Page 5 of Hard Pass

It’s equally terrifying.

The hotel lobby is quieter than the bar attached to it, but the energy between us hasn’t faded. My body aches with the sweetest burn from that same dangerous cocktail of alcohol, lust, and desire. Anticipation is a drug headier than the other two combined.

The elevator door slides open and we step inside.

The second they shut, we’re on each other. There’s no control this time. No audience to watch. It’s messy and urgent. A collision of mouths and hands and heat that has everything to do with want. No logic here. My back hits the wall with a soft thud, and his body presses into mine, one hand braced beside my head while the other finds my waist and pulls me closer like there’s still distance between us.

Like there could ever be enough.

And for tonight? That’s absolutely correct.

And I’m here for it.

CHAPTER ONE

Cole

The roar of the crowd hits before anything else.

It rolls through the stadium in loud, relentless waves and settles deep in my chest like it belongs there. Like it always has. Under the lights on a night like this is exactly where I’m supposed to be.

I flex my fingers as I scan the defense across from me. Cameras flash in the stands. No doubt the commentators on radio and TV are building the moment. Sixty thousand plus people in the stands around me lean forward, waiting to see what happens next.

But none of that matters out here.

All that does is the read.

“Trips right, sixty-two slant, on one,” I say as I step into the huddle, my voice steady and controlled, exactly what is expected of their QB1. “Time to show them who they’re dealing with. Let’s go.”

My teammates’ claps are a unified crack as we break the huddle and move to the line of scrimmage. I settle in behind our center and take in the defensive shift. The safety creeps left. The corner plays soft.

It’s a basic coverage. One I’ve seen hundreds of times.

Time to rock and roll.

I start the cadence and finish it with, “Hike.”

The ball hits my hands, and everything slows the way it always does. I drop back, eyes tracking the movement in front of me so that I can adjust on the fly. I trust the same instinct that carried me through an NCAA championship last year then straight into now—my second year in the NFL.

I step out of the pocket and release just as Camden Wolfe cuts inside with perfect timing. The second the ball leaves my hand, I know.

Shit.

It’s too goddamn high.

Wolfe jumps, stretching for it, but it slips past his fingertips and hits the turf behind him—just shy of their tight end’s outstretched hands.

There’s a whoosh from the crowd as the play falls short. I feel their disappointment but shake it off. Just a misfire.

Not the first time, won’t be the last.

It’s part of the game.

“That’s on me,” I say to Wolfe like it’s nothing. Like I don’t hit that throw ten out of ten times.

He flashes a grin. “All good.”

We reset.