Page 24 of Hard Pass

“That’s not what I asked.”

His jaw tightens. “Nothing changed. No.”

Too clean. Too controlled. I file it away.

“Your completion percentage dropped significantly in the second quarter of the last three games. Your interceptions in two of those games came in the third.” Patterns. “That’s quite a coincidence in back-to-back games.”

“Like I said, I played for shit.”

“Once is coincidence? Twice is a pattern.”

“Does your data account for pressure? Outside temperature? A fucked-up mental focus?” he snaps. “Or are those just coincidences too?”

I hold his gaze. “It accounts for everything.”

And I do because that’s the job.

“Are we done here?” he asks. “Clock’s ticking and I have a game this weekend. I need to get back to fixing whatever the hell’s going on with my arm—that issue—and not these bullshit ones you’re creating for me.”

My attention sharpens.

“What’s wrong with your arm?” I ask.

His reaction’s immediate. The flicker of fear is subtle, and then he masks it just as quickly.

“Nothing’s wrong. It’s just a figure of speech.”

A lie. Or at least not the whole truth.

“And people know this?”

“If they watched the last two games, it’s pretty fucking obvious.”

“I meant before the game,” I clarify. “Did you say anything to anyone about it?”

“Answered that already.” He pushes his chair back and stands. “I need to get to practice.” His eyes meet mine and for a second, something shifts. Not quite recognition, but an acknowledgment. Of what though, I have no idea. “We’re done, yeah?”

“For now,” I say. “I’ll be in touch.”

“Can’t wait.” He heads for the door and then pauses. “Should I assume this isn’t public yet?”

“Correct. Nothing will be made public until after the case is closed.”

“At least there’s that.”

He leaves and the minute the door clicks shut, it’s like the room exhales.

I don’t though. Instead, I watch the space where he stood, replaying the interaction, his expressions, and the inconsistencies that might come into play. Because there were some—not where I expected them to be, but there were definitely some.

“Well?” Gary, one of the league reps asks.

I take a seat for the first time, folding my hands. “Arrogant. Defensive. That’s to be expected when you have accusations being lodged against you. But that’s not what stood out.”

“No?” Carter asks.

What his words and his eyes said differed.

“He’s hiding something,” I say slowly. “But if I had to bet, it’s not what we’re here to find.”