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  For Oliver Pancake and Rigby Peanut, my inspirations

  For Marla Daniels, my editor, and for Melissa Jeglinski, my agent, both of whom made this all possible

  CHAPTER ONE

  Chris

  FIGJAM: Fuck, I’m good, just ask me.

  As the hot studio lights beat down on me and beads of sweat slid beneath my too-tight collar, I silently repeated my mantra.

  It was cocky, sure, but that didn’t make it untrue. I was good. Associated Press Offensive Player of the Year good. Defending Super Bowl champion good. Endorsement cash cow good. Well, that last one might have as much to do with my shining personality as my ability to catch the football. Either way, FIGJAM.

  And yeah, it was midway through the season and the Blizzards already had an abysmal record, but that had nothing to do with my performance during games and everything to do with a wet-behind-the-ears quarterback and a roster full of rookies who couldn’t execute even a simple draw play. Still, I refused to allow the team to get eliminated from playoff contention, so I’d continue to carry the offensive line until we started winning again or I died trying.

  And any moment now Rory McMillan, host of Face to Face, the country’s most popular sports interview broadcast, would ask me how exactly I intended to bandage Colorado’s hemorrhaging season. A few cameramen, technicians, producers, and gofers buzzed around us, rushing to complete their final duties. Unlike similar shows, Face to Face was unique in that it incorporated live call-in questions from viewers, so interview guests never knew what to expect or how to prepare, but I wasn’t nervous. I was a pro at this sort of thing.

  An assistant attached a microphone to my suit lapel and said, “All right, Mr. Lalonde, you’re ready.”

  I nodded. Beside me, Rory sat thumbing through interview questions while a makeup artist dabbed powder onto his glossy forehead. Only the white hair in his sideburns betrayed his real age.

  The show’s familiar opening music blared through the studio, marking the sixty-second countdown. Rory removed the paper bib from around his neck, passing it to an assistant, and hid the cue cards in the potted ficus tree situated behind his leather wing chair—the only decoration and pop of color in an otherwise black-and-brown set. Face to Face operated with a small crew, minimal cameras, and without an in-person audience, which gave an intimate feel to the setting.

  “There won’t be any surprises, right, McMillan?” my agent, Scott Tubberman—Schmuck Tubbyman when he pissed me off—half shouted, half chuckled from his spot off to the side. His laugh was supposed to put you at ease, when in reality it put your teeth on edge and reminded you of someone’s creepy uncle pretending to be jolly old Saint Nick.

  “Nothing Chris can’t handle,” Rory called back, then tossed me a conspiratorial wink.

  “Twenty seconds,” a producer yelled as our images flickered on the monitors above our heads.

  Squaring my shoulders, I plastered on my paid-for smile, courtesy of Mile High Dentistry. Thanks to their cosmetic efforts, I had a grin that could silence the harshest critic and blind the most fair-weather supporter. The fact that a picture of my sparkly whites adorned billboards all across Denver only added to my crowd appeal.

  “And we’re live in ten . . . nine . . . eight . . .”

  FIGJAM, I reminded myself. If quarterbacks were supposed to be calm, controlled, stable franchise leaders, receivers were meant to be the glint, the flare, the risk. The player everyone loved to hate and hated to love.

  And when it came to people’s expectations, I delivered. Women wanted the ego, the wild adventure, the one-night stand to boast about. Fans wanted the villain, the hero, the end-zone performer. Blizzards ownership wanted a puppet, an advertisement, a powerhouse who sold jerseys. The media wanted a persona, a headline, a sensational story. And I delivered on all fronts.

  I always delivered. This television appearance would be no exception.

  The music ended, replaced by the campy announcer-like voice that had introduced the show since its inception almost two decades ago: This is Face to Face, where the biggest names in sports share their experiences, their insights, and their secrets. And now, for your host, Rory McMillan.

  “Good evening. Tonight my guest is Chris Lalonde, Blizzards wide receiver,” Rory said into the central camera, his posture straight but engaged, his expression professional but inviting. Rory angled his body toward mine in a move designed to look authoritative yet honest to his five-million-strong audience. “I appreciate you being here in the studio, Chris.”

  “It’s my pleasure,” I said, matching the most soothing voice in the sports universe with a version of my own. Little did Rory realize that the only reason I agreed to do the interview rather than skip out was because my agent would have murdered me. When your team was in the heart of a losing season, prime-time exposure wasn’t easy to come by, as Scott so often reminded me.

  “I’m going to cut right to the chase, since our phone lines and live video channels are already busy with people eager to speak to you.”

  “Fire away,” I said, propping my ankle over my knee. “I’m ready.”

  “After last season’s Super Bowl win, are you shocked at the Blizzards’ lackluster two–five record so far this year?” he asked.

  “Not shocked, Rory. The team is in a rebuilding phase, so bumps and bruises during that process are expected.”

  “Rebuilding phase” was the laughable, canned excuse Blizzards leadership used to explain to the media and the NFL-viewing public why we failed time and again to place the football in the end zone or prevent the opponent from doing the same. So no, I wasn’t shocked at our performance. I was appalled and furious, especially after Colorado had started out the season strong with consecutive wins against the Raiders and the Jets. Then again, Oakland and New York were the worst teams in the AFC West, so trampling those embarrassing franchises was like bragging about trouncing on a peewee squad.

  “Does that mean you attribute MVP quarterback Logan Stonestreet’s retirement as the reason why the Blizzards can’t put together a formidable offense? And if that’s the case, as one of only a few seasoned players on Colorado’s starting roster, how do you intend to compensate for your team’s inadequacies?” Rory asked, stretching his sharp-toothed smile even wider.

  “By doing what I always do—suiting up, showing up, and shutting up anyone who dares to question my determination and drive. Replacing a veteran talent like Logan Stonestreet is always a challenge, but even considering the Blizzards’ current record, I also believe in my team’s ability to dig deep and step up when pressed against a wall,” I said, delivering my well-rehearsed reply despite the spike of annoyance I still felt at the way Logan had announced his departure from the game, on national television and without discussing it with me first. Twenty years of friendship and I hadn’t even ranked a heads-up. “Stonestreet paved the way for backup QB Ben Fitzpatrick to prove to the fans and Colorado ownership what he’s capable of, but that takes time. The offensive line is experiencing some growing pains, but we’ll get there. Chemistry isn’t something that develops overnight. Well, usually, anyway.” I winked at the camera and once again flashed my million-watt grin.

  Rory raised an eyebrow at my response but kept his comments
to himself. Instead he said, “Without the proper chemistry, I can only imagine the added stress on you to lead the offense. Despite Colorado’s losses this season, you’re still a fan favorite. How do you balance expectations while keeping your edge on the field, especially given the Blizzards’ losing streak?”

  “Sweat, grit, and dedication. Plain and simple. I also have the benefit of an amazing staff of coaches, trainers, and nutritionists who keep me in top form.”

  “I’m sure the pressure for you to stay in top form is immense. Your Colorado hometown crowd is a vocal group.”

  Nodding, I took a sip of water and said, “True, but they’re loyal and passionate about the franchise. The fans are the best part of my job.”

  “Speaking of which, let’s take a call. Who do we have on the line tonight?” Rory faced the cameras again, his smile wide and welcoming.

  “This is George Miller from Longmont, Colorado, and I wanted to ask Mr. Lalonde what adjustments from yesterday’s defeat against the Chiefs do the Blizzards intend to implement during next week’s matchup against Tampa Bay?”

  “Well, George, the Buccaneers are a great team that will provide tough competition,” I said, internally groaning—I’d already answered a variation of this question at least ten times for various media outlets. “So we’re going to have to execute in all three phases and focus on playing our style of football. Preparation and game planning will be key for us.”

  “Thanks for phoning in, George,” Rory cut in as the executive producer gestured at him in some kind of code. “And I agree. Tampa Bay will certainly test your stamina and fortitude, Chris.”

  “I’ve never been one to shy away from a challenge.” I could be hotheaded and arrogant—a giant man-child according to my twin sister, Gwen—but nobody could question my work ethic. I never backed down or quit.

  “In that case, how about a tougher question?” Rory asked.

  “Sure,” I said, leaning back in my seat as if I didn’t have a care in the world, even as my pulse quickened. “Tougher questions” were not supposed to be part of the program.

  “There have been reports of widespread abuse of performance-enhancing drugs throughout the NFL, though you’ve managed to remain largely above the rumors and scandals. Any secret to that?”

  “I practice clean, so I stay clean.”

  “So if I told you we had a claim of suspicious substances being delivered to your residence this morning, you’d say . . .” Rory trailed off, but the gleam in his gaze indicated there was a hidden agenda at work.

  “Ridiculous,” I said, casually glancing at where Scott was schmoozing with a network representative behind the scenes, oblivious to what was occurring onstage. I was glad to see that six-figure salary being put to good use.

  “All right then, let’s check in with one of our field correspondents,” Rory said, motioning to the monitor set up between our chairs.

  The screen flickered to life, focusing on a Face to Face broadcaster standing on a well-manicured lawn that led to a sprawling mansion beyond. Clutching a microphone, the broadcaster stood beside an older man decked out in a powder-blue-and-silver Blizzards jersey. I recognized the landscape immediately as my gated community in Cherry Creek. The older man seemed vaguely familiar. I wondered if we’d posed together for a photograph at a team meet and greet or if I’d run into him at a charity function.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, Ed O’Brien reporting live for Face to Face to give us the most recent happenings in this developing story,” Rory said with a too-smug grin.

  I shot him a don’t-mess-with-me look that I hoped went unnoticed by the cameras but registered to Rory as a nine on my fuck-off scale. What was he playing at?

  “Thanks, Rory. I’m here with Kevin Ingham, Blizzards season ticket regular—” Ed started.

  “And neighbor to Chris Lalonde. My place is just one cul-de-sac over from his—same address, just different streets,” Kevin interjected. “I’m on Cherry Tree Lane, and he’s on Cherry Tree Circle. It wreaks all kinds of havoc with our postal service, let me tell ya. I’m always receiving Chris’s mail by accident.”

  My stomach lurched at his words, sweat pricking up on my palms. Shit. What had my neighbor discovered?

  “And that explains how you came to possess this package?” Ed asked, nodding to the parcel tucked under Kevin’s arm.

  Once again I peeked at my agent, who was still chatting with the network bigwig, no doubt working his magic to score me a lucrative sponsorship deal. Ordinarily I’d be happy about the potential opportunities Scott was securing for me, but right now I needed him to step in.

  “That’s correct,” Kevin said. “And boy was I surprised when I opened the box and three pounds of pills spilled out.”

  “Which you didn’t order off a black market site from Russia?” Ed asked, microphone so close to Kevin’s mouth he could eat it.

  “Well, nah, I’m not the sort, you know? I count on bacon and eggs to make me strong.” My neighbor laughed, as though he couldn’t believe his good fortune for selling me out while cashing in on his fifteen minutes of fame. “But then I saw Chris’s name and address and figured the bottles of Meldonium—at least that’s how I think you pronounce it—were for him. Though what a wide receiver in monster truck shape would need with this junk, I’ll never understand.”

  “And you’re certain the pills were sent to Chris Lalonde of the Colorado Blizzards?” Ed asked.

  “Certain as gridlock traffic during rush hour.” Kevin held up the receipt with my bill-to address and blurred-out credit card number visible for the entire world to see.

  Fuck, fuck, fuck. I knew the postal service was mediocre at best, but even I hadn’t anticipated this level of idiocy.

  Ed smiled like a mouse that’d finally gotten its cookie. “On that note, I’ll toss it back to you in the studio, Rory.”

  The monitor went blank, plunging the room into silence. Rory and I locked eyes but neither of us blinked. Amazing how three noiseless seconds in television time felt like an eternity in reality. The fucker had set me up.

  Rory dropped his good-boy expression and said, “Chris, are you aware that Meldonium, a performance enhancer that increases blood flow and boosts exercise capacity in athletes because it alters hormone and metabolic function by carrying more oxygen to muscle tissue, is a banned drug under recent NFL policy?”

  I swallowed hard, my mouth dry and my heart pounding. “Yes, it was added to the list of prohibited substances earlier this month.”

  “So is it your contention that you have taken Meldonium in the past but stopped once the drug was put on the banned list?” he said, his tone sliding seamlessly from ally to enemy.

  “Obviously, Rory. I’d never knowingly consume a substance the NFL considers prohibited.”

  Professional sports were all about playing within the regulations governing the game at the time, and while it was imperative I did whatever was required for me to perform at an elite level, I’d never disregard league rules. That didn’t mean I was against stretching limits or pushing boundaries—I was a master at existing in shades of gray and loopholes—but not at the risk of ruining my career.

  “Then how do you explain the recent pill delivery?” Rory tented his fingers against his mouth and studied me through accusatory eyes.

  I sighed. “Clearly I forgot to cancel my autoship.” Which sounded like a flimsy excuse even to my own ears, but it didn’t make it any less of an honest mistake.

  “If that’s the case, then I assume you’d be willing to submit to a voluntary blood test?”

  “Absolutely.” I’d quit using Meldonium weeks ago, the moment the sanction had come down, and therefore had nothing to worry about—I knew that—and yet it suddenly felt as if a fist was squeezing my throat. The sweltering stage lights had become suffocating; the walls were closing in around me. I needed to get out of here now.

  “I’m glad to hear that, Chris,” Rory said, his voice that of a predator who’d successfully ensnared its prey. />
  Out of the corner of my eye, I could see my agent gesturing wildly for me to abort the conversation, a phone pressed against his ear. Unfortunately, Scott was too little too late. The harm had been done, and now all I could do was salvage what was left of the pieces.

  “Thank you for inviting me on Face to Face, Rory. Now, if you’ll excuse me, this interview is over.” I quickly exited the stage.

  The moment I walked out of frame, Scott intercepted me. “That was the commissioner’s office on the line,” he said, speaking low to avoid the intrusive ears around us. “They want to take you up on your voluntary offer. You have an appointment at 8 a.m. tomorrow for a urine sample and blood work. You concentrate on passing that fucking drug test, and I’ll worry about damage control. Got it?”

  The confidence in his tone should have reassured me—it’s what I paid him for, after all. But we both knew shit had hit the fan. The only questions that remained were how long would it take to clean up, and how hard was I going to have to scrub?

  From the look on my agent’s face, I wasn’t going to like either answer.

  * * *

  Forty-eight hours later and there was only one truth I understood: I was so fucked.

  The damn blood test came back positive. As in traces of Meldonium were still found in my system. How that was even possible when I quit using the drug weeks ago was so beyond my realm of comprehension I couldn’t fathom it. And yet that was my reality. In the blink of an eye, I’d branded myself as a liar and become public enemy number one. The moment the news broke, the media and irate fans had swarmed my gated community, all of them salivating to crucify me. Hell, I couldn’t escape my neighborhood to drive to the Blizzards training center today without the police present to manage crowd control.

  I snuck into the facility through a private side entrance because Kent McDougall—Colorado franchise owner and general manager—had demanded I avoid the press congregated at the main entrance until we’d had an opportunity to talk. The fluorescent bulbs illuminating the hallway cast the powder-blue-and-silver-striped walls in an artificial color, and the mural on the ceiling of Bruiser the Bear, the team mascot, throwing a snowball appeared sickly against the yellow lights.