Page 54 of Hard Pass

“I don’t understand any of that. How do you bet on the probability of something that hasn’t happened yet? Like . . .” He shakes his head. “People are always guessing or reading into things.”

“These guesses are rather precise.”

“Look,” he says, dragging a hand over the back of his neck. “I’m telling you the truth. The last thing I want is any trouble for the team.”

Trouble.

For a split second, the memory slips in uninvited. Salty air. Hungry kisses. A moment that wasn’t supposed to matter but now lingers more than it has before.

I clear my throat. “I’m not here to cause any problems. I’m here to stop them before they get any worse.” I close my notebook with a soft snap and slide a business card across the table. “I appreciate your time, Rick. This helps. If anything else comes to mind, feel free to reach out to me.”

Relief flickers across his face and his shoulders relax for the first time since we’ve sat down.

I stand, smoothing my blazer as I walk out and straight into the aftermath of practice.

Players flood the hallway. Massive. Loud. Controlled chaos. It doesn’t matter how many times I work with teams like this, I still forget how physically overwhelming it is to be surrounded by them.

I sidestep a pair of players and look up to see Cole. Helmet gone. Pads already stripped off. What’s left is a tight shirt clinging to his torso, damp in uneven patches. His football pants ride low on his hips, and there are grass stains on his knees. His hair, those impossible waves, is damp, and it looks like his hand has run through it more than a few times.

He looks—

I shut the thought down immediately.

Focused. That’s what he looks like, Dublin. Focused. Nothing more. Nothing less.

And definitely not a reminder of why I picked him out of every man in the bar that night.

His gaze lifts and finds mine. The noise around us dulls, like someone turned the volume down on the world. His mouth shifts like he might say something, but someone calls his name from behind him.

He lifts his hand in acknowledgment—but doesn’t look their way. Not right away. He just stands there, his eyes locked on mine like he’s asking questions I simply can’t answer yet.

A teammate bumps his shoulder and when he looks back to me again, his demeanor’s changed. He’s more guarded. More deliberate. Like he realized he let something slip and now he’s correcting it.

Good. So am I.

I stride past him without slowing or acknowledging how very aware of him I am. Professional and objective—that’s what matters.

Yet as I turn the corner, the image lingers anyway. Sweat-soaked fabric. Messy hair. The intensity in his eyes.

I don’t exhale until I’m inside the conference room and the door shuts behind me.

He’s not attractive.

The thought comes automatically. Reflexively.

I huff out a quiet laugh. Fine. He is. Only an idiot would pretend otherwise after seeing him like that.

But that has nothing to do with this. Nothing.

Because whatever’s happening here, whoever’s shifting the betting lines, it isn’t coincidence.

It’s information. It’s being fed. And if it isn’t Cole Valor, then it’s someone betraying him.

Which might be even worse.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Cole