by Hannah Ford
Halftime ended and she went back up to the VIP box, hoping against hope that maybe things would change and the first half would be nothing more than a bad dream.
This time, New England kicked off to Miami, and Miami made a great run back all the way to the fifty-yard line. The New England fans moaned and groaned in disgust.
The mood was getting ugly, and it made Faith increasingly nervous.
Every boo, every insult thrown in Chase’s direction felt like it hit her in the stomach, a body blow.
None of these people knew him or what he’d had to go through to be in this place, with the entire world virtually against him making anything of his life.
Faith’s whole body was tight with tension and worry. She just wanted to see Chase do what he was capable of and play with the brilliance he had inside him.
Miami scored on a long pass and now they were ahead 14-3.
“Fuck you, Winters!” the man next to her screamed, as Chase and the offense took the field again.
The man who’d just sworn at Chase was the same guy who’d been repeating how strong Chase was over and over again in the first half.
Faith blocked him and all the others out and just focused her attention on Chase. You can do this, she thought, trying to send him her positivity. You know this is what you were made to do. Come on, Chase. Come on.
And for a little while, it seemed that he’d heard her. Chase came out firing short, sharp passes to a multitude of different players (but never Velcro).
He’d completed almost a hundred percent of his passes in this half, and they made their way to the thirty-yard line again.
This time, they ran the ball twice and failed to get anywhere, and now it was third down.
The fans were screaming at top volume, and when the ball was snapped, there was a fumble and Chase had to recover the football off the ground, scooping it into his hands as the Miami defense converged on him for the sack.
But somehow Chase used his considerable size and athleticism to break free of the Miami players trying to tackle him, and he ran out of pocket and downfield.
There were two Miami players between him and the goal line. Normally a quarterback would run out of bounds so as not to risk getting tackled hard and hurt.
As it was, Chase had made more than a first down and saved the play.
But he didn’t run out of bounds, and the crowd built to a hysteric pitch as Chase headed straight for the defenders between him and the goal line.
When he got to the first defender, Chase juked from side to side, faking the defender nearly out of his shoes. The Miami player dove and Chase was nowhere to be found.
“Did you see that shit?” someone screamed, their voice so high they might have been male or female.
The crowd roared and Faith felt her heart soar.
Tears came to the corners of her eyes as she realized that this was what Chase was capable of—pure, God-given talent and beauty. Watching him like this was akin to watching a dancer, or a painter, an artist.
Yes, a true artist.
But he wasn’t just an artist—he was a fighter, too.
And Chase showed his fighting spirit when he came face-to-face with the last Miami player standing between him and a touchdown.
The player was waiting on the ten-yard line, and Chase wasn’t going to fake him out.
Chase didn’t bother even trying to get past him by trickery. Instead, he went right toward him, putting his head down, tilting forward and ramming into the larger defender.
The Miami defender tried to wrap his arms around Chase and throw him down, but Chase lowered and rammed him again, and the defenseman fell backwards, arms pin-wheeling as he smashed into the turf.
A deafening roar welled up from the crowd as Chase ran in for the touchdown, and around Faith, men were literally hugging each other, near tears, raising cups of beer and toasting.
She laughed as a stranger gave her a beer drenched hug. “Did you see that guy?”
She nodded, laughing. “I saw him,” she admitted.
And I love him, she wanted to tell the drunken fan, but kept her mouth wisely shut.
The score was now 14-10 and Miami was in front, but there was plenty of time left in the game.
Everyone’s spirits had lifted, and it seemed almost inevitable that New England would take its momentum and win the game.
But something strange happened.
Miami took over and marched downfield, eating up valuable clock time and scoring yet another touchdown.
Now they were up 21-10.
New England got the ball back and Chase threw two incomplete passes, ignoring a wide-open Velcro Jones, and then a failed run and they had to punt the football.
In the fourth quarter, Miami scored again.
Now it was turning into a rout, and Miami was up 28-10. Fans were booing all over the place and many of them were beginning to filter out of the stadium to get out ahead of the traffic.
It was a slow, ugly death, in a way.
Faith watched as the air and hope slowly left the New England fans, and the stadium got progressively emptier.
The final nail in the coffin was when Chase finally threw a pass to Velcro downfield, and the Miami defender easily intercepted the ball and ran it back for yet another touchdown.
The pass was so awful that it almost seemed as if Chase had intended to throw it to the other team.
The fans were disgusted, booing New England roundly, and the air stank of beer and all on the floors were discarded programs and crumpled pictures of Chase’s smiling face, with a short biography about the number one draft pick.
The game was all but over, and now even the fans in the VIP box were gathering their things and leaving.
Faith watched them go with a strange feeling inside. It was as if she wanted to ask them to come back—this must have been a mistake. Somehow Chase would fix this, he’d make it right.
But as each person left the room, it hit Faith that the game really was over. It was over and it had been something terrible to watch.
Knowing what the world would be saying about Chase after this performance was physically painful to consider.
She put a hand to her forehead, trying to calm herself.
Pieces of the game floated back through her consciousness, like a video replay in her mind.
Chase refusing to throw to Velcro. Chase throwing over his head at a key moment.
What could explain his behavior? She asked herself.
Nothing made any sense.
It was as if Chase was purposely sabotaging his own career.
Or maybe there was something else going on, Faith thought.
A chilling thought ran through her mind.
What if someone had forced Chase to throw the game—to purposely lose it? That would explain why he kept making mistakes at key moments.
A wave of nausea rolled through her stomach at the mere consideration of the idea.
She thought about all the cash in Chase’s home. She thought about his history of crime and his insistence that he had dark secrets she could never understand.
Faith ran out of the VIP room and into the bathroom, getting into a stall just in time to be sick in the toilet.
“Oh, God,” she muttered, sitting on the floor afterwards and wiping her mouth with a piece of toilet paper. “Oh, God.”
As her stomach calmed down, Faith caught her breath a little bit.
What had come over her, she didn’t really know.
But she did know one thing. She knew that whatever secrets Chase was hiding were going to come out. And God help them, because she feared that neither she nor Chase could withstand the cold storm that was blowing their way.
End of Book Eleven
THE DEBT 12
Sitting in the press conference after the football game was like being lowered into a pot of boiling water. Faith might’ve even preferred being dropped in boiling water to sitting there and watching Chase Winters getting grilled by reporters as he dealt with on
e of his worst losses ever.
Faith thought only one thing could’ve felt worse—and that’s if she’d been forced to answer questions like Chase was having to do at the moment.
He’d just had one of the worst games of his life, and now he had to endure the barbs and arrows that the reporters were throwing his way.
Question after question peppered him, and each one was like a punch or a kick.
Chase stood in the front of the room, towering above the small podium that had been erected, the microphone catching his every word clearly. And the lights and cameras trained on his face would also notice every little expression, every nuance and reaction.
There was nowhere for him to hide, and she could tell that the media was loving this—loving the drama of it all.
For her part, Faith sat in the very back of the room and tried not to be noticed by the rest of the press. She was still vaguely worried that someone would come along and demand she show her credentials, but Chase had assured her repeatedly that it would be fine for her to be there.
You’re my girl, Chase had told her as she’d protested, telling him she’d just wait back in his private room until the conference was over.
She hadn’t wanted to watch this unfold in real time, in a room full of reporters and press, with Chase at the center of the violent storm. She was nauseous and trembling inside.
Chase Winters had blown the game so badly that even she was wondering if he’d done it intentionally.
Was someone paying you to play that badly? She’d wanted to ask him.
Luckily, she’d held her tongue. Now she was here, watching Chase field question after question and she was struggling through it—just like him.
“Would you say that you were surprised that your passing wasn’t as accurate today as you’d assumed it would be?” a reporter asked him.
Chase smirked. “I guess that would be one way of putting it,” he said.
A nervous titter ran through the room.
“Well, what way would you put it, then?” the reporter followed up.
Chase looked directly at the man. “I’d say I was disgusted with myself for playing like crap.”
Another reporter spoke up. “It seemed like your offensive line offered good protection today. Was that a positive step, despite the loss?”
Chase’s shoulders hunched. He was dressed in a very nice sweater, and his hair was still slick from the showers. “My team performed great. The loss is on my shoulders entirely.”
“Chase, do you think this is just a case of being new to the league? Are you just trying to find the rhythm in this new team, with new plays and new situations?”
He shook his head, laughing a little. “You know, sometimes it’s just much simpler than that. There’s no big secret, no mysterious reason for a bad performance.” Chase looked up at the entire room, but his eyes seemed to focus in on Faith. “Sometimes the truth hurts, and you can’t run away from that.”
The room fell silent for a moment.
She swallowed drily, her hands clenching. What was that supposed to mean? Did he actually intend for that comment to be directed towards her?
“Tell us a little bit about Velcro Jones’s play today,” a female reporter said.
Chase’s face became positively stony. “Is there a question in there?” he said, scratching his cheek and fidgeting at the podium.
“Well, yes,” the woman insisted. “I’m asking you to elaborate on what went wrong between you and if there was any miscommunication going on. The two of you didn’t seem to be gelling today, and I’m wondering if he wasn’t always in the right spot or if—“
“He was always exactly where he was supposed to be,” Chase interrupted.
Another grizzled reporter raised his hand. Chase glanced and pointed at him.
“Chase, everyone in New England has very big hopes for you. You’re widely considered to be the savior of the franchise.”
Chase laughed at this comment, but it wasn’t a happy laugh. “Bring it on,” he said, waving the man to continue.
“Well, I’m wondering if you think perhaps the pressure of all of these fans’ hopes and dreams being placed on your shoulders has been too much. Do you think maybe it’s time to recalibrate the expectations of your NFL career?”
“Whose expectations?” Chase said, his eyes getting intense. “Mine or yours?”
“Both,” the man shot back.
“Yes,” Chase told him, and the press murmured.
“So you’re saying—“
“I’m just a guy who plays football, okay? I’m not any different from anyone else.”
“But Chase,” the grizzled veteran spoke up yet again.
“Yeah?”
“You have to know that people do expect more from you. You make a lot of money because you supposedly function at a very high level, higher than the rest of us.”
Chase’s answer was biting. “I never said I deserved to be paid this much. It’s just a football game.”
Now the reporters were furiously mumbling, typing, writing notes, and exchanging shocked glances.
Faith felt sicker than ever. She put a hand over her mouth, as someone from the Patriots’ staff stepped in and smartly ended the questions, stating that Chase had just played a tough game and had graciously answered enough for the day.
People were still shouting questions at him as he left the podium and made his way out of the room.
He looked over towards Faith and gestured for her to follow, and so she grabbed her purse, scooted out of her seat and ran over to fall in behind him as he left the press conference.
* * *
On the drive home, Chase was sullen.
Faith didn’t want to upset him with questions, especially since he’d certainly been harangued enough by the press—and there would be lots more to come.
She could already envision the headlines that would come out:
CHASE WINTERS SAYS HE DOESN’T DESERVE THE MONEY
IT’S JUST A FOOTBALL GAME, WHINES DISGRACED NFL STAR
But at the same time, she couldn’t help but wonder just what Chase was hiding. His performance had truly been abysmal, and she didn’t believe it was just an “off day.”
No, he’d avoided throwing to Velcro like the man had the plague.
And if Chase had secrets, there was no way for Faith to know just how dark and deep those secrets were. Or how much of his life had been corrupted because of his past.
She kept replaying the moment where Chase showed her the painting in his bedroom with thousands of dollars stuffed inside of it, and the references he’d made to a life filled with secrets and danger.
A mental picture of Chase’s old friend Boogie floated into her mind—the sly smile on his face, the comments he’d made about Chase getting in trouble if the cops were called.
“I feel sick,” Faith finally admitted, as she wondered if she was going to vomit in Chase’s car.
He glanced at her, some concern written on his face. “Do you want me to pull over?”
She hesitated, thinking that perhaps the nausea was passing. The worst of it, anyway. She took a deep breath and then exhaled. “No, not yet. Maybe I’ll be okay.”
“What’s wrong?” he asked, shifting gears in the sports car as they hit the highway.
She had to laugh. What’s not wrong? She thought. That’s a better question with a shorter list of answers.
“Something funny about my question?” he said.
She stopped laughing and shook her head. “You know what’s wrong, Chase.”
“Faith, I’m the one who played badly. If anyone should be puking after today’s game, it’s me. You need to stop worrying so much,” he told her.
“But I do worry,” she told him softly. “I care about you, and I hate seeing you hurt. I don’t like seeing you sad or troubled or—“
“I’m fine,” he said shortly.
But he wasn’t fine and it seemed to Faith that they both knew it.
When
they got back to his neighborhood in Beacon Hill, Chase parked the car and then they walked hand in hand towards his building.
As they walked, people began shouting at him. Some were saying nice things like, “keep your head up!” or “you’ll get ‘em next time, Chase!”
But others were not so kind. Some yelled out passing car windows or from unseen open windows. The catcalls were disorienting.
They said things like, “you suck, Winters!” and “why won’t they pay me ten million dollars to choke?” or “you should be ashamed of yourself!”
It was exhausting, and the walk from the car to the apartment was short. Chase, for his part, was stoic in ignoring the commentary. He unlocked his apartment and let them inside, closed the door and locked it behind them.
Faith sat down heavily on the couch and breathed a relieved sigh to be away from the public. “That wasn’t fun,” she said.
Chase chuckled, throwing his keys on the coffee table. “Relax,” he told her. “It’s all part of the game.”
“Maybe it’s not worth it then.”
He made a face and turned away, and she regretted the comment. Chase went into the kitchen, asking if she needed a drink or a sandwich.
She told him she was fine, but he came back a few minutes later carrying a bag of popcorn and a couple of bottles of water. He sat down next to her on the couch, opened the bag. “Come on, you know you’re hungry.”
It turned out he was right. Maybe because she’d thrown up at the end of the game, but whatever the case, she was starving.
Faith grabbed big handfuls of popcorn and started eating. She kicked off her shoes and Chase grabbed her feet, put them in his lap and slowly massaged her feet. His hands were warm, strong and reassuring against her skin.
“That feels good,” she admitted, smiling a little.
Chase smiled back at her. “Even though I’m the one who needs their feet rubbed.”
“I’ll rub your feet,” she said. “I’ve got good hands.”
“You don’t need to tell me,” he said, looking her in the eyes.
She ate a handful of popcorn as he rubbed the soles of her feet, relaxing her entire body with his skillful fingers.