CHAPTER ELEVEN
Cole
The door clicks shut behind her and for a second, I stand there, staring at the empty space she left behind like somehow that’s going to explain what the hell just happened.
I drop back into the chair and drag both hands over my face.
It took you three days to remember who I was.
That fucking comment. It shouldn’t matter. It shouldn’t be anything more than a throwaway jab in a conversation full of them.
She sounded hurt by it. Like I’d missed something I wasn’t supposed to.
Did she really think I didn’t remember her?
I huff out a breath and lean back, staring at the ceiling.
It’s not like she was forthcoming in acknowledging she remembered me.
It was one night. Barely even that. A few drinks, an incredible fucking make-out session that I still remember years later. And a girl who pretended to fall asleep like that was her emergency exit.
Nothing happened. So why the hell does it feel like it did?
I shake my head and sit forward with my elbows on my knees. It doesn’t matter. She’s not the Cabo girl anymore. She’s the one trying to take me down. And if she purposefully forgot to disclose that we knew each other to her boss, that’s leverage. Has to be. Plain and fucking simple.
Yeah. I can use that if I need to. I’m just not sure exactly how, quite yet.
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
I pick up my phone and stare at the screen.
Of course. It took him long enough.
“Yeah,” I answer.
There’s silence on the other end of the line for a beat. No doubt he’s trying to contain his anger. “Explain what the fuck is going on.”
Definitely contained his anger. That was probably one of my dad’s nicer greetings as of late. There’s never a hello, never a just checking in, and most certainly never a benefit of the doubt.
Always straight to the point. One way of saying it.
“I’ve got it handled,” I say, already moving to the door.
“Handled? That’s what you call it?” he snaps. “Because it looks like you’re embarrassing yourself on every scale possible.”
And you.
You forgot to add that I’m embarrassing you too.
My grip tightens on the phone. “It’s nothing to worry about.”
His chuckle is pure derision. “You think this is a joke, Cole-y boy?” he continues, calling me his go-to whenever he feels I’ve disappointed him. “You think you can play like shit for the season, have your name tied to betting scandals, and just—what? Shake it fucking off?”
My teeth grind together. “Appreciate you giving me the benefit of the doubt. Thinking the best of your son and all.”
“Do you really want to go there—”
“I haven’t bet on anything, Dad.”
“Huh. So then you’re choosing to play this horribly for no reason? Or are you just so damn soft now that you can’t handle the pressure?”
There it is—that word—soft. It only took a minute into the conversation to get there.
Always. Fucking. Soft.
“I have to get back to the team.” I’m done with this conversation.
“Yeah,” he scoffs. “Do that. Get back to a team who thinks you’re cheating on them, fucking them over, all while playing like shit. See how hard they work for you when they think that.”
“I’m working my ass off to figure out what’s going on with my performance.”
He snorts. “Hopefully those high-dollar coaches of yours can work a miracle because you need it. Let’s hope you can keep your focus this weekend for once.”
The line goes dead and I exhale hard, dragging a hand through my hair.
Why the fuck do I even pick up?
I don’t have to. I could ignore it, block him, and just be done with his shit once and for all.
You wouldn’t be here without him, Valor.
That’s why I do it. It’s uncomfortable as hell and not exactly good for my mental health, but his time and dedication and tough love made me the most sought-after quarterback in the country out of college.
So yeah, I pick up. Even when I shouldn’t.
I shove the phone into my back pocket, refusing to give it any more space in my head . . . but if he doesn’t believe my hands are clean, then who the hell will?
See how hard they work for you when they think that.
Fuck. I glance at my watch and know exactly what I need to do.
The locker room quiets the second I walk in. Conversations dip. Movements slow. Eyes track me in a way they didn’t yesterday.
Yeah. They’ve seen all of it.
I keep my head down and move toward my stall. I can’t remember the last time I moved through this space without at least a comment or joke being made to me.
My dad is right. Or at least it feels like he is.
“Hey,” I shout, turning to face the room. A few heads glance my way. Someone turns the speaker down. “Can I get a minute?”
Conversations stop and my teammates in various stages of dress turn my way.
I step forward, rubbing a hand over the back of my neck before letting it fall. “Look, I’m not going to bullshit you,” I start and some guys shift so they can see me better. “You’ve all seen what’s out there.”
A few guys nod. Others just watch. But none of them speak.
“I wanted you guys to hear it from me first but uh, clearly that didn’t happen.
” I blow out a frustrated sigh. “Gridiron is investigating me for betting irregularities tied to my performance.” Saying it aloud feels like I’m swallowing shards of glass.
“What I need you to hear is that I didn’t bet against this team.
I didn’t give anyone information to influence their wagers. I didn’t throw anything.”
I clear my throat. I can play in front of seventy thousand fans without a second thought but saying this to these guys—my team—has me rattled.
“I know how it looks. I get that. And I know my play the last couple of weeks hasn’t helped with this perception.
I’m working with GIA to figure out what the hell is going on so they can clear my name.
” I glance around the room, meeting eyes where I can.
“And if she—Dublin, GIA’s investigator—asks to speak to any of you, I encourage you to.
I’ve got nothing to hide.” I shrug. “For what it’s worth, I’ve been working hard to fix my shit on the field too. ”
“You’re good, bro,” Grandy says from the back of the room.
I nod. “Thanks. I expect the media noise to get worse before it gets better. But uh, we have a game this weekend. That’s where my focus is. You don’t need to worry about that.”
For a second no one moves and no one else talks. Then to my right, “All good, man.”
“Yeah, we got you.”
“Handle your business.”
The comments aren’t loud. It’s not some rally moment, but it’s enough.
When I glance up, Coach Brooks is standing with his arms crossed, watching me from the doorway. Our general manager, Grant Walker, is too.
Neither of them says anything. They just nod in acknowledgment as I head out to my next appointment.
I’m halfway down the hallway when a voice stops me. “You good, Valor?”
I glance over to where Lucas Hale leans against the wall, watching me like he already knows the answer.
I open my mouth. Close it. Fuck it. “Nah. Not really.”
He nods like that tracks and, considering the shit he went through last year with his shoulder forcing him to retire, if anyone can understand how fucked up I feel, he can.
“That’s understandable.”
“I’m just figuring shit out—or trying to.”
“Well, I’m here if you need anything,” he says.
No pressure. No judgment. He has no clue how much I needed that.
“Thanks.” I start to move past him and then stop, dropping my head for a second. “I’m headed to Hawley’s office.”
The words taste like shit. Like failure. Like weakness. I should be able to handle on my own.
Going to see the team psychologist.
Lucas doesn’t laugh or smirk or do a goddamn thing other than hold my stare. “Good.”
I blink. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. I’m proud of you.”
I huff out a laugh. Can’t say I’ve heard that much. “Can’t hurt, right?” I make the joke to cover how weird it feels talking about it.
“Not even a little.”
I nod once and then keep walking. When I push open the door to Dr. Hawley’s office, there’s so much shit I can talk about that I don’t know where to start.
My dad.
My mental game.
The investigation.
Why I suddenly have the yips.
Trouble.
The last one has no business being in my head.
And yet there she is.
Taking up space I can’t afford.