Page 96 of Hard Pass

No players wandering through. No shouting down the hallway. No sideways looks or whispered conversations that stop when I walk in.

Just silence. Just control.

Exactly what I need.

Besides, it’s nice to take a break and head to the restroom or stand outside to feel the sun on my face without having to take all my notes and laptop with me so wandering eyes don’t try and sneak a peek. I put nothing past people.

But the main reason I’m here is their state-of-the-art film room. Endless access to internal angles the broadcast never shows—tight shots, sideline cuts, reps broken down player by player because the team has a crew of workers dedicated to tracking and documenting one player the whole game.

The other bonus is there’s no chance of running into Cole while navigating the halls. No chance of seeing his gorgeous backside or a flash of his smile, reminding me exactly how his mouth felt like on mine.

It’s been a week since that night and this is exactly what I need.

Yes. I’m avoiding him.

Yes, I keep telling myself we finished what we started five years ago.

Yes, I’m pretending the line between us is still solid when I’m not entirely sure I want it to be.

So avoiding is so much easier than seeing the thing I want and not being able to have it.

The irony is that no matter how hard I avoid him in person, he’s all I’ve been staring at for hours upon hours.

I squeeze my eyes shut for a beat. They’re tired from straining, but I can’t stop. I’m onto something. I think. The same something that was niggling in the back of my mind the night I went to their headquarters in the rainstorm.

I cue up the next clip and double-check the timestamp on my spreadsheet of the betting line being placed.

Patterns are emerging.

One after another.

Click.

The door at my back opens and I jump, whipping my head up and expecting to see a serial killer standing there.

“Cole.” His name is a sigh of relief.

For a second.

And then my spine stiffens. “Wait? How did you know I was here?”

He shuts the door behind him like it’s nothing, like he belongs in whatever room he walks into.

In that split second, I notice everything I shouldn’t.

The way his shirt stretches across his shoulders.

His lips and the stubble on his jaw.

The faint fatigue in his eyes.

The way my body simply aches at the sight of him.

“Carter mentioned you were over here. Said you had some questions for me, so he gave me this,” he says, holding up a keycard.

“I didn’t . . .” I pause and can see how Carter might have misinterpreted what I said as needing to see Cole.

And of course, Cole came, because why wouldn’t he walk straight into the one place I came to get away from him?