Page 56 of Hard Pass

The next three plays come fast and net another first down.

Everything feels automotive in the best way. My feet are set. My reads are sharp. No hesitation. No second-guessing my release point or wondering if my hand will betray me halfway through a throw.

Just football.

Just me.

Just my team.

By the time we punch it in two plays later on a tush-push play, sweat is dripping down my back, and my pulse finally feels normal again.

The guys mob me in the end zone.

Wolfe hooks an arm around my neck. “There he is.”

And for a few minutes out there, I believe him.

I’m me again.

• • •

We’re driving late in the second quarter, up by seven. The crowd is loud. The Chicago Cougars defense is louder.

I step up in the pocket and scan the field. The blitz comes hard and fast, and I have my arm cocked back and then dance back as Wasinski breaks open. The hit comes from the side without warning, Wasinski’s shoulder driving into my ribs just as the ball leaves my hand. His helmet clips mine just enough to rattle as I go down.

Air punches from my lungs when my back hits the ground. The whistle blows and flags fly—roughing the passer. No shit.

I stay down for a beat, blinking away the spots in my vision, forcing air back into my lungs.

“Hey.” Wasinski leans down and flashes a shark’s grin. “That one mess up your odds?” My vision tunnels as I stand up but not from the hit. “Glad I could help, you fucking cheater.”

Rage spikes hot and instant. He bumps my shoulder harder than necessary as he pushes past me.

“Yeah, we all know you did it,” he says.

I’m ready to go after him, but hands grab me, teammates pulling me back like they expected this today.

Maybe I should’ve too.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Dublin

“Say that again.”

I pace the length of my apartment, phone pressed to my ear, and eyes fixed on the game on my television.

Manny, GIA’s quantitative analyst, is on the other end of the line watching the betting activity in real time. “They’re not betting the outcome,” he says. “Not a straight win-loss.”

My gaze narrows as Cole lines up and barks a cadence with a calm that doesn’t match the havoc around him.

“Then what bets are being placed?” I ask.

“The point spread.”

Of course they are. I glance at the score in the corner of the screen. The Rebels are up, not comfortably but by enough.

“How tight?” I ask.