—I can’t have you acting all mopey and pathetic around the dogs. But this is not a date, Lalonde. We’re splitting the check and driving in separate cars.”
Then Hazel turned and walked toward the direction of the office, and I grinned at Olive over my shoulder. FIGJAM and BWE for the win.