CHAPTER THREE
Dublin
The conference room smells like stale coffee, stress, and men who think they’re smarter than they actually are.
I don’t bother letting them know they’re not.
And I don’t sit so I’m on the same level as them.
Instead, I stand at the head of the table, one hand braced against its polished wood as I flip the manila folder closed, allowing the silence to make everyone uncomfortable.
Because it should. Anytime I’m called in to look at a player, they most definitely should be wary.
Pairs of expectant eyebrows raise as they wait.
“You’re clear, Glenn,” I finally say.
The player across from me exhales so loudly it morphs into a laugh. Relief floods his expression like someone just pulled him back from the edge of a cliff he didn’t know he was standing on.
“Jesus,” the tight end mutters as he drags a hand over his face and slumps back in his chair as both his attorney and league representative pat his shoulders in congratulations. “You have no idea how much—”
“I do,” I say calmly. “I know.”
Because it’s true.
I know what it’s like when your career hangs on a fabricated narrative. When numbers and timing and coincidence start to line up in a way that makes people ask questions they don’t actually want answers to.
I know how fast those questions can turn into accusations.
And I know how easily those accusations can tarnish or ruin your reputation.
“Professional opinion? You were sloppy.” I push the folder toward him and his now disconcerted expression. Most people don’t like to hear when they’re in the wrong. “Not intentionally, I get that, but enough that it raised flags.”
Glenn’s agent shifts beside him. “He didn’t do anything wrong.”
“You’re right, he didn’t.” I meet his agent’s gaze.
“But you have to look at it through my company’s eyes.
You changed your routine the same week the betting lines shifted.
You skipped two media appearances. Your performance dipped just enough to look suspicious if someone was already watching but not enough to raise red flags.
” I cross my arms over my chest. “From the outside, it looked intentional and selective, especially after a similar incident you had last season.”
Glenn frowns and shakes his head. “I had the flu.”
“I know,” I say. “And I confirmed it. You had a positive flu test in your medical record. I had trainer statements and checked timeline consistency . . .” I let that sit for a beat before I continue.
“Which is why you’re sitting in front of me being cleared instead of the league suspending you pending a further investigation. ”
His shoulders drop again, but this time the action isn’t defensive. It’s relief that this is all over.
“Perception matters,” I say, meeting his lawyer’s eyes as he nods.
Facts matter more and they don’t lie. People do though.
“You don’t get the luxury of coincidence in this league.
Not anymore. Not since online betting has been legalized, since the futures markets have become a growing trend, and since both have majorly influenced the game. ”
Glenn’s agent nods. “We understand and will make sure to tighten everything up so there are no more misunderstandings . . . or coincidences.”
“That’s for the best.” I reach for my bag. “Because next time, you might not get me.”
And next time, the outcome might be more of a rush to judgment than digging through test results a player wanted hidden so they could play regardless of being sick.
“I’ll admit,” the agent says, “I was a little worried when you were assigned to Glenn’s case. You’re young. You probably don’t have—”
“Don’t let appearances fool you.” My smile is as condescending as his comment. So is the look I level him with that has him shifting in his seat.
“Again, thank you, Ms. Locke,” Glenn says, trying to ease the tension. “Truly. I knew I didn’t do anything wrong, but it’s still terrifying to be accused of being underhanded. I’m not that person.”
“You’re not. And I’m really glad I could prove that.
The plus side is I pride myself on keeping investigations private until a decision has been reached.
The public wasn’t privy to this and so there’s no PR required to rehab your image.
The downside is I know this took a toll on you. For that, I’m sorry.”
“Like I said. Thank you.”
“There’s no need to thank me,” I say.
Gratitude can complicate things. And I prefer to stay away from complicated when it comes to my work.
I leave them with next steps, tell them about how both Glenn’s team and the league have been notified of my findings, and then say our goodbyes.
When I step outside of the conference room, I draw in a deep breath. Another case investigated. Another case closed. Clean without any loose ends—just how I like it.
I don’t slow as I move down the hallway.
The quiet hum of the building replaces the tension I’ve been holding in my shoulders for the better part of the three weeks I’ve been here in Atlanta investigating.
My shoes strike a steady rhythm against the tile, each step carrying me farther away from a case that could have gone very differently if even one detail hadn’t lined up the way it did.
But it did and that means a flight home. My apartment. A gloriously promised week without work where the only decisions to make involve takeout, some bad reality TV, and whatever book I fall asleep reading.
No spreadsheets. No flagged accounts. No athletes insisting they didn’t do something while the data suggests otherwise. No interviews or scouring the internet. And no wanting to think the best of someone while the details are showing you the worst.
Just blissful quiet. And God, do I need the quiet.
My brain feels like it’s been fact checking for weeks straight. It’s been one investigation after another. I can’t remember the last time I shut off completely.
By the time I reach the exit, I’ve already pulled up my boarding pass on my phone and mentally calculated how long it will take me to get through Hartsfield-Jackson’s security line at this time of day.
When I get to the terminal, the airport’s exactly what I expected—crowded, loud, full of people moving with purpose or absolutely none at all.
The none at all travelers are my favorite, especially when they just stop in the middle of a walking crowd and make everyone behind them put on the brakes.
But fortunately, I don’t run into too many of them as I weave through the controlled chaos. There’s a rhythm to it. Patterns in the way people move, the way they congregate, the way they hesitate.
Everything has a pattern.
That’s what I’ve built my career on.
And that’s what I trust, because trusting people has proven to be a mistake.
I shift my bag on my shoulder and step into the security line to wait my turn.
“Excuse me. Hi.”
I glance behind me at the woman speaking, her smile hesitant and her eyes flicking down toward the badge clipped to my belt.
“Yes?” I ask.
“I’m usually not nosy, but . . . do you work for the NFL?” she asks, a little breathless like she’s waiting for an exciting answer.
I follow her gaze to the small ID tag I haven’t bothered to tuck away yet. It’s not flashy nor does it have a logo splashed on it. Just my name, my company, and the league credential that gives me access where I need it.
“I’m sorry. That’s intrusive of me—a stranger—to ask you. It’s just I have a daughter who loves football, sports in general, really, and her dream is to work in the league someday.”
“Please. Don’t apologize.” I reach out and squeeze her forearm. “It’s fine to ask, but yes, in a way, I work for the NFL.”
Her face lights up. “That’s so cool.”
“It’s less cool than it sounds, although don’t tell your daughter that.”
“Oh, come on.” She laughs. “You’re around players and games and just . . . everything. That has to be amazing.”
I hesitate for half a second, weighing how much to say before deciding that honesty is easier. “Truth be told, if people see me coming, it usually means something is wrong.”
“Oh?”
“I work with an external integrity firm that the NFL subcontracts.” We move a few feet forward in the line before I continue.
“We monitor betting patterns in real time and flag irregular activity by comparing historical data and really, anything that suggests someone might have information they shouldn’t.
And then we investigate whether those irregularities involve foul play of some sort. ”
“You mean like cheating?”
“Yes. A player throwing a game. Someone giving insider information to gamblers that could influence the way they place their bets or the odds they play. Basically anything that looks suspicious.”
Her brows lift. “Wow.”
“Yep. Not exactly glamorous, but it’s needed.”
“I had no idea that such an entity even existed.” She studies me for a second, her brown eyes wide, like she’s reassessing her initial assumptions about my job.
“Tell your daughter to trust her instincts. If this is what she wants to do, she can definitely get here.”
“Thanks.” Her grin widens. “For the record, I still think it’s super cool.”
“Thanks.” I smile and shuffle forward, because from the outside, my job does look cool.
From the inside, it equates to long hours, constant pressure, and the understanding that one missed detail could spiral into an accusation that takes down careers, reputations, or even entire organizations.
No pressure though.
The line moves forward again and with it, the conversation ends. All I want is my flight. Then my couch. And absolutely nothing that requires me to think.
That’s why my cell ringing the minute I clear security has me groaning.
I don’t even need to look at the screen to know who it is. Rather, I move to the side of the hallway, close my eyes for a brief second, and then answer.
“You have impeccable timing,” I say as a greeting.
“I’m assuming that’s a compliment?” my boss Marcus asks.
“I’m approximately forty-five minutes away from turning my brain off completely and taking advantage of every minute of those days off you promised me to be a vegetable.”