CHAPTER SEVEN
Chris
Multicolored searchlights cut across the night sky as I pulled up to the Ellie Caulkins Opera House at the Denver Performing Arts Complex. The organizers of the annual Blizzards’ Wish Upon a Star charity gala benefiting local at-risk youth programs had truly outdone themselves this year with its Great Gatsby theme.
Black-and-gold hanging glass orbs, string lights, and large art deco prints embellished the building’s entrance. Partygoers dressed in Roaring Twenties formal attire walked the red carpet, jazz music competing with the clamoring of the press line.
Cameras flashed as I exited my convertible, bright enough to blind but not strong enough to cut through my confidence as I pushed to the front of the crowd. I rolled my shoulders beneath my tux, glued on my signature winning grin, and stepped onto the red carpet, the sound of my name bombarding me from all around.
“Chris! Flying solo on this Saturday night?”
“Chris, which designer are you wearing?”
“Chris, how much do you intend to donate?”
“Chris, I hear Kent McDougall put you in the doghouse!” shouted Darryl Dixon, an ESPN writer.
I paused, uncertain what he was referring to. Then it clicked. “I’m assuming you’re referring to me volunteering at a local dog shelter?”
He nodded. “Seems like an odd choice for a guy who usually spends his time on more visible causes.”
“As you know, the Blizzards have always been pro community outreach—I just happen to be shaking paws instead of shaking hands,” I replied. “And who doesn’t love a dog?”
Kent might have sent me to Rescue Granted as a punishment, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t use the opportunity to my advantage. If me being seen holding every discarded, mangy, flea-bitten charity case I could find looked positive to the press and put me back into the fans’ good graces, so be it. And besides, Kent had practically instructed me to do just that. I was merely following orders.
“I imagine a number of your ex-girlfriends!” Darryl yelled back with a laugh. He held out a microphone and shifted to the side slightly so the cameras behind him could capture my angry expression they’d hoped would be induced by such a rude comment. For once I was happy to disappoint.
I squared off my posture, my smile growing wider despite the annoyance swirling in my stomach. “True story, Darryl. But spending time at Rescue Granted has been a good reprieve for me. The dogs are enthusiastic and undemanding, and that’s a mind-set I can appreciate.”
Then before Darryl could inquire about my shitty playing as of late and the doping allegations, I continued moving down the red carpet, posing for photographs and ignoring questions.
Ordinarily I liked attending charity functions—they guaranteed great exposure, free booze, and ample opportunities to schmooze and be schmoozed—but I wanted the hell away from here. This sort of red carpet publicity was enjoyable only when people loved you, and right now I was still considered enemy number one in the eyes of both Colorado fans and the media. Short of showing up with a cancer patient as my date and a rehabilitated Yorkie in my pocket, nothing I did tonight was going to improve my image. So, yeah, though I normally savored the limelight, tonight I’d rather be shoveling dog shit.
I hadn’t spoken more than a passing hello to Hazel since Casa Bonita—she’d either been away from the shelter or swamped with various tasks during my volunteer shifts—and more than once I’d wondered if she was purposely avoiding me. Still, even if that kiss hadn’t meant anything to her, it definitely meant something to me.
There was something about the way she’d seized the moment, even if I’d had to coax her into it. The way she’d grabbed the fabric of my shirt in her fists. The way her mouth had slid over mine, stoking a hunger I still wasn’t sure what to do with. I’d always been about the quick hit, the fast fix. But with Hazel I wanted to slow things down, take my time, enjoy every single facet of her.
As I was nearing the opera house doors, Andrea Williams—gossip columnist for the Colorado Post and top billing on my shit list for the bogus article she’d written about Gwen sleeping her way into the executive chef position at Stonestreet’s restaurant last year—stepped out of the line and blocked my path. The woman had never respected boundaries.
“Can I get a quote about your breakup, Chris?” she asked, shoving a recorder in my face.
“Excuse me?” I asked.
Andrea’s smile unfurled, slow and steady, her gaze turning hard and calculating—a viper preparing to strike. “Well, it’s just that of all the sordid relationships in this town destined for failure, the bromance between you and Logan Stonestreet appeared set in stone. But based on his harsh criticisms of you during his most recent Fox Sports broadcast, it seems as if there’s trouble in friendship paradise.”
At her words, anger slashed through me. I’d spent most of the day working through my fury where Logan was concerned, aware that I’d be seeing him tonight and needed to act nice, but here it was again, flaring my nerves and forcing me to wrestle for patience.
“Logan has a job to do,” I stated without emotion.
“Ah, the old ‘just doing his job’ adage used by jilted wives the world over.” She smirked. “Honestly, Chris, I expected more than platitudes and a meek surrender from you.”
“Perhaps you should become accustomed to dashed expectations, Andrea. Though, I guess you should have already learned that lesson after all the false accusations you made about my sister,” I said, thankful that Gwen was working at Quince tonight instead of being subjected to this leech. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to get inside.”
I stepped past her, rolling my neck from side to side in an attempt to soothe my temper. But as soon as I walked into the glass and marble lobby and spotted Logan on one of the grand staircases laughing and carrying on with Coaches Wallace and Ashley as though he didn’t have a care in the world, the anger returned stronger than ever.
Grabbing a cocktail off a server’s tray, I strolled up to him. “If it isn’t television’s favorite sports broadcaster.”
Logan smiled and slapped me on the shoulder. “About time you showed up, Lalonde. We were just talking about the Blizzards’ season so far.”
I nodded at Coach Wallace, who simply grunted in response, and Coach Ashley, who did nothing in acknowledgment, then refocused my attention on Stonestreet. “You mean you were discussing how the season will end.”
A wrinkle formed between his brows, like he honestly didn’t have a clue what I was referring to, like he couldn’t remember his own damn on-air commentary.
“Messy and disappointing, especially if I don’t get my act together and begin catching balls. Isn’t that what you said during your broadcast?” I swallowed half my gin rickey, the alcohol burning my throat.
Logan muttered toward the other gentlemen, “Excuse us a moment,” and gestured with his chin for me to go with him. Why did it feel like I was always following in Stonestreet’s shadow?
He moved to the quieter, less crowded upper level and stopped in an alcove beside the blackjack area. “What’s your problem tonight?”
“What’s my problem? How about the fact that you’re my best friend? Or the fact that you’re supposed to be on my side instead of the latest in a long line of NFL color commentators selling out their former teammates for a gig at Fox Sports? So much for loyalty,” I said, my voice growing louder.
Logan sighed and raked a hand through his hair. “Frankly, I was being generous. You completely fell apart on the field. And besides, you know I have to be objective and call out a player’s performance as I see it.”
I shook my head. “Yeah, well, your ‘objectivity’ only served to fuel the fans’ rage. I have a fucking target on me!” I was nearly shouting, but I didn’t care about the surrounding stares or the whispers.
“My comments aren’t the reason the fans despise you, Chris,” Logan said quietly. His gaze flicked over me, a glint of scorn in his eyes. “You have the pills to thank for that.”
“So after weeks of silence, you finally put it out there.”
I figured he’d thought the accusations were overblown, which is why he’d stayed quiet, but the hardness in his expression indicated otherwise.
“Should I not have?” he asked. “Your actions cast doubt on our championship, painting all of us as cheaters who would do anything to win.”
“All of us, Stonestreet? You shafted your team the second you slipped on that Super Bowl ring, but here you are, still the league’s golden child.”
“Because I played with some goddamn integrity rather than only looking out for myself,” he said, his tone sharp. “You’ve always believed that rules and consequences don’t apply to you, that you’re above it all, but you’re not immune.”
“Yeah, well, with friends like you, I guess I was right to protect my best interests,” I said, my heart beating hard against my ribs. “After all, since the moment you retired that’s all you seem to be concerned about. Advancing number one.”
Logan crossed his arms over his chest, jaw set. “You know what, Chris? If I were you, I’d spend less time worrying about my career and a little more time salvaging your own.”
With a disdainful glance, he walked away. I flexed my fingers, balling them into fists in an effort to rein myself in. The last thing I wanted to do was instigate a fight. I polished off the gin rickey and tossed the highball into a trash can, relishing in the sound of the glass shattering.
“Well, that was dramatic.”
I turned to find Hazel lingering at the entrance to the silent auction, a small smile quirking her mouth. Her sudden appearance should have been irritating. One more person to witness my juvenile temper tantrum, and yet the fury and frustration that’d been coiling my muscles from the moment I’d arrived slipped from me like water. I closed the distance between us, and inhaling the scent of her—orange and sandalwood and something floral—I took my first deep, calming breath of the evening.
“Do you want to talk about that confrontation just now?” she asked, adjusting the shawl draped around her shoulders. Dressed in a champagne-colored sleeveless vintage gown, Hazel looked as though she’d stepped right out of the pages of the F. Scott Fitzgerald novel that had inspired tonight’s event. She wore a beaded gold headband around her forehead, which sparkled under the party lights.
“Not in the slightest,” I said, thankful there didn’t seem to be any awkwardness between us, no hesitation or regret etched in her features. “I must admit I’m surprised you’re at a function like this. Doesn’t really seem like your scene.”
“Rescue Granted partners with many of the at-risk youth programs being supported tonight. We work with the organizations to match dogs with children who require extra help and care,” she said. “And while I’m not exactly comfortable at events like this, exposure and networking are a huge part of any charitable foundation. The shelter needs donations, so unlike you, I actually have to be here.”
This wasn’t the first time Hazel had commented about how Rescue Granted struggled to obtain funding, and I wondered how much money it took to run an operation like hers—or how often she worried about keeping the dogs fed and the electricity on.
“Anyway, this is my fifth time attending,” she continued.
Same as me. I had no idea how I could have missed her at the gala all these years. Though, if I were honest, I’d probably been so wrapped up in the Chris Lalonde Show to pay much attention to anything—or anyone—else.
“If you’re curious as to why you’ve never noticed me here before,” she said, as if reading my thoughts, “it’s because my mother is usually my date. She hates crowds, so we tend to stay away from the dance floor and near the dessert station before ducking out early.” Those words uttered by anyone else would sound sad, lonely even, but coming from Hazel, they sounded refreshingly honest.
“Your mother didn’t join you this year?” I asked.
“She wasn’t feeling up to it. And anyway, I figured you’d be here and maybe we could . . .” Hazel trailed off and glanced away, red crawling up her neck and flooding her cheeks. I never pictured her as someone who got embarrassed easily, and I realized her admitting she’d showed up tonight hoping to see me had embarrassed her.
“You mean to tell me you’ve discovered a place where you can smuggle dessert and become invisible?” I brushed a lock of hair away from her face. “You’ve been holding out on me, Grant, but how about we change that right now? You feeling daring?”
Hazel rolled her eyes. “I’m not getting naked with you at this event, Lalonde.”
I laughed. “I love where your mind is at, but come on, you can help me keep track of the blackjack cards.” I linked my arm with hers and guided her toward the poker tables. “Lord knows I can’t count to twenty-one on my own.”
Shaking her head, she said, “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Tear yourself down. Make yourself out to be something you aren’t just because people expect it of you. You don’t owe anyone that, Chris. Most of all yourself.”
I waited for the punch line, for some indication she was joking. But as I studied Hazel’s gaze, all I saw in the depths of her green eyes was pure sincerity. I swallowed hard, all my practiced charm and witty banter drying up under her careful regard.
I wasn’t sure if it was the nature of what she’d said or the fact that never, in the entire course of my memory, could I recall someone implying that I was anything other than a dumb jock with an overdeveloped set of muscles. Either way, her statements both unnerved and grounded me.
“You’re beautiful, Hazel,” I said, because I didn’t know how else to respond and because it was true. I slid my hand to the small of her back, my fingers spreading automatically, my palm strangely clammy.
Escorting us into the blackjack area, I snatched an old-fashioned off a passing tray, paid the thousand-dollar entry fee at the check-in booth, and collected my chips. All buy-ins were added to the gala’s fund-raising total, and based on the numerous games in progress, this year’s event was likely to break the donation record.
Weaving our way through the crowd, I asked Hazel if she wanted to play. “I’ll cover the fee, really, I don’t mind.”
“Oh no. I’m not cut out for gambling. I’ll keep you company, blow on something for luck.” An amused smile spread across her face as I stumbled at her innuendo. Hazel dipped her chin and said, “That table’s mostly empty.”
Tongue-tied and thoroughly distracted, I followed her to the far side of the room, placed the tray of chips down on the green felt, and pulled out a chair for her.
“I prefer to stand,” she said, squeezing my arm. “Go ahead. Show me your skills.”
I settled into a seat and bet two hundred dollars, the dealer doling me out an eight and a ten. “What do you think, Grant? Hit or stay?”
Leaning forward, Hazel peered over my shoulder, her cheek grazing mine, and without hesitation said, “You’re always telling me to live a little. Take the hit.”
“You heard the lady,” I told the dealer, tapping the table beside my cards.
“Now, Hazel, don’t go encouraging my players to take hits off the field,” Kent McDougall said with an easy laugh, plopping into the chair next to me. “Actually, don’t encourage my wide receivers to take hits on the field either.”
“I’ll drink to that,” I said, sipping my old-fashioned, as the dealer laid down a three of clubs—blackjack—and pushed chips in my direction in acknowledgment of my win against the house. Well, I’ll be damned. Hazel was like my own personal four-leaf clover.
“So,” Kent said, flinging some chips onto the table, “how are things going at the shelter?”
“The owner’s a real slave driver.” I turned and winked at Hazel, then placed my own bet. “But I’m enjoying it.”
Kent chuckled. “That’s my niece for you.”
“Your niece?” I choked out.
Kent nodded. “I knew Hazel would whip you into shape, keep tabs on you for me. That’s why I had you volunteer at Rescue Granted. With Hazel at the helm, you toe the line or you regret it. Frankly, I’ve never met a tougher taskmaster—if only I could get her more involved in the franchise, she’d slay the special teams. And from everything Hazel’s told me, you’re mostly behaving.”
“Mostly?” I asked as the dealer put a five and an ace in front of me. They might as well have been tarot cards—I had no idea what to do with them. I couldn’t get past the revelation that Hazel was Kent’s niece. Suddenly every interaction we’d ever had spun through my mind, all the smart-ass remarks and inappropriate lines I’d made that should have gotten me fired but somehow didn’t.
Why had she never told me that Kent McDougall was her uncle? She’d had ample chances. And based on the way her eyes were darting around the room, she knew it.
“From what I understand, you arrived almost an hour late to a few of your shifts this past week,” he said, scowling at the ten and six he’d been dealt. “Chris, I shouldn’t have to reiterate how I feel about that sort of disrespect, especially when it involves my family. Or how it might affect your position on the team. You’re in enough hot water as it is. But the gala isn’t the appropriate venue for that discussion.”
I peered at Hazel, not believing she’d actually tattled on me to her uncle. Yeah, I’d been late a few times. Sue me. But between volunteering at the shelter and my crazy, nonstop schedule of two-a-day practices, physical therapy, and analyzing film, I’d barely been able to keep my head on straight.
“My agent assures me the bad press will blow over once the report from the commissioner’s office is released,” I told Kent, half meaning it. While Scott was certain no penalty or charges would be brought against me, the current season was a disaster with no relief in sight. I hadn’t worked this hard and for this long for such an embarrassing final outcome. Especially not on the shoulders of last year’s championship.
“Maybe. But it won’t actually matter until a certain wide receiver’s fundamental behavior has changed,” Kent said, leveling me with a pointed stare. “And your attitude and actions are changing. Aren’t they, Chris?”
“Under the critical eye of your oh-so-diligent and loyal niece, how could they not be? Hazel’s the taskmaster, after all.” I pasted on a grin, as brittle and wide as my resentment. I’d been stupid to forget that at the end of the day everyone expected me to fail, maybe even wanted it. Including Hazel, apparently. “But I think I’ll try my luck at something else. Excuse me.” Throwing back the remainder of my drink, I stood and swept past Hazel without a second glance, leaving my tray of chips.
I was almost to the grand staircase when a hand gripped my shoulder. “Chris, wait. I didn’t tell my uncle about you showing up late to make things harder for you.”
“It doesn’t matter, so don’t worry about it,” I said, shrugging her off.
The anger I’d felt earlier in the night flooded back, tinged with a betrayal I was only now beginning to process. Of all the things Hazel could have told Kent, she’d focused on the negatives. I’d gotten no credit for completing my tasks quickly and diligently. No acknowledgment of the progress I’d achieved with Olive. I shouldn’t have been surprised, but I thought Hazel wasn’t like the vultures dressed in press badges who relished in witnessing me screw up.
Hazel sighed, as if I was being the unreasonable one, no trace of regret on her face. “Believe it or not, I was looking out for your best interests.”
I laughed, but there was no warmth in it. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Andrea Williams stalking around, no doubt on the hunt for a drunken celebrity to do something worthy of reporting. And heck, I was nothing if not accommodating. I wouldn’t be the number one FIGJAM otherwise.
“Oh, your concern is my best interest, Hazel? In that case, here’s a golden opportunity.” I grasped her elbow and led us straight into the path of Andrea Williams, who practically tripped over her photographer when she saw us approaching. “Always a pleasure to bump into you, Andrea.” The woman might be a shark who could smell blood in the water, but she also had the capability to swing public opinion back in my favor.
“Well, hello, Chris. I inquired earlier about your breakup with Logan, but perhaps I should have asked about your other . . . extracurricular activities,” she said, holding out a recorder and scrutinizing Hazel like she couldn’t quite believe Hazel, of all people, had caught my attention. “I’d accuse you of developing better taste in women, but given your track record of vapid models and flighty actresses, I suspect there’s something more pedestrian at play for you to be fraternizing with Kent McDougall’s niece. So which is it, social climbing or sucking up to the boss?”
“Why not both? Besides, haven’t you heard? I’m turning over a new leaf these days.”
Andrea mmm-hmmed. “That’s interesting. I assumed the rumors about you volunteering at Rescue Granted were simply that, but it appears I was wrong. It’s a solid PR stunt and reputation builder, Lalonde. I’ll give you that.”
“My shelter is not a PR stunt—” Hazel interjected, but before she could elaborate, I cut her off.
“What can I say? I only support the best. And no person is better at rehabilitating mutts than this woman.” I draped an arm around Hazel’s shoulders. She stiffened beside me, and I felt her eyes glaring at me, intense enough to burn holes into my tuxedo jacket, but I kept my attention on Andrea.
The same snakelike smile she’d shown on the red carpet spread across Andrea’s face. “Rehabilitating? Is that what we’re calling taking pity on the arrogant and decrepit these days?”
My blood simmered at her insult, but I forced my posture to remain relaxed, my tone casual. “Eh, Hazel doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, I think she kinda likes my cockiness and the fact that I’m rough around the edges. Ain’t that right?” I pulled Hazel against me and, in a last-second decision, pressed my mouth against hers.
Hazel’s whole body froze, from the unexpectedness of the kiss or the boldness of it, I wasn’t sure. I rested my palms on her waist, and for a moment, she leaned into me. But then a camera flashed around us, and the sudden brightness seemed to wake her up. Hazel dug her fingers into my chest and shoved me away—hard—storming off before I could fully realize what was happening.
Andrea clicked off her recorder and smirked. “I guess Kent McDougall’s niece minds a little.”
I wanted to tell her to fuck off, but I bit my tongue and went in the direction Hazel had disappeared, ignoring the spiteful wave Andrea gave as a parting dig. I found Hazel pacing back and forth in a secluded corner of the mezzanine. She’d removed her gold headband and was toying restlessly with it in her hands, crystal beads scattered on the floor.
“What in the hell was that about, Chris?” she shouted, rounding on me.
At the venom in her voice—loud and sharp and foreign—guilt stabbed my stomach, but it wasn’t enough to get rid of the anger still pulsing through me.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Are you purposely acting dense to be an asshole?” she asked.
Yes. “What?” I shrugged and raked fingers through my hair. “I have an image problem, one you can help fix. That’s the whole point of this arrangement, isn’t it?”
“This arrangement?” she asked.
“Yeah. Why I’m at Rescue Granted in the first place. So you can record my every wrong move and report it to Kent.”
Hazel’s expression twisted, clearly taken aback. “You dragged me over to the photographers and embarrassed me in front of Andrea Williams because I told my uncle you were late? Surely you can’t be that childish or insecure, Chris.”
“I don’t understand the issue. You scratch my back and I scratch yours. My volunteering at the shelter makes me appear like a team player and repairs my reputation, and my presence brings visibility to your cause. It’s a win-win.”
“My cause? Landing that kiss on me the way you did somehow aids my cause?” she yelled, throwing her hands up as if she couldn’t comprehend the words coming out of my mouth.
I crossed my arms over my chest. “You didn’t seem to have any complaints regarding my advances at Casa Bonita the other night.”
The look in Hazel’s eyes, like I’d stolen something precious and personal between us and ruined it, sent a surge of disgust through me. I’d crossed the line, and I hated myself for it. Frankly, I was surprised she hadn’t slapped me for my comment.
“Don’t you ever put me in that kind of position again. Ever.” Hazel bent the gold headband in her hands, nearly breaking it in half. “I should have never dropped my guard around you.” She shook her head. “I was an idiot for believing you might actually be enjoying the time you spend at the shelter, and that you’re a different person from the one you present to your adoring fans. Silly me. Turns out you’re exactly the person I feared you were.”
Then she spun on her heel, leaving me standing alone and feeling hollow inside.