CHAPTER THREE #2
Marcus laughs. “Funny how life works sometimes,” he says cryptically.
“No.” I weave through a cluster of travelers. “That tone to your voice is not funny at all.”
“Dublin—”
“I just closed a case,” I remind him. “A clean one. No suspensions. No press leaks. No league fallout.”
“But you’re my best employee,” he practically coos.
“You mean the hardest working because I don’t have kids or a family or strings and therefore you take advantage of me,” I say, reiterating our long running joke that right now feels a little too real.
“Take advantage is such a harsh term. More like I use your incredible insight, your genius skill set, and your steadfast tenacity to keep the league and its players in check.” He chuckles. “Seriously, though, you are my best of the best here. GIA wouldn’t be the same without you.”
“Who knew a random college internship would turn into my career, huh?” I ask.
“More like who knew that a random college intern had a knack for what we do?”
“You’re trying to butter me up.”
“Very true, but only because this is a good case you’re going to want,” he says and then pauses.
A pause that has me drawing in a deep breath, groaning internally, and knowing I’ll cave. I always love a good mystery.
“So a good case should at least earn me more days off—once it’s done—than what I was already promised, right?”
“One hundred percent.”
My feet falter and shoulders drop. “That’s not very reassuring.”
“Have I ever not kept my word?”
“Marcus,” I groan, dropping my head back and closing my eyes as people move around me.
“Get on a plane, Dublin.”
“That was the plan,” I say. “Home.”
“Good thing home and Austin are the same place,” he says.
And there it is. The moment the switch flips from done to working.
With that, I become that person who stops in the middle of traffic, causing people to bump into each other behind me.
“Marcus.” His name is a two syllable warning. “What do you mean Austin?”
There’s no way the league’s newest franchise team, the Lone Star Rebels, is caught up in questionable activities. I mean, there is a way, but frankly that would just be suicide for a team desperate to fulfill the promises they made to the NFL to win the expansion bid in the first place.
Their first season was promising. Their second season has to prove the first one wasn’t a fluke.
“I mean the Lone Star Rebels. A situation that could become egg on the league’s face after so many other cities begged to have the new team.”
“So it’s a team situation, then?” I ask as my thoughts race. I’ve never investigated accusations against a whole team. A player or group of players, yes. “A whole organization?”
“No. I’m sorry. A situation as in a player, not the entire team,” Marcus says. “My apologies.”
“Well, at least there’s that,” I say, running through what I know automatically about the Rebels—recent performance trends, media chatter, anything that might have piqued my curiosity.
Nothing obvious, but then again, when is it ever?
“What kind of irregularities are we talking about?” I ask and start walking again, slower now but at least I’m not being the asshole blocking traffic anymore.
“Betting patterns,” he says. “Line movement that doesn’t match public information. Timing that suggests someone knows information before they should and bets accordingly.”
“Insider trading,” I murmur more to myself than to him.
Patterns. Timing. The things that don’t lie even when people do.
And just like this airport, the gambling/betting cycle has its own cadence. Someone must have noticed something.
“Our analysts have already flagged it?” I ask.
“Enough times for us to take notice and be concerned, but not enough to act. Not yet.”
Which is where I come in.
I exhale slowly, already recalibrating my mental state, and glance around to make sure no one’s paying attention to my conversation. Not like I’m giving anything away, but it’s better to be safe than sorry.
“Who’s involved?” I ask.
He pauses for a beat. “The quarterback.”
“Of course it is.” It’s always the one with the most visibility. The most to lose. The most to gain. Usually the backup player who’s trying to make the most of their time on the sidelines.
“Who’s the backup?” I ask.
“Not the backup.”
“Then who?” I ask with a healthy dose of incredulity and a tickling sense of dread.
“Cole Valor.” My thoughts tumble like a brainstorm gone awry.
Cole. Valor.
Young. High profile. All-American boy next door. In his second year here in the league after being a college phenom. A player used to everything going his way.
A player who thinks he’s untouchable.
And the same man—a short, sharp laugh escapes before I can stop it.
“What’s so funny?” Marcus asks.
My grip tightens on my phone.
Heat. Sun-drenched skin. Pale blue eyes. His mouth on mine for the kiss to rival all kisses.
Trouble.
I blink, forcing the memory back where it belongs. Buried. Forgotten.
“I just . . .” I shake my head, staring at the crowd around me and seeing nothing. “Never expected to hear that name come across my desk.”
Now what the hell am I supposed to do about it?
He wouldn’t remember me. Why would he?
“You know him?” Marcus asks.
“No. Of course not.” I emit a nervous laugh.
“You sure? I know you both live in Austin so it’s not unheard of, but if you do, I need to know now. We can’t compromise the integrity of the investigation.”
“No. I don’t.” I have no idea why the lie slides so easily off my tongue. Or why I suddenly want this case enough to lie about it.
This isn’t like me—wanting the case part is, for sure—but not the lying to get it.
“You’re quiet,” Marcus says.
“Just thinking.” I shake the pinch of guilt from my conscience. “He wouldn’t be that stupid with only a year under his belt in the league, would he?”
“I’d hope not but we both know we’ve seen some crazy shit over the years, all done for some nonsensical reasons.”
“True. Send me everything you have,” I say, exhaling in frustrated disbelief.
I investigate men who have everything in the palm of their hands—a job most would kill for, a healthy contract and bank balance, endless opportunities—and yet some are willing to throw that all away for what? Greed? More money?
“You’re in that easily? I don’t have to negotiate with you for more?”
“I was never out, but yes, there will be significant negotiating added time off when this case is over. And I mean it, I need a break, Marcus.”
He exhales, relieved. “Noted and agreed. You’ve been busting your ass. I appreciate it more than you know. You shouldn’t be so good at your job, or I wouldn’t need you so much.”
A compliment is a compliment even when you don’t want to hear it.
“Thank you.”
“The upside is at least you’ll be in your hometown?”
“Or might possibly be run out of it if I’m the one who finds out their golden boy isn’t quite so golden.” I stop as I reach my gate and stand there debating which open seat to take. “Send the data over to me to look at while on my flight.”
“Will do. And, Dublin?”
“Hmm?”
“Try not to terrify the organization in the first twenty-four hours. You tend to do that.”
I glance over to my reflection in the window. Composed and controlled, exactly as I should be. “No promises.”
I hang up before he can respond.
Another case.
Another athlete.
Another situation where the truth could be buried under ego, perception, and just enough coincidence to make everything look worse than it is. Or exactly as bad.
I take a seat between an elderly woman who’s crocheting and a man watching a video on his phone.
Except this time it’s not just another athlete.
It’s him.
Weeks after the Cabo trip, I turned on the television, a college football game happened to be on, and there he was. Helmet off. Eye black smeared on his cheeks. That same easy grin, like the whole world watching him didn’t faze him in the slightest.
A man perfectly comfortable being the center of attention.
“Isn’t that the point? What you wanted? That you got the star player everyone wanted—the notch on your belt—and then can walk away to brag about it?”
It had clicked then. His comment he made. Our joke about not remembering names in the morning.
Except it wasn’t a joke on his part, which is good, because of course he wouldn’t remember me.
Not the next morning after the hangover wore off, and most definitely not now, five years after that first meeting.
At least there’s that.
But you didn’t forget him, Dublin.
Whatever. I did. It was the idea of him I didn’t forget. The kiss that still wins out over all others I’ve had. One that has most likely been exalted due to the alcohol and the nostalgia of it all.
But that has no bearing now. Not when I have a job to do. Not when I have to be taken seriously.
He’s not the guy from the bar anymore.
And I’m certainly not that girl.
Cole Valor is just another athlete to investigate to check and see if he’s lying.
Because athletes lie.
Patterns don’t.
And I always trust the patterns.