CHAPTER FOUR
Cole
Report to the conference room instead of the film room?
We don’t do meetings like this midweek. Not unless something’s wrong—definitely not for me, the quarterback whose last two games have been absolute shit and who clearly needs the practice. Something’s off.
But I do what Coach says and head that way, not exactly in the mood for surprises.
“Any idea what this is about?” I ask as I fall into step beside Carter, the team’s player liaison and resident babysitter for anything that might turn into a headline.
“If I did,” he says, not looking my way, “I’d probably be drinking instead of walking you to it.”
“Not exactly encouraging,” I mutter. If I’m in trouble, at least I could’ve enjoyed whatever it is I did wrong.
We round the corner, and the glass-walled conference room comes into view. A few suits already sit inside. They look too composed, too serious.
League people.
What the hell are they here for?
Carter opens the door and gestures for me to go ahead. Lucky me. I hesitate for a brief second before stepping inside, like I’m about to walk into my own doom.
The room smells like coffee and feels like a rubber band’s about to snap. I take in the two men standing at the far end of the table—and then I see her.
She moves to the head of the table, posture straight, expression unreadable. Her dark hair is pulled back, but her makeup is subtle. Controlled. Professional.
Her gray eyes lift to meet mine and it hits.
It’s not gradual. Not a slow burn of recognition. It’s immediate.
Her throaty laugh. Her bold directness. The taste of her goddamn kiss.
Trouble.
My stomach flips.
No fucking way. Five years and I’d know that face anywhere. Except right now she’s standing in front of me in a tailored suit looking like she’s about to dismantle someone’s career.
Mine, apparently.
But the worst part? She doesn’t react. Not even a flicker.
I hold her gaze a beat longer—waiting.
But . . . nothing.
Huh.
Interesting.
Unless she truly doesn’t remember me. Sure we were drunk that night and in the five years since, I’ve bulked up considerably, but . . . she doesn’t remember me?
Clearly, I didn’t make the same impression on her that she made on me.
That’s a fucking new one.
I break the stare first and drop into a chair without being asked, leaning back like it’s just another meeting, and I’ve got all the time in the world.
“Well,” I say, “this feels rather ominous.”
No one laughs.
The suits take their seats as Carter closes the door behind me. Their silence is unnerving.
“Anybody want to tell me what this is about, or are we just going to sit here until someone gets uncomfortable?” I ask.
“Cole Valor,” one of the league guys says, clearing his throat. “This is Dublin Locke.”
The name lands, but neither of us closes the space to shake each other’s hands.
“Dublin,” I repeat, letting my gaze drag over her like I’m not trying to figure out what the fuck she’s doing here. “That’s a hell of a name.”
Still nothing. Just the same assessing stare.
All right then?
“Miss Locke is with the external integrity firm the league partners with,” Carter says.
“Integrity firm?” I huff out a laugh.
“Gridiron Integrity Analytics,” one of the league reps says.
“Okay.” I draw the word out.
I know who they are. I know what they do. What the fuck do they want with me?
I lean forward, forearms braced on the table. “So we’re talking betting, gambling, someone saw something they didn’t like, and now we’re all in here chasing ghosts. What does this have to do with me?”
Dublin steps forward and the room shifts with her.
“Mr. Valor—”
“Cole,” I say. Her eyes harden as we stare at each other like no one else is in the room.
“Mr. Valor,” she says, drawing a chuckle from me. “My firm monitors betting patterns across all league games in real time.”
“And?”
“We flag irregularities. Specifically movements that suggest privileged information may have been accessed before it became public.”
“And what does that have to do with me?”
Her gaze flicks briefly to the others in the room before finding mine again. “Would you prefer to have this discussion in private, Mr. Valor? Or are you okay with others being present?”
Our eyes lock.
For a second, the room disappears. The fluorescent lights. The suits. The tension.
All of it.
And I see her the way she was—hair loose, eyes wild, words confident. Bold moves and empty promises on the dare she made herself.
Then it’s gone.
Fine.
It never happened.
I lift my hands up. “They can stay,” I say. “I have nothing to hide.”
“Noted.” She jots a note down. “I want you to feel like you can speak freely.”
I snort. “Then maybe start speaking freely, because right now, I’m still waiting to hear what the hell I’m doing here.”
She smiles but there’s no warmth in it. “How about we start with me giving you the opportunity to get out ahead of this to come clean.”
I laugh. “You’re skipping a step. Like the one that tells me what you think I did before I can confess to it.”
“That’s what I’m trying to determine.”
“No,” I counter. “That’s what you are accusing me of.”
“If I were accusing you, Mr. Valor,” she says coolly, “there would be no ambiguity.”
Calm. Controlled. Untouchable.
“You always look at people like they’re guilty?” I ask.
She purses her lips, tilting her head to the side and says without hesitation, “Only when they might be.”
My chest tightens but I ignore it. I’ve dealt with someone much tougher than her.
The difference? He pushed you into your career, and she’s threatening to take it away.
I swallow over the lump in my throat and put the armor of indifference on that I’ve used my entire life.
“Good to know.” I flash her a slow, purposeful grin. The one I use to get me out of trouble when it comes to women. “Should I be worried or is this just your version of small talk?”
Ms. Locke—because she most definitely isn’t Trouble, the woman I briefly knew—flashes me a shark’s smile, pushes a folder in front of me, before placing both hands on the table and leveling me with a glare. “Small talk?”
“Yeah.” I lean forward slightly, watching her instead of looking at the file. Waiting. “Pretty sure we could clear this up somewhere with less fluorescent lighting. Maybe a bar. A couple of drinks.”
If the comment lands, she doesn’t show it. Not a blink. Not a shift. Nothing.
But I do hear the groans and throat clearing of the others in the room.
Yeah, that was totally out of line.
I hold my hands up. “Sorry. Uncalled for.”
Her eyes hold mine. “Thank you. And for the record, that’s a hard pass on my end.
” She lifts her eyebrows. “This isn’t something that can be explained away with alcohol and distracted flirting.
And while by all accounts you seem to think this is a game, I’m here to tell you that you need to take these accusations very seriously. ”
“I’m listening but have yet to hear a single thing pointed in my direction.”
She crosses her arms over her chest. I catch a hint of a clean, floral scent and ignore it. “Simply put, there have been multiple instances over the season where betting lines shifted in direct correlation with your game day performance.”
I bark out a laugh. “I don’t know if I should be offended someone bet on me having a shitty game or be impressed. Either way, I willingly gave no information to anyone to influence their bet.”
“The data implies otherwise.”
“Correlation doesn’t equal causation,” I say as her brows lift slightly. “I may play football for a living, Ms. Locke, but don’t assume I’m a dumb jock.”
“I didn’t say you were.”
Didn’t have to.
I push the thought aside, done entertaining it.
“Then show me what you’ve got or let me get back to film review. I have a game to prepare for.”
She opens the folder and turns it toward me.
Charts. Stats. Numbers. Correlations between those stats and betting patterns. I flip through it, not understanding all of it—but comprehending enough. This doesn’t look good.
Unease settles low in my gut.
“We’ve been studying patterns on both the sports betting side and the prediction markets—”
“This is a joke,” I say, even as my eyes flick back to the page.
“Cole,” Carter says. “This is Ms. Locke’s job, one she’s very good at. If there isn’t anything to hide, then we provide everything we can to sort this out, right?”
“You’re telling me a couple of bad games suddenly means I’m guilty?” I ask without acknowledging Carter and his placating tone. “That I threw them to make an extra dollar?”
“More than an extra dollar,” Ms. Locke says.
“How much more?” I ask, my eyes meeting hers again.
“The data suggests that someone—whether that’s you or someone else—has advanced knowledge of your performance variability and is using it to place bets.”
Performance variability. That’s a hell of a way to say you’ve been playing like shit. I push back from the table and run a hand through my hair.
Total bullshit, to say the least, but a serious accusation, nonetheless.
“You didn’t answer my question,” I say.
“I don’t have to.”
I scrub a hand over my face, exhausted now before my day has even started.
“So . . . what? You’re basing all this off the past two games?”
“These patterns extend beyond just the last two games,” she says evenly.
I laugh and it sounds hysterical and disconcerting even to me. “Of course they do. How far then? Last year was my rookie year, before that was college. What are the accusations so I can let the NCAA know you’ll try and strip me of my national championship title and MVP trophy?”
“Last five games of last year to the present.” She squares her shoulders. “But in particular, the last four games or so.”
“This keeps getting better,” I say, sarcasm dripping from my words.
“The historical data establishes patterns and facts . . . and it also highlights abnormalities.”
“It establishes assumptions,” I fire back. “Nothing more. I shouldn’t have to sit here and defend myself.”
“You’re right. You don’t,” she says.
I look at her. Really look. She hasn’t moved, hasn’t reacted viscerally to anything I’ve said. She’s just watched me. Not the data or the others in this room, but only me. And for the first time since I walked in here, the vibe shifts.
This isn’t about a couple of bad games. This is far more serious. She’s here to investigate me.
That flicker of panic hits hard and fast before I can stop it. I shove it away, replacing it with anger before it can fester into something else.
“This is a waste of time,” I say, though it doesn’t quite land the way I want it to.
Dublin tilts her head slightly. “Being suspended would be an even bigger one, now, wouldn’t it?”
“Is that a threat?”
“It’s a reality. One you can help or hinder.” She shrugs. I don’t think I’ve ever despised someone more before. “And you can start by answering my questions.”
And just like that, this isn’t funny anymore.