CHAPTER EIGHT
Dublin
The media is already at the Lone Star Rebel’s facility when I arrive.
Not just a few reporters out front lingering for sound bites, but a crowd. Reporters. Cameras. Microphones. Questions shouted that blur together into a chaotic hum that suffocates all other sound.
It’s too loud for this early in the morning, more aggressive than it needs to be, and entirely predictable given the story that broke overnight.
So much for the reassurance that the case wouldn’t be leaked until the case is closed, Dublin.
Can’t say I’m not interested in seeing what Cole’s reaction to all this will be though.
And if he’ll blame me for it.
Hence the impromptu meeting the club called, requesting my presence. Damage control. No doubt that’s what they’re after, and I can’t exactly blame them for it.
What I don’t think they predicted was just how my presence would make things worse.
But the second I step out of my car, it’s more than apparent. Eyes shift, cameras angle, and someone says my name loudly enough that it ripples outward like a signal—and a warning.
“Doesn’t she work for Gridiron Integrity Analytics?”
“GIA’s on this?”
“That’s Dublin Locke with GIA. She worked on the Greenfield scandal.”
Just like that, there isn’t just speculation about Cole Valor anymore. My presence is now a confirmation adding legitimacy to what was an “unfounded” story.
Now, there’s validation behind it.
Fuck.
A part of me feels like I should stop and explain this, but GIA’s company policy is not to talk to the media.
And because of that, I don’t break stride or acknowledge any of the questions being shouted my way as security ushers me through the front doors and into the relative quiet of the Rebels facility.
But I know that the damage is already done.
This situation has escalated way beyond what it should be at this point—and beyond what Cole deserves.
But how do you put the genie back in the bottle when you’re not the one who let it out in the first place?
Hence, this meeting.
I’m quickly briefed by Rebels management on a logical, practical plan and rerouted back to the conference room.
When I push the door open, I’m surprised to see Cole already there. He’s pacing—not casually, not controlled—but with an anger that has nowhere to go unless it’s directed at someone.
And the second he registers my presence, his head snaps up, his eyes lock on mine, and that ire is now angled my way—the accusation already there.
I lift both hands before he can say a word. “It wasn’t me.” The words come out steady—but there’s sufficient edge to them that I hate he can hear it. “I’ll say it again, it was not me.”
“Where I’m standing, why should I believe you?” he asks, tone flat, eyes wild.
I close the door behind me with a quiet click that feels entirely too final given the tension already building. There are enough prying eyes and ears in this place—clearly—but we need to have this conversation.
“I understand why you’d feel that way, but if I wanted to use pressure to push you, I wouldn’t use that methodology.”
His laugh is rife with disbelief and sarcasm. “How would you do it then?”
I take another step into the space, treading carefully with my response. “Strategically.”
“Vague.”
“True but having the public involved only muddies the water for me and my investigation.”
He runs a hand through his hair, agitation rolling off him in waves. His frustration is real. It’s not calculated or manufactured but rather exhaustive and wearing. There are stress lines on his face, and the hollows of his eyes are darkened.
“You do know my job is to win, right? I don’t get to have bad games,” he says, his voice growing quieter. “Not where I come from.”
“Cole—”
“I have a game in a few days, my arm feels like it’s not my own, my head’s a mess because of it, and now I’ve got this—this bullshit—splashed everywhere. Since when do you get to be judge, jury, and executioner when I haven’t even had a chance to defend myself?”
I don’t interrupt him because he’s right. Even if he did this to himself, caused this problem, he can still be completely right. And pressure and how one reacts to it is the one thing I can’t predict even after studying all the patterns in the world.
“Your team just briefed me. They’ve come up with a media strategy and—”
“Media strategy?” he barks out. “You do realize that most people tune in for the first few days of headlines—the ones that accuse me—and rarely stick around to read weeks later that the accusations were unfounded, right? How is media strategy going to fix those who’ve already deemed me a fucking cheater and will never look at me in any other way? ”
The frustration threaded through his voice tells me more than anything he said in our last meeting. He’s young, overwhelmed, and now put in an untenable position.
This is your job, Dub. You don’t have to feel guilty for doing it.
But it’s the way he looks at me—lost and confused, when everything else about him says arrogant asshole—that tugs on my sympathy, and rightfully so.
No client has ever made me question myself for doing my job like he is right now.
I clear my throat to shut the nonsense in my head out.
“Your points are valid.” I use my best moderator voice. “That’s why your team has called in a media specialist,” I say.
“Damage control specialist,” he says as I toggle my head from side to side instead of refuting him with words. “And you’re here why, then?”
Because I feel guilty about the leak?
Because I feel like in some weird way I know you and hate that I’ve somehow contributed to this?
Because maybe I was so distracted by our history, that I let something slip, that I wasn’t as cautious as usual, and maybe this is my fault?
And that’s unacceptable. Personal history doesn’t get to compromise my work. Ever.
I lack an answer I can actually verbalize. Instead, I deflect. “She’ll be here any minute to help you navigate the current climate.”
“Media training?” He emits a disbelieving laugh. “I already did that shit when I came into the league.”
“Not this kind you didn’t. You’ve never had to manage a crisis.”
His jaw flexes and fury flashes in his eyes. “You mean the crisis you created?”
I don’t respond because I can only assume what’s coming next. And he doesn’t disappoint.
“Spare me the bullshit company line you’re about to spew at me.” He takes a step closer. “You’re the one who came here, who asked questions, and suddenly I’m the headline. But yeah, sure, ‘media training’ will fix it.”
His words, sharp and unfiltered, hang between us. The atmosphere of the room shifts with them.
I don’t flinch, don’t react, but I do feel the weight of what he’s saying.
“It wasn’t me,” I say again, quieter this time.
He snorts. “Then how did it get out?”
“I’ve asked myself the same question a dozen times since I saw the stories last night.
” I shift my feet. “Your guess is as good as mine. It could be as simple as a company employee who mentioned something to a friend and that friend told another friend who posted it. A simple game of telephone is all it takes.”
“If that’s the case, then you’re the one who picked up the phone and dialed in the first place.” His expression shifts. His lips purse. “How many times has this happened to you before on a case?”
Shit. This one’s going to hurt. “Never.”
“Ah. Convenient.”
“I’m not your enemy,” I say evenly and his eyes hold mine for a second longer than they have before.
They’re searching, like he’s trying to place something he can’t quite reach.
Does he remember? My breath stills for just a second but then it’s gone.
Whatever flicker I thought I saw, disappears behind that same wall of frustration.
And just like that he’s just a stranger again. Just a case I need to resolve.
“If you didn’t do what’s been flagged, then I’m here to absolve you,” I say. “Either way, I’m not here to hang you out to dry.”
He’s staring again. It’s like he’s not just looking at what I’m saying but really hearing me. And for the first time since this all started, the anger doesn’t disappear, but it fractures, letting another emotion slip through—uncertainty.
Cole exhales, dragging a hand through his hair again, but this time the movement feels less like anger and more like a recalibration.
“Yeah,” he mutters. “We’ll see about that.”
“I don’t have to convince you otherwise, Cole. I have a job to do and you liking me isn’t part of my job.”
He nods and movement catches his attention behind me through the glass. I follow his glance to where the team’s media consultant is standing, laptop in her arms, talking to another staff member.
“I don’t need someone teaching me how to talk,” he says.
“Agreed. But you do need someone teaching you what not to say.”
His eyes narrow as if he’s trying to process the difference. “I don’t like being told what to do.”
“That makes two of us.”
“You always this bossy?”
I tilt my head. “Are you always this combative?”
His mouth almost curves—almost—like he remembers something he shouldn’t.
The room goes still as the space between us shrinks. The air tightens. The atmosphere feels more focused.
His gaze drops briefly—to my lips, my posture, my body—before snapping back to my eyes.
“When I’m being falsely accused, yes,” he says.
“Then earn my trust and prove the data wrong,” I say.
He nods and is about to speak when a knock at the door interrupts us. The woman who enters is mid-forties, composed, with eyes sharp behind her black-framed glasses. She’s seen every version of panic an athlete can cycle through.
“Josie Hanson,” she says with a stunted smile. “Crisis PR and media training.”
“Perfect timing,” I say and step back to make room for her.
“You must be Cole,” she says to which he nods before she introduces herself to me.
“Nice to meet you,” I say. “I’ll step out so you two can have your privacy—”
“Stay,” Cole says, surprising me. “I’ve got nothing to hide. Besides, you might learn a thing or two for when you have to deal with the media to clear my name.”
He lifts his chin and raises his eyebrows as his eyes meet mine. My feet falter on their way to the door.
Challenge accepted. Or maybe it’s a way to ease the unfounded guilt.
With a frustrated exhale, Cole drops into a chair. “Let’s get this over with.”
And Josie does just that. She takes a seat across from Cole while I move to the back corner and out of the way.
She starts the session exactly how I expect it to go. Josie lobs softball questions at Cole that he answers with practiced ease at first—measured tone, careful phrasing—with the kind of responses designed to say something without actually saying anything at all.
His responses are polished and vague, showing he has a strong grasp of what media training is all about.
But the first time Josie tosses him a question about the investigation, his body language shifts. It’s subtle—the tightening of his jaw a fraction too long before he answers. A flicker of irritation that slips through before he reins it back in.
Most people wouldn’t catch it, but I do, because I’m not listening to what he says. I’m paying attention to what he doesn’t.
“Let’s try that again,” Josie says after his third answer skirts too close to the defensive. “Less explanation. More control.”
“I am in control,” Cole snaps.
“Control doesn’t sound like that,” she replies calmly.
The rebuke doesn’t faze him, but when he leans back in his chair, frustration is written in every line of his body.
“This is a waste of time.”
“No,” I say before I can stop myself. “A waste of time is pretending this isn’t happening.”
His gaze cuts to mine instantly. “Did I ask for your input?”
“No,” I say, “but you need it.”
Josie glances between us, interest flickering, but says nothing.
“Answer the question,” I add. “Directly and without snark.”
“I did,” he says. “And why do you care?”
“No, you deflected,” I say, ignoring his question.
“I clarified.”
“You avoided.”
The muscle in his jaw pulses as he holds my stare. And then very calmly, very evenly, he turns back to Josie and says, “Let’s continue.”
But his eyes flick to mine for half a second longer than necessary . . . like this isn’t just about the investigation anymore.
What, Valor? Why did you give me your focus when it’s needed elsewhere?
And why did it make my heart skip a beat?