Page 182 of Hard Pass

“Sorry. Team meeting ran long and then it took a while through traffic to get back here.” I take a sip of my beer. “Thanks for this.”

“Always.”

“Your meetings go well?” I ask.

“Same old shit, different day.” He smiles. “Computer networks are far from sexy.”

“I don’t even pretend to understand what they are or how they work.” I huff out a laugh. “I’ll stick to the little kid games.”

“Lucky bastard,” he jokes and then glances at his phone “Big game tomorrow. You ready?”

I sigh. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

He narrows his brows and studies me. “What’s that mean? You good?”

Simple question. Loaded answer.

I glance at my beer and just shake my head, hoping my shitty acting job works.

“Talk to me,” Tristan says.

I look down at my hands, flex my fingers once, twice.

God, I hate this.

Because the second I say it out loud, I can’t take it back. And if I’m wrong, I just put doubt where it never belonged.

I want him to be clean. Know that he is. I want to walk away from the game tomorrow afternoon and know I was right about him, just like I was about Malachi.

“Just . . .” I exhale and drag a hand over the back of my neck. “Shit’s been off lately.”

He watches me carefully. “Media shit?”

“Yeah. That. Everything. It gets in your head whether you want it to or not.”

“Welcome to being QB1,” he says.

“Yeah.” I pause, knowing this is where it shifts. This is where I step over the line I don’t want to cross. I glance around to make sure no one is near and lower my voice. “Between you and me?”

“Always.” No hesitation.

“My fucking hand’s been acting up again.”

He doesn’t react immediately, just looks at me a beat before he asks, “How bad?”

“Enough? I mean I’m noticing it way more than I was before.” I flex my fingers again to prove my point.

“Shit. What did the team doc say?”

“Nothing. It’s not anything physical to fix. All I know is that when my hand does that shit on the field, I have a fucked game. And I can’t have one. If I do, it could risk our playoff hopes.”

“Dude, when do you ever have a shit day? So you throw an interception, it doesn’t mean you’re going to lose the game,” he says.

“Yeah, but the last thing I need is the other team to catch on and exploit it. Coach has told me to hide my hand in my helmet if it hits when I’m on the sideline. Stupid but fucking true.”

He purses his lips and toggles his head from side to side. “It makes sense. If they can’t see you do it, they can’t use it to their advantage.” He takes a drink. “Man, that fucking sucks. I hope the trainers can help figure it out for you.”

I lean back slightly, exhaling like I’m trying to shake it off.