Page 72 of Hard Pass

No. Not with how wary I am turning up after hours where my intentions can be misconstrued. Again. Just like they were in the Murdoch investigation . . . but at the same time, I won’t be able to stop thinking about it if I don’t. And the suspicion will taint every other part of the investigation.

With a sigh and a resignation that I’m about to get absolutely drenched, I grab my keys, and jog to the front door. By the time I step inside, water is dripping from my hair, and my jacket is clinging to my skin.

At least it’s not a cold rain, right?

The security guard looks up from his desk, surprise flickering across his face.

“Ms. Locke, right?”

“Hi. That’s nice to be remembered.”

He chuckles. “You’re kind of the talk of the town with how much you’ve been in and out of here the past two weeks.”

“Yeah, I get it. No one ever wants to see me coming.”

“I do.” He grins.

“Ahh.” I hold my hands over my heart. “You make me feel loved.”

“So?” he asks, eyebrows quirking. “Are you here for more interviews? By the list I’ve been keeping, there aren’t many employees left for you to speak to.” He motions to the outside. “Nor are they here with it like that outside.”

“I know. Bad timing but I was driving by and saw Mr. Valor’s SUV. Is he still here? I needed to run a few things by him.”

His smile is warm as he nods. “He gave me a standing order to let you through any time you needed him.” He points to the screen in front of him where I’m assuming he’s watching cameras of the complex. “But uh—he’s not in the building.”

Of course he’s not. That’s what I get for making the mistake to come in here. For letting instinct override logic.

“He’s down on the field.”

I blink. “The field?” In this weather?

“Yeah.” He shakes his head and chuckles. “I’ll never claim to understand football players. But he’s trying everything to break whatever has a hold of him.”

“Okay. Thanks.” I take a few steps past him.

“You sure? You do realize how hard it’s raining, right?”

“I’ll be fine.”

I don’t wait for him to finish. I don’t think. I just move.

Through the hallway.

Past the vacant offices and weight room toward the double doors that lead out to the practice field.

The rain has let up some but the sound of it hitting the metal roof that edges the field makes a symphony of noises.

And then I hear . . . voices?

I stop. Yes. Voices. They’re loud and angry and biting. Tones that only stoke my curiosity and have me moving down the walkway to get a view of the field.

A few generator-powered light trees are on the sidelines, illuminating a small section of the field, but everything else is bathed in darkness.

Standing just at the edge of the light’s halo on the turf is Cole.

His soaked shirt’s plastered to his body, his hair’s dripping, his face is a mask of indignation, and his shoulders are tight as he grips a football in his hands.

And across from him is an older man. Rigid. Formidable. Still in a way that feels deliberate.