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 one 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
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