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“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.
CHAPTER TWO
Ten years later...
“GREAT INTERVIEW,” Marty said. “Hundreds of emails and Facebook posts came in while we were on-air, same as last time. Come on back any time, dude. You’re good for ratings!”
Logan shook the newsman’s hand. “I’ll have my people call your people.”
Grinning, Marty checked his watch. “If I didn’t have to do the weather in a minute, I’d offer you a cup of coffee.”
The assistant producer breezed past them. “There’s a fresh pot in the production office....”
Point made and taken: Bianca Wright didn’t believe in rolling out the red carpet for the show’s guests. At least not once the cameras stopped rolling.
They’d met briefly six months ago, during his first visit to The Morning Show. That day she’d been so preoccupied corralling the gaggle of octogenarian belly dancers whose performance followed his segment that she barely had time to escort him to the studio. She was cute. Smart. Not famous. Everybody was after him to find a stable woman...someone who didn’t jump at every opportunity to draw attention to herself. So, despite the fact that he had a radio interview on the other side of town in an hour, Logan fell into step beside her.
“Marty’s right. That was a great interview,” she said, scribbling something onto her clipboard. “The kind that will have me answering tons of fan emails for the next couple of days.”
Her tone of voice told him she wasn’t looking forward to the task. “Next time I’m on the show,” he joked, “I’ll try not to be so personable.”
She made a noise—something between a snort and a grunt. A moment ago she’d been friendly and outgoing. But now? He crossed “sense of humor” off his Good Things About Her list. Women, Logan thought, should come with warning labels. And instruction manuals.
She sat at her desk and adjusted the tilt of a silver-framed photo of a young boy. Must be Bianca’s son; he had the same eyes as her. And if the boy’s mischievous smirk was any indicator, he was a handful. No photo of a husband, he noticed, but then, there wasn’t much room for one on her work-cluttered desk. Maybe a thorny divorce explained her sudden mood shift, or juggling family and career was more than she could handle today. And maybe, he thought, stifling a grunt of his own, she was like every other woman he’d met: impossible.
“Help yourself,” Bianca said. “Mugs are in the cabinet above the coffeemaker.” She put her back to him and began tapping numbers into her cell phone.
“Hey, sweetie,” she said as he filled a station-logoed mug. “It’s so good to hear your voice!”
Word for word what his ex used to say...before rehab. Funny how she’d liked him better all boozed up. The reminder was enough to crush all desire to get to know Bianca better. Well, that, and the possibility that she was married.
Logan glanced at his watch. If he left right now, he might just make it to his next interview on time. He waved, hoping to get Bianca’s attention so he could mouth a silent thank-you for the coffee before hitting the road.
“I know, I know,” she was saying, “but you still have to do what Grandmom tells you to. Rules are rules. We’ve talked about that, remember?” She covered the mouthpiece and exhaled a frustrated sigh before continuing. “Tell you what. If you do all your chores and don’t misbehave today, we’ll go out for ice cream after supper. Okay?
“I love you, sweetie. See you in a few hours.” Eyes closed, she held the phone to her chest for a split second, then spun the chair to face Logan. “How’s the coffee?”
“Better than Starbucks.”
Bianca gave him a quick once-over. “If you say so.”
“No. Seriously. It’s really good.”
“Well, I’m two cups over my daily quota, so you’re welcome to what’s left.”
He put the mug on the counter. “So that was your son on the phone?”
“Mmm-hmm.” A tiny smile played at the corners of her mouth as she glanced at the picture. “Drew. He’s seven.”
“I have two sisters. The youngest has a boy about his age. Maybe they go to school together.”
“Baltimore is a big city, surrounded by dozens of suburbs.”
“You don’t buy into the ‘it’s a small world’ philosophy?”
“It isn’t that so much as...” And like before, Bianca’s smile disappeared as quickly as it appeared. “Drew is autistic.”
Logan didn’t know why, but his thoughts went immediately to Poe, the service dog he’d adopted when a friend’s autistic daughter had died of meningitis complications three years ago. Poe—and dogs like her—were responsible for the pro bono commercials he’d made for the local service dog training facility. Logan pocketed both hands. “I, ah, I don’t know what to say.” He could have told her that his nephew was autistic, but this didn’t seem the time or place.
She searched his face for what seemed like a full minute. It was almost as intimidating as facing a row of scowling linebackers on the football field, which, considering her size, made no sense at all.
“What? I have spinach in my teeth or something?”
One side of her mouth lifted in a faint smile. “You’re the first person, ever, to have an honest reaction to the news, that’s what.”
For the next five minutes, she provided him with a rundown of Drew’s situation: at age two, when he wasn’t forming sentences, gesturing or responding normally to physical or verbal interactions, Drew’s pediatrician put Bianca in touch with a colleague who specialized in childhood developmental disorders. Test results put the boy in the “mild-to-moderate” level on the autism spectrum. After three years of speech, physical and occupational therapy—partnered with sensory and behavioral integration—he was mainstreamed into public school.
Logan then listed similarities between Drew’s situation and his friend’s daughter, but he didn’t share the fact that she had died.
Bianca nodded. “It takes a lot of time, effort and commitment to raise a child with autism and ensure they are happy and comfortable.”
At least now Logan understood why she’d chosen a job usually filled by interns and college grads starting out in the industry; the work kept her in the job pool, yet afforded flexibility in case her boy needed her.
“I take it you have good days and bad days?” he asked.
Bianca cast a pensive glance toward Drew’s photo. “Mostly good, thanks to some very dedicated, loving people.”
“Your husband deserves some credit, then. I know a guy whose kid has cerebral palsy. Couldn’t handle the day-to-day stress, and it cost him his marriage. I’m glad your husband stuck around...that he’s doing right by you and your son.”
She looked surprised. Hurt. Angry. Which rattled him, until she said, “Jason died three years ago. Pancreatic cancer.”
“Oh. Wow. Sorry to hear it,” he said, meaning every word.
She lifted one shoulder and one eyebrow. “It is what it is.”
Logan had no idea how to respond to that, so he looked at his watch, then blew a silent whistle through his teeth. “Well, I’d better head out. Radio interview in an hour. All the way over on Boston Street.”
Bianca looked at her desk clock, then stood and slid his file into a drawer marked ATHLETES. “Hope you have a helicopter.”
Proof that she had a sense of humor after all?
“Just in case,” he said, unpocketing his cell phone. “It’s not an official guest spot. Just another of those ‘we’ll put you on air if you’re ever in the neighborhood’ things. I figured it was a good time to hawk the fund-raiser on the radio, since not everybody watches The Morning Show.”
“I won’t tell Marty you said that.”
Logan grinned, wondering why he’d told her all of that. And why he wasn’t going outside to make his call. And who the dedicated, loving people in her life might be. Not likely a boyfriend because very few guys had the capacity to commit to a woman with a kid with special needs. His sister’s ex was living proof of that.
“Do you have time for a real coffee break?” he asked Bianca as he waited for someone to answer his call.
She looked surprised by the invitation. Not as surprised as Logan was to have extended it. Thankfully, the receptionist spared him the need to say something that would explain why.
“I’d like to leave a message in Jack White’s voice mail, please.”
The woman put him on hold, and while a familiar Eagles tune wafted into his ear, Logan said to Bianca, “You know that great little coffee shop around the corner? It’s never busy at this time of day, so—”
“This is Jack,” said the recording. “You know what to do.”
“Hey, Jack. It’s Logan. Can’t stop by today after all, so don’t count on me to fill air time between Twinkies commercials.” Laughing, he added, “See you at the meeting tonight.”
