Page 32 of Hard Pass

“Yeah, well it better happen soon because the media’s already fucking me over.”

“Dude, you’ve been playing with pressure your whole fucking life. First your dad. Then the brutal college crowd. Now the NFL. This is nothing,” Tristan says, but it’s not helping.

“The media gets bored fast,” Jaxon adds.

That might be true but that doesn’t mean the damage isn’t done.

“Just keep your head down,” Jaxon says.

“Play your game,” Tristan says and lifts his eyebrows. “And enjoy the view while you have her.”

Play my game.

If it were only that simple.

I stare at my hands for a second, flexing my fingers. Everything feels off. Nothing feels right.

“Yeah,” I mutter. “Working on it.”

“What’s the deal?” Jaxon asks.

“What do you mean?” I busy my hands with my beer bottle, but the lift of his eyebrows says he noticed.

“The yips still getting you?” Jaxon asks. “I know you had them a bit last year. They coming back?”

I shrug. “Who the fuck knows.”

“Either it’s your head or your arm, man. Can’t get any simpler than that. There are doctors who can help with either,” Malachi says.

I make a noncommittal sound. I’ve thought about it—visiting the team shrink—but the last fucking thing I need or want is Dr. Hawley delving into my childhood and shit because that has nothing to do with whatever’s going on now.

Silence settles for a beat before Tristan breaks the discomfort. “Man, if you keep throwing like that, Vegas is going to start setting odds.”

Jaxon laughs. Malachi shakes his head. I snort and toss my empty bottle into the trash. “Real funny.”

“It was a little funny,” Malachi says, holding his finger and thumb about an inch apart. “Perfect with the timing though.”

“Don’t encourage him,” Jaxon says.

“Too late.” Tristan raises his beer.

And all I can do is shake my head as their voices blend together into something normal, something comfortable.

For now, the noise in my head quiets. It’s not gone, but it’s definitely not as distracting.

And I’ll take that, because now that the media has sunk its teeth into these accusations, this is about as quiet and comfortable as it’s going to get.

Especially while two questions remain: who leaked this and who is the one placing the bets?

But even as I sit there with a beer in my hand and friends around me, my mind drifts back to Dublin. To the woman who stood in that room like she owned it. To the person causing this unrest in my life. To the woman who should’ve recognized me—and didn’t.

Yeah, Cabo was a blur. Too much booze. Too many people. Too many moments that didn’t matter.

But there was one that did—and I’d be lying if I said that night hasn’t repeated in my mind a few times in the years since.

Maybe it’s the feeling of unfinished business. Maybe it’s the fact that she doesn’t fucking remember me and what guy wants to feel that forgettable?

Then again, how many women have I forgotten over the years?