CHAPTER FIVE
Dublin
I stare at Cole Valor.
Sure, I’d braced myself for what it would be like seeing him again face-to-face, but I was not prepared for that visceral gut punch when those pale blue eyes met mine.
Time is supposed to dull things. Take the sharp edges off memories. Make moments feel much smaller than they were.
Apparently not this one.
Because there’s nothing dulled about the way it feels to look at him now. He’s older, broader in the way a man’s body changes when they fill out. More controlled than the guy I met in Cabo. But it’s still him.
The worst part about all this? Sure, I steeled myself for how those first few moments would go—his eyes shocking open, his mouth saying Trouble, his head shaking as he realized I was the girl from Cabo.
I made the promise to myself that I’d be nonchalant, that I’d brush off that night as if it were nothing, that I’d be so cold and professional, Cole wouldn’t have the chance to react—but none of that preparation and overthinking was needed.
None of it.
Because by the complete lack of recognition in his eyes, Cole Valor doesn’t remember me at all.
That shouldn’t sting, but it does—just enough to notice, to catalog it and set it aside—because that tracks.
“Why, because you’ll forget my name by the time the sun rises?”
Of course, he wouldn’t remember me.
And more importantly, it doesn’t matter. For my job’s sake? It’s probably better this way.
I shrug and say, “And you can start by answering my questions.”
Cole stands abruptly. The chair legs scrape across the floor, the sound reflecting how he looks at me. Frustrated. Defiant.
I’m not surprised that he’s going to walk out. He wouldn’t be the first athlete to do it. And by the way the suits in the room glance at each other, they think he will too and are already mentally figuring next steps.
But rather than head toward the door, Cole drags a hand through his hair and then drops back into the chair.
I’m well aware his decision to stay isn’t because he wants to but rather because the league officials’ presence here make it clear he has to.
The distinction matters and it tells me more than anything he’s said so far.
“Well?” He throws his hands up and lets them fall. “Ask the damn questions.”
I don’t respond immediately. Silence is a tool that most people underestimate. If you let it stretch just long enough, people rush to fill it, usually telling you exactly what you need to know.
Cole shifts in his seat, restless. His fingers flex once against the table—so subtle that most people wouldn’t notice.
I do. Always. People have tells, and it’s my job to figure them out.
There it is again. The little flicker of his fingers. The bob of his Adam’s apple.
He’s nervous. It’s not obvious, but controlled and present. And I’ve seen it before—noticed the mannerisms and patterns in the hours of media I’ve watched of him in preparation for this initial meeting. Interviews. Press conferences. Post-game clips.
Same pattern. Same shift. The minute he gets uncomfortable, the mask goes up. Then comes the easy confidence, the witty sarcasm, the endearing charm.
It’s not who he is but rather it’s how he protects himself.
And right now, he’s protecting himself.
What are you hiding?
“Walk me through the last few weeks,” I say. “Anything that changed in your routine. Training, recovery, communication. Anything that deviates from the norm.”
His brows pull together. “You want my daily schedule now?”
“I want to understand variance.”
“That’s your fancy way of saying you think I screwed up.”
“Incorrect. It’s a factual way of saying something changed.
Whether you intentionally had anything to do with it is what I’m here to find out.
Contrary to what you think, I’m not the enemy here.
As I stated, the data suggests that someone has advanced knowledge of your performance variability and is using it to place bets.
So, use this as your opportunity to discharge any liability or guilt. ” I pause. “Has something changed?”
He bites his bottom lip like he’s deciding whether he’s going to answer or not.
“Yeah,” he says. “The change is I’m playing like shit.”
Blunt, but not useful. This is the part I find frustrating. If players could look past their ego and hear what’s being suggested and simply answer the damn questions honestly, my job would be far simpler. However, this is what I get nine times out of ten. Ego always speaks first.
“Why?”
“Why?” He laughs, sharp and humorless. “If I knew that, fixing it would be a hell of a lot easier, wouldn’t it?”
Sarcasm as a defense mechanism. That laugh as a means of deflection. Expected but I make a mental note anyway.
“What about outside communication?” I ask. “Conversations with third parties. Friends. Family. Anyone who might have insight into your condition or mindset?”
“How many team clubhouses have you been in?” he asks, ignoring my question.
“Plenty.”
“Then you know how many people it takes to make this all work. How many people are in and out of the team facility every day. Players, coaches, support staff. There’s easily over one hundred people, not to mention the reporters.”
“And beyond that?” I ask. “It could be someone you’re in contact with outside the clubhouse.”
“I keep my circle tight,” he says. “Same three friends since college. My dad wouldn’t dare risk his own ego. Oh, wait.” He snaps his fingers. “My mom called me three times in the last two weeks to make sure I was eating enough. Must be her feeding insider information to Vegas.”
Deflection again but lighter this time. Less bite. Less armor.
I take a mental step back and study him. The data says one thing, but his behavior says the opposite. Sure, it’s frustrated and defensive, but I don’t read it as calculating. Not yet anyway.
“You good, Valor?” Carter asks.
“Define good,” Cole mutters. “Because I can’t give answers to anything else she’s asking.”
“How about you stop making this harder than it needs to be and we can all get back to focusing on the game this weekend?” Carter asks.
There’s a history there. Noted. Possibly useful later. Then again, anyone with a history has to be looked at.
“I’m answering the questions,” Cole says.
“Is that what you call it?” Carter snorts. “How about more answers and less sarcasm so we can get out of here?”
I let them have the moment. People reveal more in irritation than they do in calm.
“Let’s talk about game day,” I say. “Any changes to your pregame routine? Physical discomfort? A concern you might have mentioned in passing to someone—anyone—that could affect your consistency?”
“My job is to play football,” he says. “I don’t think about what I’m saying to who.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
His jaw tightens. “Nothing changed. No.”
Too clean. Too controlled. I file it away.
“Your completion percentage dropped significantly in the second quarter of the last three games. Your interceptions in two of those games came in the third.” Patterns. “That’s quite a coincidence in back-to-back games.”
“Like I said, I played for shit.”
“Once is coincidence? Twice is a pattern.”
“Does your data account for pressure? Outside temperature? A fucked-up mental focus?” he snaps. “Or are those just coincidences too?”
I hold his gaze. “It accounts for everything.”
And I do because that’s the job.
“Are we done here?” he asks. “Clock’s ticking and I have a game this weekend. I need to get back to fixing whatever the hell’s going on with my arm—that issue—and not these bullshit ones you’re creating for me.”
My attention sharpens.
“What’s wrong with your arm?” I ask.
His reaction’s immediate. The flicker of fear is subtle, and then he masks it just as quickly.
“Nothing’s wrong. It’s just a figure of speech.”
A lie. Or at least not the whole truth.
“And people know this?”
“If they watched the last two games, it’s pretty fucking obvious.”
“I meant before the game,” I clarify. “Did you say anything to anyone about it?”
“Answered that already.” He pushes his chair back and stands. “I need to get to practice.” His eyes meet mine and for a second, something shifts. Not quite recognition, but an acknowledgment. Of what though, I have no idea. “We’re done, yeah?”
“For now,” I say. “I’ll be in touch.”
“Can’t wait.” He heads for the door and then pauses. “Should I assume this isn’t public yet?”
“Correct. Nothing will be made public until after the case is closed.”
“At least there’s that.”
He leaves and the minute the door clicks shut, it’s like the room exhales.
I don’t though. Instead, I watch the space where he stood, replaying the interaction, his expressions, and the inconsistencies that might come into play. Because there were some—not where I expected them to be, but there were definitely some.
“Well?” Gary, one of the league reps asks.
I take a seat for the first time, folding my hands. “Arrogant. Defensive. That’s to be expected when you have accusations being lodged against you. But that’s not what stood out.”
“No?” Carter asks.
What his words and his eyes said differed.
“He’s hiding something,” I say slowly. “But if I had to bet, it’s not what we’re here to find.”
“What makes you say that?” he asks.
I don’t answer immediately because I’m still working that out. “It’s too early to tell.”
And it is.
But I gather my things and compartmentalize the initial meeting. Cole’s reactions or lack thereof. His defensive sarcasm. His defiant denials. That’s my job to take it all in, combine it with the data, and decide.
And still, as I head for the door, a thought slips in before I can stop it. I’d been prepared to pretend I didn’t know him—to be indifferent—and that part was easy. Why does it bother me that he didn’t know me at all?
I exhale. It’s irrelevant. That girl doesn’t exist anymore.
This is work, and I’m excellent at my job. So this is just a case to solve like all the others.
Time to lock in, Dublin.