CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Dublin
The equipment room smells faintly of detergent and rubber. Clean but not sterile. Lived in and functional. Every surface has a purpose, every shelf labeled, every bin aligned perfectly.
I appreciate this kind of precision.
“Ms. Locke, right?”
The man across from me wipes his hands on a folded towel before offering me his hand. His grip is firm but brief and I can’t tell if that’s because I make him nervous or because he has a list of things to do that’s a mile long.
Rick Delgado is the equipment manager for the Lone Star Rebels and his pride shows.
“Dublin is fine.” I smile politely. “You’ve been with the team how long?”
“Going on two years now. Before that I was with the Grizzlies for four.”
“So you’ve been here since Austin was awarded the expansion team?”
“Yes, ma’am. From day one.” He beams with pride.
“Perfect. Do you mind?” I ask, motioning to the chairs and we both take a seat. “I’m just trying to understand how information is shared day to day. Specifically pertaining to player performance. Adjustments they’re making. Things that don’t always make it into official reports.”
He squares his shoulders. “We just do our jobs in here. Me and my assistant. Players come in, we get them what they need. Practice gear. Gameday setups. Repair broken pads.”
“And I’m assuming in those day-to-day conversations, things come up in passing or noticed when a player is off their game or injured.”
He blinks. “Of course. This is a brutal sport. There are injuries every day. It’s my job to observe and try and tend to the players’ needs before they even ask.”
“Walk me through that.”
He exhales like he knows the conversation is about to shift from harmless to possibly damning.
“Walk you through it? It’s not anything specific.
A player comes in with a knee brace on. The QB comes in with his wrist taped when he’s never taped it before.
Players stand in here waiting for their helmet cage to be tightened, and they complain about a wide receiver who’s off a half-step because he’s having marital problems at home. ”
Real-time intel. Casual. Constant. Unfiltered.
“Makes sense,” I say and jot a few notes down, letting the silence stretch just enough to invite more.
“Plus it’s obvious sometimes when you watch a practice. Say like with Valor. That’s why you’re talking to me, right? All the stuff on social media?”
“Partially, yes.” I’d be naive if I didn’t assume that every person in this organization knows about the investigation. “So you said, like with Valor. What would one notice if they were watching practice?”
Rick shrugs, but there’s thought behind it. “He hasn’t been throwing like himself. He’s been out there longer than normal taking extra reps. Trying different release points. Adjusting the pace on the ball. It seems he’s almost overcorrecting.”
I take some more notes, but it’s as I expected—everyone knows fucking everything in this place. Not rumor. Not speculation. Observed struggles. Even the equipment manager is diagnosing Cole’s mechanics.
“And those observations stay internal?” I ask.
“We all signed NDAs so yes, they’re supposed to.”
“Any concerns about Valor beyond the mechanics?” I ask casually. “Temper that might have rubbed someone the wrong way? Issues with teammates? Staff confrontations?”
Rick frowns like the question itself doesn’t fit with Cole. “Not that I’ve seen. Yeah, he’s sure of himself but show me an NFL player who isn’t. Not excessive or grating or anything. For the most part, the guy keeps his head down and works hard day in and day out.”
“Football locker rooms aren’t exactly known for healthy communication. No time that frustration on the field has bled into the clubhouse?”
“All the time.” A short laugh escapes him. “But honestly, if trouble starts in here, Valor’s usually the first guy to walk away from it. Doesn’t yell. Doesn’t escalate it. He just . . . removes himself.”
Interesting. The version of Cole Valor the media sells is arrogant, cocky, and untouchable. But the version I keep running into feels more like a man trying desperately not to make things worse.
I tap my pen against my pad before glancing back up at him. “Rick, can I ask you something a little more direct?”
He hesitates and glances around. “Uh—yeah.”
“Have you ever placed a bet on a sports game?”
His reaction is immediate. He shakes his head, eyes widening. “No. Never. Gambling in general isn’t my thing.”
Too quick? Maybe. Or maybe just honest. Either way, I clock it.
“What about friends? People you talk to regularly?” I continue. “Anyone who might ask questions about a player or his performance? You know when you’re just shooting the shit at a friend’s barbecue?”
“No,” he says, firmer this time. “I don’t talk about that stuff. Not outside of this facility.”
I hold his gaze longer than necessary, not because I think he’s lying but because discomfort has a way of loosening truths people don’t intend to share.
“Do you have any excessive debt?”
He startles. “No. I mean, not any more than anyone else.” His eyebrows narrow. “Am I in trouble?”
“No.” I add warmth to my smile. “These are just standard questions I ask to try and shake loose something that might have some meaning.”
He nods but it’s clear I’ve put him on edge.
“There are betting patterns,” I say. “Over/unders shifting before public information hits. Probability lines tightening on passing yards and completion percentages. Even live adjustments reacting faster than they should. This doesn’t happen without inside knowledge. Not consistently.”
“I don’t understand any of that. How do you bet on the probability of something that hasn’t happened yet? Like . . .” He shakes his head. “People are always guessing or reading into things.”
“These guesses are rather precise.”
“Look,” he says, dragging a hand over the back of his neck. “I’m telling you the truth. The last thing I want is any trouble for the team.”
Trouble.
For a split second, the memory slips in uninvited. Salty air. Hungry kisses. A moment that wasn’t supposed to matter but now lingers more than it has before.
I clear my throat. “I’m not here to cause any problems. I’m here to stop them before they get any worse.” I close my notebook with a soft snap and slide a business card across the table. “I appreciate your time, Rick. This helps. If anything else comes to mind, feel free to reach out to me.”
Relief flickers across his face and his shoulders relax for the first time since we’ve sat down.
I stand, smoothing my blazer as I walk out and straight into the aftermath of practice.
Players flood the hallway. Massive. Loud. Controlled chaos. It doesn’t matter how many times I work with teams like this, I still forget how physically overwhelming it is to be surrounded by them.
I sidestep a pair of players and look up to see Cole.
Helmet gone. Pads already stripped off. What’s left is a tight shirt clinging to his torso, damp in uneven patches.
His football pants ride low on his hips, and there are grass stains on his knees.
His hair, those impossible waves, is damp, and it looks like his hand has run through it more than a few times.
He looks—
I shut the thought down immediately.
Focused. That’s what he looks like, Dublin. Focused. Nothing more. Nothing less.
And definitely not a reminder of why I picked him out of every man in the bar that night.
His gaze lifts and finds mine. The noise around us dulls, like someone turned the volume down on the world. His mouth shifts like he might say something, but someone calls his name from behind him.
He lifts his hand in acknowledgment—but doesn’t look their way. Not right away. He just stands there, his eyes locked on mine like he’s asking questions I simply can’t answer yet.
A teammate bumps his shoulder and when he looks back to me again, his demeanor’s changed. He’s more guarded. More deliberate. Like he realized he let something slip and now he’s correcting it.
Good. So am I.
I stride past him without slowing or acknowledging how very aware of him I am. Professional and objective—that’s what matters.
Yet as I turn the corner, the image lingers anyway. Sweat-soaked fabric. Messy hair. The intensity in his eyes.
I don’t exhale until I’m inside the conference room and the door shuts behind me.
He’s not attractive.
The thought comes automatically. Reflexively.
I huff out a quiet laugh. Fine. He is. Only an idiot would pretend otherwise after seeing him like that.
But that has nothing to do with this. Nothing.
Because whatever’s happening here, whoever’s shifting the betting lines, it isn’t coincidence.
It’s information. It’s being fed. And if it isn’t Cole Valor, then it’s someone betraying him.
Which might be even worse.