Page 69 of Hard Pass

I frown. Fuck. “What do you mean?”

“The arm’s what it is, but your hand, bro. Why do you keep flexing it and shaking it out?” Malachi asks.

“It’s nothing new,” I say, stomach tightening. “Just a habit.”

“Habit?” Tristan arches a brow. “Since when?”

“Beats the fuck out of me,” I say, playing it off. “I don’t even realize I do it.”

“Really? Because we’ve noticed it more so in the past few weeks,” Jaxon says.

Hold the fuck on.

They noticed. And if they noticed, who else has? Opposing teams? Fans? People watching film? Bettors?

A cold thought slides in. Is that it? Is that my tell? Is that what the asshole’s betting on?

The hitch I feel. The second I overthink. The moment everything slips.

Is that the visible tell that’s trackable? Predictable?

“Damn,” Malachi says, breaking into my spiraling thoughts. “What are you thinking, bro?”

I’m thinking that someone has watched me close enough and can predict what I will do . . . and possibly after my twitch.

“I’m not sure if I’m really that predictable,” I say.

Tristan grins. “Dude, if you are, then we’ll have to work out how to make us some money from it.” He hits Jaxon’s arm and lifts his chin toward me. “His hand flexes and then I’ll run to make a bet. Is that what you’re thinking?”

“Like you even know how to place a bet online.” Jaxon rolls his eyes.

“Can’t be hard. I’m sure there’s a YouTube tutorial somewhere,” Tristan says.

“There’s a YouTube tutorial for everything,” Jaxon says.

“You in, Mal?” Tristan asks.

“My addictive personality says I should pass on this one,” Malachi jokes. “Remember when I got into mountain biking?”

We all groan. I laugh. “How can we forget?” I ask. “You bought more gear than needed. You watched YouTube videos nonstop—”

“And then talked about it the other times you weren’t watching it or going out and riding,” Tristan says.

“That was a stint,” Malachi says.

“If that’s what you want to call it,” Jaxon says.

“In other words, I’ll sit out the betting and losing my ass on our best friend here,” Malachi says.

“Whoever it is, is probably looking at the patterns,” Tristan says.

Patterns. Isn’t that the term that Dublin keeps using?

I hang my head and shake it. “Can we just stop? Please?” I ask, and then I drag a hand over my face as all of the implications hit me. “Jesus.”

“Relax,” Tristan says. “We were just kidding.”

But I’m not. Because what they meant as a joke, feels like a possibility.