I pulled a towel around me as I stepped out of the shower. I wiped my arms and fingers until they were relatively dry, enough so that they wouldn't short out any electronics, and then opened up my laptop.
It didn't take long for me to find the official league rulings on footballs - they were required to be inflated to between twelve and a half to thirteen and a half pounds per square inch, and were checked by league officials, the referees, at each game.
That cleared it up, I thought to myself. Even if the balls had been deflated in the locker room, they wouldn't have been put into play - the officials would have checked the balls before they entered the field, and would have caught the low pressure.
But for some reason, I kept on reading through other articles that my search returned. After all, if the officials would have just caught any deflated balls, why had Chase acted so strange when I asked him about them?
A few pages later, I found a possible answer - one, however, that made me feel intensely uncomfortable.
This answer came from a post on an enthusiasts forum, where a commenter was decrying the very rule about which I'd just been reading, the regulations on proper football inflation. The measurements meant next to nothing, the commenter insisted, because the pressure could be measured at any point, either before or after the game. The referees and officials who recorded the measurements didn't even have to do so in the same conditions as the game itself!
In fact, the commenter went on, the balls could be inflated in a warm location, and then moved to a cooler location, and the pressure would drop inside the footballs as the air inside cooled. Similarly, if they were checked outside, where it was colder, and then brought inside, they would read as abnormally overinflated.
In conclusion, the commenter finished, the whole rule was stupid, and the footballs should be filled with some sort of aerogel or foam, something that wouldn't shift or change due to temperature fluctuations.
The rest of the thread online, naturally, was filled with arguments and disagreements. Many football purists acted as if the original commenter had suggested taking a dump on Joe Montana himself. Others insisted that no other material would respond the same way as an air-filled football, and that no acceptable alternatives existed. Others claimed that officials were already aware of these temperature fluctuations, that the balls were repeatedly checked by members of both teams, the equipment managers, and these errors would be promptly alleviated.
But none of the commenters, as far as I could tell, even considered the point which immediately sprang to mind for me. The idea that the pressure inside the footballs could differ, by as many as 2-3 pounds per square inch, led me to two questions.
Did partially deflated balls feel and respond differently in the hands of a quarterback than fully inflated balls?
And even more chillingly, could knowingly using a partially deflated ball offer up some advantage for a quarterback or for a team?
Another round of Google searches suggested that the answer to both of these questions was, tentatively, yes. A partially deflated ball offered a better grip to the quarterback, as his hands could more easily hold onto the ball tightly. In addition, although the ball didn't spin in quite the same way as a fully inflated ball, the squishiness let the quarterback put more power into a throw, getting greater distance on a long bomb.
But of course, I told myself, this was all hypothetical. No self-respecting football team would actually consider cheating, especially not in big matches like these. There was far too much risk on the line, and multiple people would have to know about the cheating and would be complicit to its occurrence. If the balls were partially inflated, instead of fully inflated, the players would know - but so would the coaches and the equipment managers.
I closed my browser window, pushing my computer aside. It's nothing, I told myself. Just a wild theory, with no evidence behind it.
But as I lay in bed that night, trying to find sleep, I instead kept on thinking about how Chase had frozen for a moment when I asked him about the balls, how he'd brushed the whole issue aside. Something about that interaction still rankled with me a little.
I could always ask him again, of course. Since I saw him just about every night, it would be easy to find a quiet moment to raise the question about the footballs.
Would I get an honest answer, however?
I didn't know if I would, and that scared me. I'd grown so close to Chase, so quickly - I couldn't imagine that he would even think of lying to me.
But if the balls really were deflated, he, as quarterback, had to know about it. And when it came to protecting his own record, maybe even his own career, he might be willing to go to extraordinary lengths to keep his secret quiet.
So I wouldn't ask him, I decided, staring up at the black ceiling above my bed. But I already knew that I wouldn't be able to let go of the whole issue, either.
I'd have to keep on investigating and digging, on my own time. I'd also need to keep my investigations secret. I couldn't tell anyone else about this; I didn't know who else might be in on the scam, and might report my independent investigation to someone high up.
If this got out, I suspected that I would not only find myself out of a job, but I also wouldn't be likely to get hired anywhere else. My references from the Hawks management would be, I suspected, less than stellar.
Finally, I drifted off to sleep - but the next morning, as I tried to inhale enough coffee to clear the fog of lingering sleep from my head, I still kept on thinking about the question. What would I need to do next?
By the time I finished off my plate of eggs and headed back up to my room, I had an idea.
The Hawks were playing their next game tomorrow, and I suspected that, although I preferred the comfort of the sky box for watching the match, it wouldn't be hard to talk my way down onto the field during the game.
From there, I just had to find some way to get my hands on a football and tell whether it was fully inflated - or deflated.
I liberated a football from practice, telling a bemused equipment manager that I wanted to practice throwing it around to see if I could get into the mindset of the players. It took a little bit of sweet-talking, but I made sure to put on a low-cut top that morning, and after leaning forward and giving the man a full dose of both girls, he agreed to let me take the ball back to my hotel room so that I could "look at it for inspiration while working."
"But I'll need it back at some point, ya hear?" he told me, his eyes lingering as they took in my figure. By this point, about half of the team had worked out that Chase and I appeared to be an item, but this man clearly wasn't letting that little fact get in the way of his daydreaming about what he'd do to me.
"No worries!" I replied, waiting until I was around the corner before I let myself shiver from the feeling of him checking me out.
I had the control ball, one that was properly inflated. I squeezed it as much as I could, getting a feel for how it felt. It definitely seemed firmer than the balls I remembered feeling in the locker room, but I couldn't be sure.
Now, I needed to get my hands on the game ball.
Chapter Eighteen
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"You sure that you're supposed to be down here, little lady?"
I pressed my lips shut for a moment, my heart hammering in my chest, and tried to ignore that 'little lady' affectation from the massive security guard currently standing in my path. "Yes, I am. You've already seen my credentials, and I need to be out on the field to capture the pictures, videos, and other media for my job."
The security guard nodded, but he still squinted suspiciously at me. I gritted my teeth, trying to not let my anxiety get the best of me. I just had to make it past this last guard, and then I'd be out on the sidelines of the field!
From behind the security guard, where the concrete tunnel in which we stood opened up to the field, I heard a roar, boos and cheers all mixed together in a massive wave of sound. Someone, I guessed, had pulled off a big pla
y. Judging from the number of boos to cheers, I guessed also that the Hawks were the beneficiaries of said play.
Finally, the guard's brain apparently overheated. "Yeah, whatever," he gave in, passing my identification badge back to me and shuffling slightly off to one side. "Don't cause any trouble out there, okay?"
"I'm just doing my job," I insisted, grabbing my badge out of the man's huge sausage fingers and hurrying past him. "Thank you."
I didn't wait to hear if he responded to my thanks before dashing out onto the field.
The bright sunlight hit my eyes like a spotlight, making me stop for a moment and blink furiously. The stadium here, home turf of the Blasters, featured an open roof, and the sun was located almost directly overhead, shining down on the scene.
Even the sun's rays, however, weren't enough to raise the temperature. I stomped my feet, rubbing at my arms through the Hawks sweatshirt I'd chosen to wear. I guessed that it couldn't be above forty degrees outside.
Which meant that if the football pressure had been checked inside a warm locker room, they'd definitely be deflated out here.
After my eyes adjusted to the bright sunlight, I hurried over to the Hawks' side of the field. With my short stature, I quickly disappeared in amid the bigger, bulkier male frames of the coaches, assistants, and other players standing and sitting around, watching the action.
It took some squirming, but I eventually managed to find a place where I could get a decent view of the players currently competing out on the gridiron. I'd had to sandwich myself in between a pair of massive linebackers, and a photographer's tripod kept on poking me in the back of the leg whenever I straightened up too much, but I could at least see the action.
The Hawks offense was on the field now, I observed. They had the ball right near the Blasters' end zone; that must have been what the big cheer was about, a couple of minutes ago. I'd scarcely managed to find a vantage point before the Hawks snapped the ball, the crouched players on the field exploding into action.
I saw one broad figure dance back, the football up in his hands. That had to be Chase, I knew, searching for an open receiver. I held my breath as I saw a couple of absolutely gigantic players in Blaster colors break through the defensive line, converging in on his position.
Just before they came within reach of him, however, Chase must have spotted his target. He shifted his entire body, his arm snapping forward in a smooth but incredibly fast motion. The ball shot away from him, thrown so fast that I could barely follow its path as anything more than a blurred streak.
It shot up, just over the heads of the grappling linebackers, over the goal line - and a man in Hawks colors leapt astoundingly high in the air and gracefully pulled the ball into his arms as he landed.
"Yes!" The whole bench around me erupted into cheers, and the sitting linebackers in front of me surged to their feet as they hooted and hollered. I cursed amid the cheering, suddenly unable to see anything but the broad backs of the men in front of me.
Feeling utterly silly, but with no other option, I squatted down, peering between the legs of the men in front of me. I needed to see where the ball ended up!
Fortunately, it was still in the hands of the Hawks receiver who had snagged it so easily out of the air. The man did a little dance in the end zone, and I saw dreadlocks flopping around out the bottom of his helmet. DeShaun, I suddenly remembered.
A minute later, as I watched, DeShaun finished his little victory dance, and he tossed the ball carelessly off to one side. I strained forward as I saw an assistant dash out onto the pitch, picking up the ball and carrying it off. I took a second to note the direction in which the young man ran, and then popped back up to my feet. I needed to catch that ball!
I extricated myself from the mass of cheering football players, coaches, and assistants on the Hawks sidelines with some difficulty, panting a little despite the chill in the air by the time I emerged into open air. I turned and ran down towards the Blasters end zone, where I'd last seen the assistant with the football.
There he was! I spotted him turning towards the locker room entrance. I picked up my pace, breaking into a jog. He still had the football, tucked under one arm!
"Hey!" I called out, as I drew closer to him. "Hey, wait! I need to see that ball!"
My words, however, were lost in a sudden roar from the crowd. I didn't turn to look behind me, but I guessed that the Hawks kicker must have made the extra point. I put on one last burst of speed, catching up with the young man and reaching out to tap him on the shoulder.
"Hey, wait," I said, as he stopped and turned to look back at me inquisitively. "I need to take that ball from you."
The man's face drew into a suspicious frown. "Why? I need to bring it back to the equipment room and check it for-"
"I'll have it back to you in a second," I interrupted, frantically racking my brain for some explanation as to why I needed this particular ball, right now. "But before it can go back, it, um, it needs Chase's signature."
"Why?"
Great. Just the question that I didn't want. "Um, it's for a social media event," I improvised wildly. "We're, uh, we're going to auction it off. On social media. For charity."
"Really? That's cool. I didn't hear about that."
"Yeah, it's, um, it's a flash deal." I was starting to get into it now. "The promise was that the first touchdown ball of the game-"
"This was the second touchdown."
"-wouldn't be used," I pivoted, "but the second touchdown ball would be. Chase would sign it, and we're going to donate all the proceeds from the sale to local charities in the local city of the home town. It's competitive, and it lets us give back in a public way, too. Should generate some great publicity for us, and for the league overall."
Now that I'd come up with this idea, I actually liked it! Even if the ball turned out to be properly inflated, I still wanted to get Chase to sign it and create this auction. This would be a great way to get more fan involvement moving forward with the last few games in the season, and I suspected we could raise quite a bit of money!
The young man hesitated for a second longer, but acting impulsively, I darted forward and lifted the ball right out of his hands. "Look, if anyone asks questions, just direct them to the social media manager for the Hawks," I replied merrily, cutting off his protests before he could get a word out. "Thank you!"
Tucking the ball under my own arm, I turned and hurried back up the field towards the Hawks bench before he could ask any more questions after me. I needed to find Chase, now, as he came off of the field - and I also needed to find a marker somewhere.
But first, I reminded myself as I slowed down a little and tried to catch my breath after all this recent running, I needed to find some way to measure the pressure in this football.
I pulled it out from under my arm and gave it a test squeeze in my hands. It did feel softer than the ball that I'd liberated from the Hawks equipment manager yesterday, but I didn't know whether it was still within regulation limits. I'd need to find a pressure gauge for that. I really should have come better prepared, should have brought one out with me onto the field.
Oh well. Nothing to do now but forge ahead as best I could.
"Chase!" I shouted out, as I neared the bench where the offensive line now gulped down Gatorade or stretched out their muscles to make sure that nothing would set up or stiffen in the cold. "Chase, over here!"
I spotted him easily - his messy, light hair made him easy to pick out of the crowd. He looked up, surprised to hear my voice. "Katy! What are you doing down here?" he asked, moving over to me.
I held up the game ball triumphantly. "Charity auction! I need your signature!"
Chase looked bemused, which was at least better than suspicious. "Charity auction? For what?"
"It's a new idea of mine," I explained. "We're going to auction off one of the game balls online, and donate the proceeds to a charity in the opposing team's hometown. Kind of a 'killing them with kindness' sort of thing."
I carefully didn't mention that the ball in my hands was the same one that he'd thrown for a touchdown just minutes earlier.
He grinned. "I like the idea. Do you have a pen or something?"
I cast around, finally managing to steal a marker off of a coach's unattended clipboard. I held the ball steady, and Chase scrawled his signature across the knobbly surface.
"There you go," he said, returning the marker back to me with a smile.
"Thanks." I turned to go, but Chase reached out and caught at my shoulder. I stopped and turned back to him, my heart pounding.
"By the way, I hope you got approval for this, because we aren't allowed to carry game balls off the field or get rid of them until the end of season," he said, grinning at me.
Shit. I stared back at him, my mind completely blank and devoid of any sort of response.
For a second longer, Chase looked stern - and then he winked at me. "But I won't say anything," he added. "See you tonight, sexy."
My heart still pounding in my throat, I managed one last smile, and then turned away, the ball clutched protectively in my hands.
Chapter Nineteen
☼ ☼ ☼ ☼ ☼ ☼
Through some series of lucky coincidences and minor miracles, I managed to make it off the field with the ball still tucked under my arm. I was especially nervous about what the mountain-sized security guard would say when I tried to leave the field with the ball, but he'd apparently rotated to a new location, and his replacement didn't even glance away from the TV screens to acknowledge me as I passed.
Gauge. I needed a pressure gauge. Where would I find one of those?
Well, the equipment rooms. That would be the obvious answer.
I, however, didn't know where one of those rooms was located.
I stopped a couple of employees as I wandered around the back area of the stadium, eventually getting a set of overly complicated directions. Ten minutes later, my feet aching, I found the room and stepped inside.
Another guard outside the room suspiciously checked my identification badge before he let me inside, but fortunately no one was inside the actual equipment room. Finally, something went my way! I ducked back behind the counter and rummaged around until I found a pressure gauge.
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