What He Bargains (What He Wants, Book Nineteen) (99 page)

She’d heard it compared to being in a minor car accident on almost every single play. These men were so big and so fast that the impact they made on each other would be felt for years to come.

Chase got down on the carpeted floor and proceeded to run through a long series of sit-ups, pushups and stretches.

Faith eventually did drift back to sleep again, because his routine went on and on and on. It was soothing in its own way.

When she woke up again, the room was empty. She glanced at the clock and it read seven a.m. She got up and ran into the other room, almost panicked that he might’ve left her there.

Instead, she found him sitting at the table by the window and reading a newspaper.

He glanced up at her.

She smiled, laughing a little. “You’re reading.”

“What—did you think I’m illiterate?”

“No, I just…I don’t know. Are you reading the sports page?”

He made a face. “Duh. Me only read sports. Me dumb jock.”

“Come on,” she laughed. “I just thought—“

He flipped the paper around to show her what he was reading. It was an article about extremists taking over a town in Syria. He dropped the paper back to the table and picked up his mug. “I find it soothing to read the paper the morning before a game. The less it has to do with football, the better. I made coffee,” he said, getting up and walking to the kitchenette. “I’m gonna have a refill. You want some?”

“Sure,” she said, walking over to the table and sitting down. She looked out the window over towards the stadium.

It was empty now, but soon it would be packed to capacity and Chase would be performing.

It gave her stomach a jolt, and she felt butterflies. She wondered how much more intense the nerves must be for Chase.

But he didn’t seem anxious. If anything, he seemed calmer now.

He poured them both cups of coffee and then carried the two mugs to the table, sliding one towards her before sitting down again.

“You seem happy,” she said.

He shrugged. “It’s better on game day. I want to do it, I want to get out there and do my job.”

“Yeah,” she said, understanding what he meant a little bit. She lifted her mug and sipped from it. The warmth spread out over her stomach.

Things were silent between them for a long moment.

She thought about what had gone on the previous night between them and Monique and Velcro. Faith looked at him and wondered what had happened when he’d given Monique her cell phone back.

But she didn’t want to ask.

Chase saw her expression and smiled. “You seem lost in thought,” he said, raising an eyebrow. “You thinking about what we did last night before bed?”

She laughed. “Yes,” she lied.

He licked his lips. “If I didn’t have a game to play, I’d do it again right now, girl. Believe that.”

“I believe it.” She tried to smile, but it faltered as she thought about the fact that something was between them now. She’d lied about her thoughts, because she’d been afraid to bring up last night.

A sick feeling wormed its way into her belly and didn’t leave.

She had a horrible sense that whatever had happened that Chase didn’t want to discuss—it was only just the beginning.

T
his was like déjà vu
, Faith decided.

She was back in the VIP section of the stadium, just like the day she’d met Chase for the first time.

Only now she was here as his personal guest, although nobody around her seemed aware of that fact.

There were a few groups of people sharing the VIP box with her. They seemed to be business people from local companies that had season tickets.

Most of them were loud and boisterous, yelling stuff as they swilled beer and high-fived and talked about players and stats and seemed to occasionally be trying to impress her or get her attention.

Then again, maybe it was just her imagination that they were trying to get her attention.

It didn’t really matter. She didn’t care a bit about any of them, she only cared about the game and Chase.

The game was about to start and she’d never been so nervous for anything in all her life.

Her phone buzzed again and again. She’d stopped bothering to even look at her cell because since early morning, people had been texting and even calling her almost nonstop.

The texts were from friends and family and people she’d hadn’t spoken to in months or years. They were all saying good look or “tell Chase we love him” or “is what I’ve been hearing true? Are you with Chase at the game?” and stuff like that.

About an hour ago, her father had called, drunk, and left two long and rambling voicemails about how proud he’d always been of her, and in the last one he’d started to sob. Then her mother could be heard shouting at him in the background and he’d gone from sobbing to screaming profanities at Faith’s mother, and then the message had been cut off.

So now she was ignoring her constantly buzzing phone, and choosing to watch the field, as both teams took it.

The men around her were already cheering and clapping.

Some of them were making bets about how many yards Chase would throw for, and how many sacks Miami would get.

It was known, of course, that Miami had one of the best defenses, and with Chase having struggled last game—some people were of the opinion that he’d do even worse today.

Faith didn’t know the answer. All she could do now was hope and pray and try not to throw up from nervousness.

Miami took the field to kick off to New England, and the kickoff was routine, run back to the twenty-four yard line. Chase and the offense ran onto the field as the whole arena shook with cheers and clapping.

Music blared over the speakers. It had the feeling of a playoff game—the mood was raucous and excited.

Her hands clasped together in prayer, Faith took a few deep breaths and tried to calm her fast breathing. She was practically hyperventilating.

Remember
that Chase said he wanted to get out there and play. He was ready to go. This is his time.

On the first play, Chase handed off to a running back that only got a few yards.

Second play in, Chase cocked his arm to throw.

“Velcro’s open!” someone cried out from behind her.

Faith looked and saw that Velcro Jones was, indeed, open and running across the middle of the field.

Chase pumped once but didn’t release the ball, and instead rolled out of the pocket and scrambled for a few yards.

The crowd went wild, cheering, because at least he’d gained yardage. Against Miami, that was better than the alternative.

On third down and four, Chase threw a short pass to one of his receivers and the player was able to get a first down before being tackled.

Everyone was celebrating, and Faith felt her early nerves start to calm. Chase was looking confident and sure of himself, and he hadn’t made a mistake yet.

On the next series of downs, they ran the ball three times with some success and then Chase threw yet another short pass for a first down.

People were cheering wildly, and Faith licked her lips, trying to maintain composure.

“Winters is strong,” a drunken fan nearby kept repeating, over and over. “Winters is so strong.”

New England marched down the field, mostly by running the ball up the middle. Chase scrambled a couple more times for short yardage and completed another few passes, none of them to Velcro.

Some of the fans had started to remark on the fact that his best receiver had been open on several occasions and Chase had failed to attempt a pass to him.

It was slightly unusual, but only Faith had an inkling of why it might be happening.

Please, no
, she thought.
Don’t take it out on him, Chase. Don’t do that—you’re going to hurt yourself and the team just to prove a point to him.

New England made their way to the thirty-yard line and then it happened. Chase dropped back to pass and Velcro ran a long pass route downfield.

“He’s open!” people were screaming all around her.

Faith clenched her hands into fists and closed her eyes. She couldn’t even watch.

Please, she thought.
Please just throw the ball to him.

And then she heard a tremendous gasp of disappointment come up from the crowd. Faith opened her eyes.

The play was over, but on the big screen, they were showing the replay. Chase had thrown the ball way over Velcro’s head and out of bounds. It hadn’t even been close.

The fans nearby were irate at how badly Chase had missed, and some of them were saying he’d choked.

Oh, God, Faith thought, feeling legitimately sickened inside now.

I should’ve talked to him about it this morning. I knew something was wrong but I was afraid to try and bring it up. And now look at what’s happening.

He’s sabotaging the game over some argument. He’s seriously going to screw up his entire season over a drunken quarrel.

Eventually, New England had to settle for a field goal.

The crowd cheered, but now the atmosphere was somewhat muted. The fans in the box with her were murmuring to one another, and as people drank more, some of the animosity was coming out.

“The guy’s getting paid like he’s Joe Montana, and he’s playing like some third-stringer from Notre Dame,” someone said nearby.

“But why won’t he throw to Velcro Jones?” someone else said.

“He did throw to him—“

“You call that a throw?”

And the conversation continued, as Miami took the field on offense and proceeded to eat up the clock, slowly running the ball, getting four or five yards at a time, and grinding New England’s defense down.

They eventually scored a touchdown on a pass from five yards outside the goal line, and went ahead 7-3.

In the second quarter, Chase and the New England offense played even worse. The running game was starting to falter, and as Chase threw more passes, his accuracy seemed to get worse.

And of course, he wasn’t throwing to his best receiver, and the crowd seemed to be getting more and more anxious because of it. Scattered boos could now be heard in various pockets of the stadium.

The half ended with the score still at 7-3, as both teams had appeared to struggle to get much going on offense.

During halftime, Faith left the box and wandered the bowels of the stadium, watching fans stand in line to use the bathroom, to buy hot dogs and pretzels and pizza and beer.

She felt lost, like a ghost, slightly numb to it all.

She wondered what Chase was thinking right now, what he was doing this very second. What were the coaches saying to the team?

Was Velcro going to tell Chase to get it together and throw him the ball?

Having no idea of what might be happening behind the scenes, Faith found herself conjuring up all sorts of bizarre fantasies.

But more than anything, she wished she could talk to him. More than that, she just wanted Chase to be okay.

Would he be okay if things continued on this way?

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.