Page 22 of Hard Pass

“It’s a reality. One you can help or hinder.” She shrugs. I don’t think I’ve ever despised someone more before. “And you can start by answering my questions.”

And just like that, this isn’t funny anymore.

CHAPTER FIVE

Dublin

I stare at Cole Valor.

Sure, I’d braced myself for what it would be like seeing him again face-to-face, but I was not prepared for that visceral gut punch when those pale blue eyes met mine.

Time is supposed to dull things. Take the sharp edges off memories. Make moments feel much smaller than they were.

Apparently not this one.

Because there’s nothing dulled about the way it feels to look at him now. He’s older, broader in the way a man’s body changes when they fill out. More controlled than the guy I met in Cabo. But it’s still him.

The worst part about all this? Sure, I steeled myself for how those first few moments would go—his eyes shocking open, his mouth saying Trouble, his head shaking as he realized I was the girl from Cabo. I made the promise to myself that I’d be nonchalant, that I’d brush off that night as if it were nothing, that I’d be so cold and professional, Cole wouldn’t have the chance to react—but none of that preparation and overthinking was needed.

None of it.

Because by the complete lack of recognition in his eyes, Cole Valor doesn’t remember me at all.

That shouldn’t sting, but it does—just enough to notice, to catalog it and set it aside—because that tracks.

“Why, because you’ll forget my name by the time the sun rises?”

Of course, he wouldn’t remember me.

And more importantly, it doesn’t matter. For my job’s sake? It’s probably better this way.

I shrug and say, “And you can start by answering my questions.”

Cole stands abruptly. The chair legs scrape across the floor, the sound reflecting how he looks at me. Frustrated. Defiant.

I’m not surprised that he’s going to walk out. He wouldn’t be the first athlete to do it. And by the way the suits in the room glance at each other, they think he will too and are already mentally figuring next steps.

But rather than head toward the door, Cole drags a hand through his hair and then drops back into the chair.

I’m well aware his decision to stay isn’t because he wants to but rather because the league officials’ presence here make it clear he has to.

The distinction matters and it tells me more than anything he’s said so far.

“Well?” He throws his hands up and lets them fall. “Ask the damn questions.”

I don’t respond immediately. Silence is a tool that most people underestimate. If you let it stretch just long enough, people rush to fill it, usually telling you exactly what you need to know.

Cole shifts in his seat, restless. His fingers flex once against the table—so subtle that most people wouldn’t notice.

I do. Always. People have tells, and it’s my job to figure them out.

There it is again. The little flicker of his fingers. The bob of his Adam’s apple.

He’s nervous. It’s not obvious, but controlled and present. And I’ve seen it before—noticed the mannerisms and patterns in the hours of media I’ve watched of him in preparation for this initial meeting. Interviews. Press conferences. Post-game clips.

Same pattern. Same shift. The minute he gets uncomfortable, the mask goes up. Then comes the easy confidence, the witty sarcasm, the endearing charm.

It’s not who he is but rather it’s how he protects himself.