Page 21 of Hard Pass

“Then show me what you’ve got or let me get back to film review. I have a game to prepare for.”

She opens the folder and turns it toward me.

Charts. Stats. Numbers. Correlations between those stats and betting patterns. I flip through it, not understanding all of it—but comprehending enough. This doesn’t look good.

Unease settles low in my gut.

“We’ve been studying patterns on both the sports betting side and the prediction markets—”

“This is a joke,” I say, even as my eyes flick back to the page.

“Cole,” Carter says. “This is Ms. Locke’s job, one she’s very good at. If there isn’t anything to hide, then we provide everything we can to sort this out, right?”

“You’re telling me a couple of bad games suddenly means I’m guilty?” I ask without acknowledging Carter and his placating tone. “That I threw them to make an extra dollar?”

“More than an extra dollar,” Ms. Locke says.

“How much more?” I ask, my eyes meeting hers again.

“The data suggests that someone—whether that’s you or someone else—has advanced knowledge of your performance variability and is using it to place bets.”

Performance variability. That’s a hell of a way to say you’ve been playing like shit. I push back from the table and run a hand through my hair.

Total bullshit, to say the least, but a serious accusation, nonetheless.

“You didn’t answer my question,” I say.

“I don’t have to.”

I scrub a hand over my face, exhausted now before my day has even started.

“So . . . what? You’re basing all this off the past two games?”

“These patterns extend beyond just the last two games,” she says evenly.

I laugh and it sounds hysterical and disconcerting even to me. “Of course they do. How far then? Last year was my rookie year, before that was college. What are the accusations so I can let the NCAA know you’ll try and strip me of my national championship title and MVP trophy?”

“Last five games of last year to the present.” She squares her shoulders. “But in particular, the last four games or so.”

“This keeps getting better,” I say, sarcasm dripping from my words.

“The historical data establishes patterns and facts . . . and it also highlights abnormalities.”

“It establishes assumptions,” I fire back. “Nothing more. I shouldn’t have to sit here and defend myself.”

“You’re right. You don’t,” she says.

I look at her. Really look. She hasn’t moved, hasn’t reacted viscerally to anything I’ve said. She’s just watched me. Not the data or the others in this room, but only me. And for the first time since I walked in here, the vibe shifts.

This isn’t about a couple of bad games. This is far more serious. She’s here to investigate me.

That flicker of panic hits hard and fast before I can stop it. I shove it away, replacing it with anger before it can fester into something else.

“This is a waste of time,” I say, though it doesn’t quite land the way I want it to.

Dublin tilts her head slightly. “Being suspended would be an even bigger one, now, wouldn’t it?”

“Is that a threat?”