Page 8 of Hard Pass

“Yeah,” I say, jaw tight. “Well, I’m not planning on it being one of those games.”

Emotion flickers in his expression—approval, maybe? I don’t know. It doesn’t last long enough to read it. “Take that anger out there on the field with you.”

I nod and look back toward the game. The last thing I want right now is to be placated.

Do your fucking job, Valor.

I glance around. At my teammates. To the crowd filling the stadium. And feel the only rhythm I’ve ever known.

Everything looks the same.

Everything feels the same.

But something isn’t right.

I look down at my hand and flex my fingers once more.

This time, I don’t pretend I’m not worried.

CHAPTER TWO

Cole

The walk off the field feels longer than it should.

Boos are mixed with half-hearted cheers. The kind fans give you when they’re not sure which version of you they’re getting anymore.

And I get it. I do. I’m not sure what’s happening either.

So I keep my head down, helmet tucked under my arm, and jaw set like none of it matters.

Because it doesn’t.

I can’t let it.

“Valor.”

I don’t slow when I hear my name called. Not the first time. Not the second. But when the third comes with footsteps, the groan I emit in my head is deafening.

“Cole. Hey. One quick question.”

I glance over to see the reporter keeping pace with me—credentials swinging from her neck, phone with recording app on in her hand, and eyes sharp in a way that says she’s not going to fall for the standard lines of fluff.

And fluff—the company line—is pretty much all I’m willing to give.

She’s young, polished, and by the way she’s keeping up with me in those high heels, extremely persistent.

Fucking perfect.

“Not a good time,” I mutter. Given the quickened click of her shoes beside me, she doesn’t take the hint.

“Kate MacMillan with SportsOne. You can give me just one though, can’t you? Us two rookies just trying to make a name for ourselves.”

“My name’s already made,” I say. “You’re the one trying to catch up.” I switch my helmet to my other hand and don’t break stride.

“What changed between your first drive and the rest of the game? From the beginning of the season to the last few games. What—”

“You said one.” I stop and glare. “That’s three. That doesn’t exactly bode well for trust, now does it?”