Chase tried it over and over, and consistently, he observed the same results: when the football was slightly deflated, just a little bit, it flew more accurately and felt more comfortable in his hand.
This, Chase knew, was a big problem.
The league had very specific and clear rules on what did and did not comprise a regulation football. One of those rules stated that any football used in play had to be inflated to between 12.5 and 13.5 pounds per square inch, as measured by the referees.
The balls that Chase found most comfortable in his hands, however, were only at 11 pounds per square inch. The difference wasn't massive, but it was more than enough for a referee with a gauge to spot the difference.
Initially, Chase didn't mean to make any use of this fact. He idly made a note of it, considering that if he had to play some charity game, he could always let a little bit of the air out of the ball to make throwing it to the kids a little easier. He never intended to put it to use in a game.
But he made the mistake of mentioning his finding to Terry Muskgrave, the offensive coordinator for the Hawks.
In the first game of the season, the temperatures outside during the game's play time happened to be chilly and cold, with a lingering mist hanging in the air from the morning's fog. The Hawks played especially well, securing their victory by more than twenty points - but Chase noticed that the ball felt a little odd in his hands. As he fell back after the snap, catching the ball and searching for his best target, he observed that the ball seemed to squeeze a little more easily in his fingers.
After the game, the assistants whisked the balls away, but Chase approached Muskgrave and asked him about his observation. At first, Muskgrave denied having any knowledge of a change to the balls, but Chase had worked with the man for months in close contact, and he sensed that Muskgrave was holding something back.
Eventually, Muskgrave broke down and admitted that he'd had one of the assistants inflate the footballs inside the warm locker room before bringing them out. Just like at the spring practice earlier that year, the footballs deflated a little as they came out into the cold air, making them easier to handle - and also breaking the rules.
Chase had been furious. He'd yelled at Muskgrave and gone storming out, but the offensive coordinator remained adamant that he'd made the right choice.
"Look, Chase," he insisted, the next day at practice. "No one's going to find out - and besides, the league officials don't say where they have to check the pressure! There's no rule that says that they can't check the pressure inside the locker room, and then the ball just happens to lose a little pressure once it comes outside."
Chase remained torn for the next few games, but Muskgrave, apparently taking the decision into his own hands, kept on supplying balls for the game that were slightly under-inflated - and Chase kept up his stellar performance.
Finally, after their third win in a row, he came to his coach.
"Listen, I'm still not happy about this, and we need to be careful," he started things off. "But I want your promise that we'll take every precaution, and not mention this to anyone else. If someone else catches on, we're going to deny everything and never do it again."
"You've got it, Chase," Muskgrave assured him.
And so, for the rest of the games of the season so far, Muskgrave handled inflating the footballs inside the locker room, and Chase didn't remark on whether the football in his hands sometimes felt a little bit deflated. After all, it still came down to his skill at throwing and identifying the right target, in the end, didn't it? Besides, as Muskgrave had pointed out, they were still obeying the letter of the law, if not necessarily the spirit.
He'd paid careful attention to what his receivers and other players commented about the balls, but no one seemed to notice any difference. Finally, Chase started to relax a little, not lying awake worrying about if this secret to the Hawks' success would get out.
He' thought that everything was alright - and then, oh so innocently, Katy asked the question about the balls possibly being deflated.
He could have brushed it off, he realized now with a groan of regret. He grabbed another pillow off his bed, violently choking it into submission and then punching it a couple of times, just for good measure. If he'd been better at concealing his initial reaction, he could've just shrugged and told Katy that he hadn't noticed anything, but he'd have his coach look into the issue.
He probably could have pulled it off - but it was too late now.
Chase hurtled this pillow across the room, slamming it against the wall before it dropped down onto its fallen companion. "Shit!" he howled into his empty hotel suite at the top of his lungs. "Fucking shit!"
What the hell was he going to do now?
He could go to Muskgrave, could tell him that someone had noticed the deflated balls, that they had to knock it off for the rest of the season. Chase suspected, however, that he could predict right now exactly how that meeting would go.
It wouldn't go well.
Muskgrave would have a dozen objections. He'd point out how well the Hawks had played so far, how a sudden drop in Chase's performance would raise questions from reporters and officials. He'd point out how Katy didn't know anything about the game and its regulations, how she wouldn't be likely to say anything to anyone - and they could lean on her to ensure her silence. He'd point out that the Superbowl was only a few more games away, that they were so close.
And in the end, even if Chase threatened to go to the authorities himself, he'd burn himself just as badly as if Katy told someone.
He'd known for the whole season, after all. He'd played multiple games, knowing full well that the football in his hands was deflated, and he hadn't spoken up to any of the officials or referees. He didn't know if Muskgrave had physical evidence linking him to the deflated balls, but Chase wouldn't put it past his coach.
He couldn't tell Muskgrave. But could he really afford to just forget about Katy's mention of the deflated balls, hoping that she would keep her mouth shut?
He couldn't do that either, he realized.
So what was the best course of action, then?
He'd have to stick close to Katy, he realized after a few minutes of thinking. She was the only one who knew his secret, as far as he could tell; he'd have to keep a close eye on her to make sure that she didn't say anything to anyone else. If she didn't forget about the deflated balls that she noticed in the locker room, he had to make sure that she trusted him enough that she directed all further questions through him.
Chase threw himself back on the bed, lying flat and cursing into the comforter beneath him. This meant, he thought to himself, that he'd have to get past the awkwardness he still felt towards Katy, after that night out when he kissed her.
It wasn't going to be fun - but he couldn't see any other possible answer to keeping her quiet. If he leaned on Benson, the owner, to fire her, Benson would demand an explanation. That could lead to more problems, possibly even to Katy pressing charges.
He had to keep things quiet - and get closer to her.
One pillow remained on the bed. Chase grabbed it and punched at it, over and over, until the pillowcase ripped and feathers flew out, covering the room. He kept on punching until the pillow was little more than fragments in his hands, the entire room covered in a layer of feathers from his destruction.
Breathing heavily, he stood up, turning towards the minibar. Right now, he thought to himself, he needed a drink.
And then, he needed to place a call that was sure to be profoundly awkward.
Chapter Eleven
☼ ☼ ☼ ☼ ☼ ☼
I was sitting at home, staring blankly at my laptop, when I heard my phone buzzing.
I reluctantly tore my eyes away from the animated gif of a kitten meowing over and over that I'd been watching, grabbing my phone off of my desk. I looked at the number, my eyebrows climbing in surprise.
Why in the world was Seth Chase calling me?
A half a dozen scenari
os flashed through my head, some of them much more embarrassing and potentially disastrous than others. He couldn't stop thinking of me and wanted to take me out on a date. He'd been arrested, and needed me to bail him out. He'd just killed a hooker, and he needed my help to make sure that none of the paparazzi found out, so that his name would stay out of the papers. A former one night stand had just contacted him, confessing that she was pregnant and demanding obscene levels of child support in exchange for her silence on the kid's father.
I grimaced at the thought of these scenarios. Please, please, let it just be a butt dial, I thought fervently to myself, crossing my fingers, before I swiped across the screen to answer the call.
"Hello?"
"Hi Katy." Definitely not a butt dial. At the sound of Chase's voice, I couldn't stop myself from picturing his face, those bright blue eyes. For a moment, my brain threatened to also recall how his kiss had felt, but I slashed that thought to ribbons.
"Uh, hi." He'd said that already. Shit. "What can I do for you, Chase?"
"What are you offering?" Even over the phone, I swear that I heard his lips curling up into that self-satisfied smirk, like a cat with a mouse trapped under its paw. "I can imagine quite a few things you can do for me."
"I can hang up whenever I want, Chase," I pointed out. Of course, I wasn't about to do so, but I could still drop the threat.
"Right. Listen, I've been rather distant for the last few days - I think that maybe we started off on the wrong foot," Chase said next. He didn't actually apologize, but his voice sounded contrite.
"You mean, how you kissed me in that club?" I asked.
I heard a sound at the other end of the line that could either be a cough or a hastily suppressed laugh. "Yeah, that. Maybe we could get together again, have dinner or something. I really did like talking to you."
I considered this request. To be honest, I actually found that I did want to have dinner with the man again! Of course, a little part of me also wanted to push my tongue down his throat, but I told myself that this wasn't on the table as an option. "I suppose that I could be convinced to have dinner with you," I allowed.
"Great. How about at Burch Steakhouse, downtown?"
I grimaced at the thought of the cost of a steakhouse in downtown. "Any chance that you can pick up the tab there? Remember, I'm not getting paid millions for my job."
"I can pick up the tab," he said. "But in exchange, I get you for the rest of the night."
"Not happening."
"Twenty minutes, steakhouse bathroom."
"Not a chance."
"Ten minutes, back of the cab. You can keep your top on."
"You do know that I'm not going to say yes to any of these, right?" I couldn't help grinning at his determination.
"A guy can try," Chase fired back, not deterred in the slightest. "How about I get to pick the bar we head to after the restaurant?"
I considered this option for a moment. "No strip clubs."
"Dammit!" he pretended to curse, and I laughed out loud before I could stop myself. "But fine. I'll take that deal. See you tonight, let's say at seven."
"Wait!" I called out, before he could hang up. "What's the dress code at this place? Should I wear something fancy?"
"Preferably very low-cut," he replied immediately.
"Just for that, I'm wearing my biggest and puffiest winter coat."
"Ooh, it's like getting to unwrap a present," he said. "Let my hands figure out what sort of treasures are hiding beneath the puffy coat."
"You're terrible," I told him, still smiling. "I'll see you at seven."
I hung up the phone, setting it down on my desk and staring at it for a minute. It wasn't until I'd hung up that it started to sink into me just what I'd done.
I'd just broken my declaration - again! I'd agreed to go out on a date with Chase, one of the football players that I was supposed to be nothing but professional with!
Maybe this wasn't a date, I desperately thought to myself. Maybe he just wanted to get to know me as a friend, since we'd had such good conversation last time we were out-
-yeah, right up until he kissed me hard enough to make my toes and fingers curl up.
Besides, I added, his conversation on the phone with me, his flirting, definitely didn't feel like what happened just between friends. Friends generally didn't try to convince each other to share a quickie in a steakhouse bathroom.
For a moment, I considered calling Chase back and telling him that the date was off, that I had some unexpected conflict come up. I suspected, however, that he would see right through any of my excuses. And besides, he'd just suggest that we reschedule for the next night - or the next, or the next...
Okay, canceling was out. I'd just have to show up, I decided, and convince him that we shouldn't be dating, that nothing would happen between us. All I had to do was look into the man's sexy face, those engaging blue eyes, and tell him that, despite how sexy he looked, and how much I thought about the kiss we'd shared, nothing was going to happen between us.
Sure. No problem.
Slowly, carefully, I lowered my head down until my forehead thumped against my desk. I closed my eyes for a minute, feeling the cool wood pressing against my forehead.
After a couple of minutes of gently bumping my head against the desk, however, no new ideas had come to me, and my forehead was starting to ache. Instead of continuing to risk giving myself a concussion, I stood up, looking around my little apartment.
Burch Steakhouse, a quick Google search revealed, was definitely a swanky sort of place. I headed over to my closet, opening up the folding doors and staring into the row of clothing, searching for something appropriate. After pulling out and discarding several other possibilities, I finally dug out a little black dress from the back. I'd picked it up at a half-price sale a couple of years ago, but had never found the right opportunity to wear it since then.
Frowning, I held it up in front of my figure in the mirror. I considered returning to my closet, but I knew that I didn't have any other options.
"Here goes nothing," I said, stripping down and pulling the dress on.
After I got it zipped up, I examined myself again in the mirror. Actually, I gave in, I didn't look too terrible. The dress definitely showed off my cleavage, a bit more than I preferred - but maybe that would distract Chase enough for me to put my foot down and tell him, politely but firmly, that we should just be friends.
I tried sitting down on the edge of my bed, observing that the hem slid a little further up my thighs than I'd expected. I rubbed my hand over one of my legs, noting the prickly hairs poking into my palm, and sighed. If I wanted to wear this out tonight, I'd need to hop in the shower and shave my legs a bit further up than the calf.
I wiggled my way back out of the dress, setting it down on my bed so that it wouldn't get wrinkled from sitting on my floor. I checked the clock - about an hour until I'd have to leave to get to the steakhouse on time.
Better get going then, I thought to myself with a sigh, and headed for my bathroom.
Twenty-five minutes later, I climbed out of the shower, my skin soft and newly depilated. I ran one hand over my legs, admiring their new smoothness. Why didn't I shave my legs all the way more often?
My fingers, sliding over my leg, bumped against some of the little cuts down around the knee, where shaving got tricky. I sighed. Oh yeah, that's why.
I turned back to my closet, managing to find a white button-up sweater that didn't show any obvious stains or holes. I pulled it over my shoulders, turning back and forth in the mirror. Okay, this could work. Given Chase's height, I could probably get away with heels. I dug them out from the bottom of my closet, wincing as I squeezed my toes into them. It had been too long since I'd last worn them, and I already knew that my feet would be killing me by the end of the night.
Swapping the heels for flats and picking up the heels by their straps (I'd change into them at the restaurant), I headed out of my apartment and down to my car. Pl
ugging the name of the restaurant into my phone's GPS, I headed out to grumble my way through Sunday afternoon traffic.
By the time I found a parking spot in one of the downtown lots (a whole twelve dollars for evening parking! Criminal!) and tottered my way down to the restaurant, I was running a good ten minutes late. I entered the restaurant and took a moment to try and regain my breath, praying that Chase was also running late.
"There she is! Glad you could make it!"
Shit. I straightened up, still breathing heavily after my dash down here. "Hi, Chase, it's good to see you," I said evenly.
At least, that's what I intended to say.
Instead, I got out "Hi," and then the rest of my words caught in my throat as I caught sight of the man.
Chase looked... well, there was no way to deny it. He looked classy.
He'd traded in his jeans and jersey for a pair of black dress slacks, paired with a blue shirt that matched his eyes. He'd thrown on a sport coat over this ensemble, and even though his collar remained unbuttoned and his blonde hair looked slightly mussed as always, he projected confidence and sophistication, with that hint of a rough edge that every girl wanted in her man. I could see a couple middle-aged ladies sitting at the steakhouse bar leaning back dangerously far in their seats to check him out.
"Hi back to you," he replied, instantly taking in my agog stare. "Like what you see? Everything's on the menu."
It took me a moment to get enough moisture back in my mouth to respond. "Um, I'm on a diet. Just the food, I think."
"We'll see how you're feeling later," he replied, glancing over at the maître d'. "Let's grab our table, before they get tired of waiting and hand it off to someone else."
We followed the summoned host back into the steakhouse, and with each step further into the restaurant, I felt more and more outclassed and underdressed. Everywhere I looked, I saw red leather, dark wood, and oil paintings. I felt like I'd accidentally wandered into a Spanish royal palace.
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