Page 101 of Hard Pass

Shit.

My job is to report the findings to GIA not tell the athlete under investigation that he’s innocent. For all I know, the man could be an extremely talented actor playing a part. He could be denying it vehemently publicly while making wagers privately.

He could have slept with you to curry his favor.

Fuck. I just . . . no. I have to believe that was real.

But that doesn’t mean the notion shouldn’t be considered.

There’s evidence though that doesn’t point in his direction.

I need to walk this all back—clarify and rebuild the line.

But I can’t take the comment back, and I can’t deny it’s my professional opinion.

For the first time since this mess started, I don’t want to pretend otherwise.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Cole

“I do.”

She knows I didn’t throw the games.

I’ve taken a lot of hard hits in my life on the field, but the power that those two words hit me with is stronger than I’ve ever felt.

Because no one says that. No one looks at the mess I’ve been lately and doesn’t immediately start picking it apart.

She knows.

I hold her gaze for a second longer, searching for hesitation. Doubt. Anything. There’s none, and I’m finally not just bracing for impact.

It feels like I can breathe easier for the first time in I don’t know how long.

“Okay,” I say slowly, more to myself than to her. “So, if you believe me . . .” I drag a hand through my hair, pacing once before turning back to her. “Then what now?”

That’s the question, right? Because Dublin’s belief in me doesn’t fix anything. Whoever the hell is cashing in on my tell isn’t going to stop.

I think about who’s around me before games. Who’s always there. Locker room. Sidelines. Warmups.

It’s always the same faces, the same routines. Equipment managers. Physical therapists. Runners. Assistants. Executive staff. Sports analysts. Training staff. Coaches.

Then there are the team videographers—the very team that put these player exclusive clips together for Dublin who could’ve picked up on it. It’s their sole job to watch their designated player and document their games. Document me and my games.

Shit. I grit my teeth. It’s one thing to believe someone’s watching. It’s another to believe it’s someone I trust.

“I mean . . .” My thoughts tumble out of control. “If you believe me, then this is over, right? I’m cleared. It’ll be announced publicly and—”

She exhales and I don’t like the sound of it. It doesn’t carry the ease I’d assume comes with exoneration.

“I need to go back through everything,” she says as she writes a note on the pad of paper beside her. “All my interviews. Staff access. Anyone who has proximity before games, practices . . . anyone who could see the tremor before it happens in real time.”

“But why? If I’m cleared, what does it matter who is betting?”

“Because if they work for the team, it’s a problem. Besides, don’t you want to know who is using you?”

“Of course, but I’d also like my name cleared publicly. And soon. So can’t we do that and then you do whatever it is you do to find out who it is?”