CHAPTER SEVEN
Cole
Fuck.
I pace.
Need to move.
Need to think.
Need this all to go the hell away.
And of course, now this.
The same stretch of flooring in my living room will be worn down to nothing if I don’t stop. But stopping means thinking and right now thinking is the last thing I need to be doing.
“Fucking media,” I mutter and drag a hand through my hair. “Fucking . . . everything.”
I grab my phone, stare at the endless texts and screenshots like they’ll somehow magically change.
They don’t.
Same screenshots of headlines over and over. Some from friends, some from teammates, others from reporters all asking the same question: is it true?
REBELS QB LINKED TO BETTING IRREGULARITIES
LEAGUE INVESTIGATES COLE VALOR
RISKING IT ALL – VALOR’S POOR PERFORMANCE LINKED TO BETTING SCANDAL
“Un-fucking-believable,” I snap, tossing the phone back down before dragging a hand over my face.
This is the last thing I need. Not now.
My head’s already been off for weeks. My throws. My timing. My mechanics. Everything just feels off. And now this? Now I’ve got reporters circling, teammates probably wondering, coaches watching, and fans ready to turn.
This just makes everything louder and harder. And somehow out of all of it, my brain keeps circling back to her.
How can it not when she’s the center of this shitstorm?
The investigation. The leak. The fact that my name’s suddenly everywhere for all the wrong reasons.
My feet falter as another thought hits.
Was it someone in the Rebels organization? Was it . . . who the fuck knows? But if it wasn’t her, someone definitely saw her walk in, saw her talking to me, figured out who she was, and put two and two together.
And now I’m trending.
Or maybe it was her.
Wouldn’t be the first time someone tried to play angles. Push. Apply pressure. Wait for the crack.
Except she didn’t push. She didn’t prod. She didn’t even look at me like she knew what she was doing, and that is what doesn’t sit right with me.
Fuck me. I don’t know. Anything is plausible at this point.
Ding-dong.
I stop mid-step, staring at the front door.
Ding-dong.
This is why I live in a gated, private community, so I don’t have to deal with rogue reporters knocking on my door.
Ding-dong. Knock. Knock. Knock.
“Valor, you fuck, it’s us. Open up,” a voice shouts through the slab of wood.
Relief is palpable at the sound of one of my best friend’s voices. I guess now that the world knows, they can know too. Maybe commiserating with them is what I need right now.
And honestly? Even if it’s not, I’ll take the distraction from my own chaotic head. I walk the short distance, yank open the door, and there they are.
Jaxon, Malachi, and Tristan.
Three idiots I’ve known for what feels like forever.
“What took you so long?” Jaxon asks, pushing past me. “And why do you look like shit?”
“You show up unannounced and you bring compliments,” I joke.
Malachi cuffs me on my shoulder. “Rough night? Good night?” He makes a show of looking around like he’s expecting someone else to be in here. “Are we interrupting something—or someone and should fuck off?”
“Nah, I wish,” I mutter.
“That bad?” Tristan asks.
“Yeah. That bad,” I say.
“Good thing we brought beer.” Tristan drops a case onto the kitchen counter.
“That’s true friendship, right there,” Jaxon calls over his shoulder as he looks in the fridge.
I take the bottle Tristan hands me and down half of it in one go. I need this—the distraction, the normal. The people who know me best and know I’d never do this shit.
“You’re welcome,” Tristan says sarcastically as they all settle in like they own the place.
Jaxon digs through the pantry for snacks. Tristan grabs the remote and turns on ESPN. Malachi scans the backyard like he’s contemplating a cannonball into the pool.
This isn’t different from any of the hundreds of times they’ve come over unannounced, but the way they keep glancing at each other? They’re circling the wagons.
Yeah.
I needed this.
“I take it you’ve seen it,” I say, and they all exchange a look. “You guys aren’t as subtle as you think.”
“How long has this been going on?” Jaxon asks.
I shrug. “A day or two.” I know it’ll bug them I didn’t say anything sooner. “I was told to keep it close to the vest. I wasn’t hiding it from you guys.”
“No big, dude.” Malachi waves a hand my way. “We get it. But . . . fuck, man.”
“The investigation wasn’t supposed to go public unless I was found guilty, at fault—whatever their term is.”
“And someone ran their mouth to the fucking media,” Tristan says, disgust edging his tone.
“Seems like it,” I murmur.
“Sooo?” Jaxon says. “You secretly making bank with the bookies?”
I level him with a glare. “Seriously?”
“C’mon, man. I’m just fucking with you. We all know you wouldn’t risk it,” Tristan says.
“It’s total crap,” Malachi chimes in.
“No one believes you did it,” Jaxon says.
I huff out a humorless laugh. “Yeah? Because from what I saw online, it feels like they do.”
“That’s just noise,” Jaxon says, tapping his bottle to mine.
I hold his gaze for a second because I want to believe that, but I just don’t know if I do.
“We know you,” Tristan says. “And you’re not nearly smart enough to pull something like that off.”
“Fuck off.” I laugh.
Tristan grins. “Had to go there.”
Jaxon coughs to hide his laugh. “What he means is, you’re not that guy.”
“Glad you clarified.” I take a long drink, letting the cold settle low in my chest. It helps . . . a little.
“So what actually happened?” Tristan asks. “Like how did this land in your lap?”
I shrug like I don’t care, like I’m still not trying to piece it together myself, when it’s all I’ve thought about the past twenty-four hours.
“They flagged some betting patterns,” I say. “Brought in this investigator who says it lines up with my shitty performance.”
“Investigator?” Malachi asks. “That sounds official.”
“Very,” I mutter. “The NFL takes this kind of shit seriously. It’s all a fucking joke, but I have to play along until she gets her power trip fill and moves on to the next case.”
Easy to say.
Hard to do.
My brain keeps replaying that room. Dublin standing there like she’d never seen me before . . . and then delivering bullshit garbage about someone betting on how I play. On me abetting it. Since last season. It just doesn’t make any fucking sense.
“And?” Jaxon arches a brow.
“And nothing,” I snap. “Just a fucking waste of my time. She asks questions and I have to stand by while she picks apart everything about my life. Fun times.”
“She hot?” Malachi asks.
I roll my eyes. “That’s what you took from all that?”
“I’m looking for a silver lining here,” Malachi says.
Tristan leans forward. “Wait. Was she?”
I hesitate for a brief moment—and that’s all it takes to flash back to that night. Too much booze. A woman with the sexy edge walking straight up to me like she didn’t care who was watching. Her mouth on mine. That laugh—soft, surprised, and nervous—as we waited for the elevator.
Trouble.
My jaw tightens.
“Doesn’t matter,” I say.
“Oh, it absolutely matters,” Jaxon says. “If you’re going to have your balls squeezed, there should at least be someone worth looking at in the process.”
I bark out a laugh despite myself. “You’re all idiots.”
“And yet you still haven’t answered the question,” Malachi says.
I take another drink, then shrug. “She’s . . . fine.” It’s a lie and we all know it.
They all stare at me, then burst out laughing.
“Fine?” Tristan repeats. “Is that a question or a deflection?”
“It’s whatever you want it to be.” I sigh.
Jaxon grins. “That means she’s not just fine—”
“That means she’s dangerous,” Malachi says with a knowing grin.
Yeah. Pretty much.
“She your type?” Tristan asks.
“Don’t be a dick.” I lift my middle finger. “And no, she’s the opposite. Brown hair. Gray eyes. Curves.”
They all look at me like I just proved their point.
“He noticed her eye color,” Tristan says with a smug nod of his head.
“Yeah, she’s definitely hot if he’s noticing her eye color,” Malachi adds.
“Whatever,” I say, waving it off. “Doesn’t matter anyway. Her job is to make my life miserable.”
“This’ll pass, bro.” Jaxon sighs. “Stuff like this always does.”
“Yeah, well it better happen soon because the media’s already fucking me over.”
“Dude, you’ve been playing with pressure your whole fucking life. First your dad. Then the brutal college crowd. Now the NFL. This is nothing,” Tristan says, but it’s not helping.
“The media gets bored fast,” Jaxon adds.
That might be true but that doesn’t mean the damage isn’t done.
“Just keep your head down,” Jaxon says.
“Play your game,” Tristan says and lifts his eyebrows. “And enjoy the view while you have her.”
Play my game.
If it were only that simple.
I stare at my hands for a second, flexing my fingers. Everything feels off. Nothing feels right.
“Yeah,” I mutter. “Working on it.”
“What’s the deal?” Jaxon asks.
“What do you mean?” I busy my hands with my beer bottle, but the lift of his eyebrows says he noticed.
“The yips still getting you?” Jaxon asks. “I know you had them a bit last year. They coming back?”
I shrug. “Who the fuck knows.”
“Either it’s your head or your arm, man. Can’t get any simpler than that. There are doctors who can help with either,” Malachi says.
I make a noncommittal sound. I’ve thought about it—visiting the team shrink—but the last fucking thing I need or want is Dr. Hawley delving into my childhood and shit because that has nothing to do with whatever’s going on now.
Silence settles for a beat before Tristan breaks the discomfort. “Man, if you keep throwing like that, Vegas is going to start setting odds.”
Jaxon laughs. Malachi shakes his head. I snort and toss my empty bottle into the trash. “Real funny.”
“It was a little funny,” Malachi says, holding his finger and thumb about an inch apart. “Perfect with the timing though.”
“Don’t encourage him,” Jaxon says.
“Too late.” Tristan raises his beer.
And all I can do is shake my head as their voices blend together into something normal, something comfortable.
For now, the noise in my head quiets. It’s not gone, but it’s definitely not as distracting.
And I’ll take that, because now that the media has sunk its teeth into these accusations, this is about as quiet and comfortable as it’s going to get.
Especially while two questions remain: who leaked this and who is the one placing the bets?
But even as I sit there with a beer in my hand and friends around me, my mind drifts back to Dublin. To the woman who stood in that room like she owned it. To the person causing this unrest in my life. To the woman who should’ve recognized me—and didn’t.
Yeah, Cabo was a blur. Too much booze. Too many people. Too many moments that didn’t matter.
But there was one that did—and I’d be lying if I said that night hasn’t repeated in my mind a few times in the years since.
Maybe it’s the feeling of unfinished business. Maybe it’s the fact that she doesn’t fucking remember me and what guy wants to feel that forgettable?
Then again, how many women have I forgotten over the years?
And I’ve definitely had my fill of them. Some meaningful, some not. And obviously, many were so forgettable I don’t remember names or details or possibly even their faces.
Yet, here I am with “scandal” associated with my name—with my career—and my brain keeps getting stuck on the fact that she might not remember me. Why?
The question lingers. And so does the indecision about what to do about it.
Logic dictates that I keep my head down, work hard, and focus on what matters most—clearing my name. I have a team of people in my corner willing to help me do just that.
But that doesn’t fix my curiosity or wanting to dig more into Dublin Locke.
Pride and ego tell me she’s pretending. If so, there’s a reason she is, and if that’s the case, then maybe I’m supposed to use it to my advantage.
I tip my head back and finish the last of my beer.
Yeah. I’ll figure that out.