Page 169 of Hard Pass

Dublin

I rub my eyes and stare down at my phone again like maybe the words will change if I give them enough time.

They don’t.

MANNY: No large bets. Nothing significant found.

I sigh. Great in theory. Wonderful, in fact, but that gets me no closer to finding who’s doing this to Cole.

It just doesn’t make sense. Patterns don’t just disappear. People don’t just stop—

The front door opens. Closes. Footsteps come down the hall, and then there he is.

Cole stands just inside the doorway, shoulders heavy, posture reflecting just how physical the game was.

He has joggers on and a white T-shirt. There’s turf burn on one elbow. A bruise blooming across his forearm. A cut on his non-throwing hand that looks worse than it probably is.

And those are just the visible injuries.

His eyes meet mine, exhausted and depleted, but there’s a soft smile there.

“Hey.”

“Hi,” I say pushing to my feet, my heart already well past the tumbling when I see his face. “Are you okay?”

He huffs out a soft laugh. “You should see what the other guys look like.”

“I know you guys won, but . . .” I take a step closer, my eyes looking to see where else he’s hurt. “I thought this was supposed to be an easy team.”

“Easy as in they have a shit record. Yes. But that doesn’t mean they don’t have giants on their line who hit hard.”

“And your line wasn’t protecting you with Altman out sick. Your right side was weaker.”

“Look at you diagnosing the problem,” he says, smile widening.

“And your hand?” I ask, still stuck on the conversation with Malachi.

He groans when he shifts his feet and my question’s forgotten as I press a tender kiss to his lips. I love how his hand immediately goes to my waist to pull me in against him despite his pain. “Here,” I murmur as I lift his arm and kiss the bruise there. “Let me kiss it and make it better.”

He leans back, mouth curling into a smile. “While you’re at it . . .” He lifts his brow suggestively.

I snort. “Unbelievable.”

He starts to laugh and then groans as his hand flies to his ribs. “No. No laughing. That hurts.”

“Poor baby.” I run my fingers over his cheek. “Can I get you anything? A drink? A beer? An ice pack?”

“All of the above?” he jokes.

I move past him and cross the ten feet or so to the kitchen as he shuffles behind me.

“Anything happen?” he asks. I turn to look at him confused. “Manny. Bets placed.”

I shake my head as I pull a beer and a water out of the fridge. “Nothing notable. He said it was pretty quiet.”

There’s the subtlest drop of his shoulders. A quick inhale of breath. Relief? Frustration? I can’t tell but both are valid.

“Maybe it’s over,” I say.