Chapter 48 The Ghost of Quarterbacks Past

Chapter 48 The Ghost of Quarterbacks Past
(Trish's POV)

"Don't you dare forget to eat your greens, Joseph! And Trish, keep that boy’s head in the books, not the clouds!"

Miss Britney’s voice echoed across the gravel as the taxi pulled away, her hand waving vigorously out the window until the car disappeared behind a thicket of pines. For a moment, the silence that followed was peaceful. Then, it turned heavy.

The "Bye, Mom!" cheer died on our lips, replaced by the crushing weight of the two-month deadline she’d just dropped like a lead weight.

I turned on my heel, fixing Joseph with a look that could have melted the remaining mountain snow.

"You knew."

Joseph didn't even flinch. He just stared at the dust settling on the road. "Trish, it’s a nice afternoon. Let’s not—"

"Joseph Roland, look me in the eye," I stepped into his personal space, poking a finger against his chest.

"The way you reacted back there? That wasn't 'shock.' That was 'I got caught.' You didn't look surprised that the house was in trouble, you looked surprised that she finally said it out loud. You’ve known about the foreclosure for months, haven't you?"

Joseph let out a long, jagged sigh, his shoulders dropping. The "Golden Boy" facade didn't just crack; it shattered. "I found a letter back in November," he admitted, his voice barely a whisper. "Hidden in the back of a kitchen drawer. I acted like I didn't know because I figured if I didn't acknowledge it, it wasn't real. I thought if I just kept playing the part, the universe would forget to send the sheriff."

"So that was it?" I asked, my voice rising with a mix of realization and irritation. "No wonder you were such a nightmare this year. All that desperate, toxic energy... the way you were throwing parties like the world was ending, acting like a total jerk, making the most out of your 'youthful' time. You weren't just being a teenager; you were trying to outrun the reality of being homeless!"

I paced a circle around him, the pieces of the puzzle finally clicking into place.

"It all makes sense now! You wanted to be so popular, so untouchable, that you’d be treated like a top player even if you weren't actually good enough to save us. And the girls, Joseph! I still can't believe how many girls you dated before me. It was like you were trying to collect a fan club to drown out the silence."

Joseph’s eyes went wide. The guilt vanished, replaced by a sudden, wounded pride. "What? Hey! Whoa. We are NOT bringing that up. That is ancient history, Trish. Like, prehistoric."

"Why shouldn't we?" I shot back, crossing my arms. "You were so... ugh! I don't even know if 'misogynistic' is the word, or just 'delusional.' You were treating high school like your personal buffet because you knew your throne was about to be repossessed!"

"What? No way!" Joseph stepped toward me, a stubborn, competitive glint returning to his eyes. "First of all, 'misogynistic' is a massive reach for a sunny afternoon. Second, I was never that bad. I was just... highly sought after. There’s a difference."

"You were a walking red flag in a varsity jacket," I scoffed.

"And for the record," he added, pointing a thumb at his chest, "I was good enough. You just said I wanted to be treated like a top player even though I wasn't good enough? I’m the best quarterback Mthland has seen since the nineties! My stats don't lie, even if my bank account does."

"Oh, please. You were overcompensating!" I teased, though the lump in my throat was finally starting to soften into a laugh. "You were throwing those sixty-yard bombs because you couldn't throw away the debt."

Joseph’s laughter died instantly. His face darkened, a shadow crossing his features that had nothing to do with the setting sun. "It wasn't just the debt, Trish. It’s him."

I stopped pacing. I knew who "him" was. The man who shared Joseph’s jawline but none of his heart.

"My dad," Joseph spat the word like it was poison. "The 'great' businessman who decided a new wife and a new mansion were more important than the woman who built him. He’s been trying to crawl back lately, you know? Calling the house, sending emails, trying to 'connect' now that his own fortune is starting to leak. He wants to play the proud father because he sees the scouts sniffing around me."

Joseph stepped closer to the gate, gripping the iron bars until his knuckles turned white. "I wanted to be the best quarterback in Mthland history just to shove it in his face. I wanted to be so famous, so rich, that I could buy back ten houses and then look him in the eye and tell him he’s nothing. Everything I did, the arrogance, the 'king' persona, it was all fuel for the revenge."

I looked at him, and I didn't see a confident athlete. I saw a boy trying to build a fortress out of spite.

"Joseph," I said softly, stepping up behind him. "If you do all this just to shame him, you’re still letting him control your life. You’re running a race on a track he built."

"He deserves to be shamed," Joseph hissed.

"Maybe he does. He messed around on your mom, he paraded women around while she was struggling, and he left us for a 'better' life. It’s vexing. It’s evil. But Joseph... if your true goal is just revenge, you’ll never find peace. You might win the game, but you’ll lose yourself."

I thought of my own father, who died leaving me with nothing but memories.

Joseph’s dad was alive and rotting with regret, but Joseph was letting that rot seep into his own soul. I knew telling him he was 'wrong' wouldn't fix it; he was too stubborn for a lecture. But I had to do something, and fast.

I had to help him realize that he should strive for what was HIS, his talent, his future, his family, not just what would hurt a man who wasn't worth the energy.

If he kept playing for a ghost, he’d never be the legend he was meant to be.