Kitabı oku: «Devoted to Drew»

CHAPTER ONE

LOGAN’S STOMACH HAD been in knots since the day before yesterday, when the general manager’s executive assistant had called to schedule this appointment. Now, as he walked through the door, the receptionist’s smile—something between pity and dismay—told him contract addendums and codicils had nothing to do with the meeting.

“I know I’m early,” he said, “but any way Fletcher will see me now?”

Mandy’s I-feel-so-so-sorry-for-you expression intensified. “Sorry, Mr. Murray, but he left explicit instructions that they weren’t to be disturbed.”

“They?”

She shot a glance toward the door. “Just the coaches and the doctors.”

Just the coaches and doctors. Plural. His heart beat a little harder as he admitted that he had no one but himself to blame. If he hadn’t gone ballistic when that last concussion put him on the injured list, they might not feel it necessary to gang up on him this time.

“It shouldn’t be much longer,” she added. “Can I get you something to drink while you’re waiting?”

In other words, sit tight and keep your mouth shut, like a kid sent to the principal’s office for acting up in class.

“Thanks, but I’m fine.” In truth, he was anything but. He couldn’t remember a headache this bad. Couldn’t concentrate. Couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t hold down anything heavier than soup. Couldn’t admit any of it to the guys on the other side of that door.

The phone on Mandy’s desk beeped, startling him. Logan added “jumpy” to his list of complaints.

“Yessir, right away,” Mandy said. Then, “You can go in now, Mr. Murray.”

He was halfway to the door when she added, “Can I at least bring you a bottle of water?”

Logan wondered what sort of Logan Murray gossip had prompted her concerned tone. “Sure. Sounds good,” he said. “And please call me Logan.”

As he entered Stan Fletcher’s office, the five men who’d gathered to decide his fate stood: the general manager, head coach, doctor, team psychologist and offensive coordinator. Logan hoped, as he shook each extended hand, that they wouldn’t notice the tremors pulsing from his hard-beating heart to his fingertips. His agent was in New York, celebrating...wedding anniversary? Wife’s birthday? Logan only knew that he’d walked into this meeting alone and unprepared.

The GM pointed at the chair nearest his own. “Take a load off, son.”

Logan sat in a buttery leather wingback and did his best to look at ease, despite a strange new empathy for Daniel in the lions’ den. Three quick knocks cracked the prickly silence, and Mandy joined them, carrying a cobalt-blue water bottle.

“Here you go, Mr. Mur— Logan.”

“Thanks, Mandy,” he said, taking it. Once the door closed quietly behind her, Doc Dickerson broke the brittle silence.

“So. Logan. How’s the head?”

He nodded. Smiled. Pretended the team doctor’s bedside manner didn’t need fine-tuning.

“Good,” he lied, propping an ankle on a knee. “Fine. Never better.”

“I’m surprised to hear that, frankly.” He got up and handed Logan a large manila envelope.

He willed his hands not to shake as he removed CT scans and X-rays. “Might as well be reading hieroglyphics,” he admitted, holding the films up to the light. He’d seen enough of these things during the course of his career to know how to read and interpret them. But this time, his eyes refused to focus.

“This is your third Grade 3 concussion,” Gerard continued. And, as if to soften the blow he was about to deliver, the doctor added, “That hit you took when we played the Steelers? One of the worst I’ve seen in my career.”

No one, not the men on the field or fans in the stands that day, would deny it. Neither would anyone who’d seen replays on the news. The ensuing pressure had compelled the Knights’ high muckety-mucks to call in a neuropsychologist. Logan wondered why he wasn’t now present to reiterate the results of the California Verbal, Rey Auditory, Benton Visual Retention and the Stroop Cognitive tests. Clearly, the sole purpose of this summit was to use the test results to sideline him for a couple of games. Much as he hated the idea, it beat the heck out of the alternative. Logan decided to take it on the chin, without complaint.

Gerard returned to his seat as Fletcher said, “I know it seems coldhearted, dumping the decision on you this way, but I’m afraid that Steelers game was your last.”

Logan’s heart pounded harder. He sat up straighter. Surely he didn’t mean...

“Last game of the season, right?”

The GM slowly shook his head.

His mouth went dry. What’s with the dramatic pause? Logan wondered, uncapping the water bottle. Giving me time to let the inevitable sink in?

“You’re welcome to take the films and test results to outside specialists for confirmation,” Fletcher said, “but you should know, we’ve already consulted with the best in the area...”

Logan took a sip of water as Gerard put in, “...and they all concur.”

Logan swallowed. Hard. His powers of concentration had been off since the hit. Had he missed a sentence or two? Because surely they weren’t trying to tell him that his days as an NFL quarterback were over. He had two more years on his contract. And he’d bounced back from Grade 3 concussions before. Twice before, to be precise.

He faced the head coach, a man he’d come to think of as a friend. “Are they saying what I think they’re saying?”

Hildebrand exhaled a shaky sigh. “’Fraid so, pal.”

Now the offensive coordinator chimed in with, “Believe me, Logan, this isn’t something we want to do.” A furrow formed on his brow. “You’re the best QB in the league, and it’s gonna kill us to lose you.”

He’d gone toe to toe with Richards nearly every play of every game, all three of his years as the Knights’ first-string quarterback. The man was stubborn, but his straightforward honesty had earned Logan’s respect. It was the only thing that kept him from lashing out, the way he had last time when they’d put him on the disabled list.

“You’re awfully quiet,” Logan told the team psychologist. “Waiting till I blow my stack before you put in your two cents?”

O’Riley quirked an eyebrow. “Are you feeling the need to blow your stack?”

Groaning inwardly, Logan ran a hand through his hair. “Save the shrink-speak for one of your other nutcases, and give it to me straight.”

“Dr. Gerard already gave it to you straight. you’ve played your last game.”

They took turns spouting excuses and rationalizations, but Gerard’s was the only explanation that stuck in his dizzy, throbbing head: “The next Grade 3 could cause significant, irreversible brain damage. Worse, it could kill you.”

In the demoralizing hush that followed, Logan heard Gerard’s wristwatch counting out the seconds, each tick hammering home the inevitable. But his career didn’t have to be over. He was young. Physically fit. He could rebound, as he had before, if they’d give him one more chance.

“I’ll sign a waiver,” he blurted, leaning forward in the chair, “absolving the Knights from any responsibility if—”

“It’s not just the liability,” Fletcher injected. “We’re talking about your life here. The team’s reputation. Fan expectation.” He exhaled a heavy sigh. “Bottom line, the decision is best for everyone. You, primarily.”

Their monotone voices and deadpan expressions underscored O’Riley’s hard words: You’ve played your last game.

He stared at the toes of his Crockett & Jones loafers. Without football, what did he have? A big house in exclusive The Preserve development, filled with designer clothes, a three-car garage where his 1955 Corvette and James Bond–like Aston Martin flanked a Harley-Davidson V-Rod. And without football, what would he do? During the season, he gave 100 percent on the field; in the off-season, he trained, studied opposing teams and basked in the media spotlight—attention that inspired half a dozen national magazines to name him Bachelor of the Year. These past three and a half years, the game hadn’t just provided for him, it had defined him.

If he sat for one more second, he’d lose it. For a moment, Logan wished he was that troublemaking student, waiting outside the principal’s office. A boy could cry when he heard his punishment, but a big tough football player?

He stood, then walked out of the office without a word...because he couldn’t talk around the aching sob in his throat. Stunned, he stood swaying just beyond the door’s threshold.

“Hey, son,” the GM called after him. “You okay?”

And then he heard the shrink say, “Let him go.”

“It’s a lot for a kid his age to absorb,” Richards put in.

He was twenty-five. How old would he have to be before they stopped calling him a kid?

“Give him time,” Gerard added. “He’ll come around.”

Logan wasn’t at all sure that was possible. As he passed Mandy’s desk, she pressed a hand to her chest and whispered, “I’m so sorry.”

Was it really possible that in a matter of minutes he’d gone from being a celebrity athlete to an object of pity? Judging by the receptionist’s concerned expression, he had. Nodding, Logan sent her a feeble, shaky smile and hurried to the parking lot, where he sat, silent, and stared through the windshield of his prized sports car.

He thought about calling Willow to let her know what had happened. No...he needed to get his head on straight first. The news would shatter his soon-to-be wife, and he’d need his wits about him to put her back together again. A spiteful thought flitted through his head: if she really loved him, shouldn’t it be the other way around?

Movement to his right stunned him back to the here and now. After the SUV’s driver backed out of his slot, Logan fired up his engine and peeled out of the lot, swerving in and out of traffic as he raced up Russell Street.

Until flashing lights and a siren stopped him.

And a policewoman stepped up beside the car.

“License and registration, please.”

He rummaged through the glove box and his wallet, found what he needed and handed them to her. Before she looked at either, she grinned.

“Logan Murray?” She read the identification while he read her name tag: Mullins.

“The Logan Murray?”

And so the pendulum swings back to celebrity athlete, he thought.

“Are you aware that you were doing sixty-five in a forty-mile-per-hour zone?”

“Really?”

“Really.”

He tapped the steering wheel. “Sometimes this baby has a mind of its own.”

She returned the documents, put one hand on top of his car and said, “You’d better learn to control her, or people might get the impression that all that stuff in the papers is true.”

Which stuff? he wondered. The “Murray Moves Fast, Even Off the Field” headline? Or maybe even the “Magic Murray Has a New Lady” nonsense online?

He slid the license into his wallet and put the registration back into the glove box, figuring he had a 50-50 shot of getting a ticket.

Logan turned on what the entertainment reporters called “The Murray Charm.”

“You’re right, Officer Mullins,” he said, flashing his flirtiest smile. “I’ll be more careful from now on.”

“See that you do.” Winking, she tapped the car’s roof. “The city expects a Super Bowl win from you this year.” And with that, she strolled back to her squad car, hiking her gun belt as she went.

Logan eased into traffic and drove until he ended up in Fells Point, where he parked across from The Horse You Came In On Saloon, Baltimore’s oldest bar. Would his agent, or Knights’ management, leak the story? he wondered, stepping off the curb to cross the street. How many days before reporters started dogging his heels?

A horn blared, startling him so badly he almost dropped his car keys.

“Hey, idiot! Find someplace else to commit suicide!” the driver bellowed.

“Yeah, whatever,” he muttered and continued across Thames Street.

Inside, he took the stool nearest the singing guitarist.

“What’ll you have?” the barmaid asked.

“Whiskey, neat.”

Either she hadn’t recognized him, or she wasn’t a Knights fan. A relief either way because it meant he could feel good and sorry for himself while he got good and drunk. As he waited for her to pour a jigger, Logan wondered if self-pity had driven Edgar Allan Poe to this saloon on the last night of his life. Wondered, too, if Poe had decided against calling a woman who wouldn’t be there for him.

Self-pity, Logan thought as the barmaid delivered the drink, was a dangerous thing. He lifted the glass, said a silent toast to the sad, sickly author, then tossed back the shot. Maybe I’ll take up writing and drinking, just like you, Eddie, he thought, signaling the barmaid.

His college roommate, who’d sold a novel loosely based on their campus shenanigans, explained his success this way—“Gotta write what you know, man. Only way to make it in this wacky biz.” And since the only thing Logan knew was football, he crossed “author” off his Now What? list.

He put the glass to his lips and laughed to himself. Drinking...now, there’s something you know about.