CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Dublin
“Say that again.”
I pace the length of my apartment, phone pressed to my ear, and eyes fixed on the game on my television.
Manny, GIA’s quantitative analyst, is on the other end of the line watching the betting activity in real time. “They’re not betting the outcome,” he says. “Not a straight win-loss.”
My gaze narrows as Cole lines up and barks a cadence with a calm that doesn’t match the havoc around him.
“Then what bets are being placed?” I ask.
“The point spread.”
Of course they are. I glance at the score in the corner of the screen. The Rebels are up, not comfortably but by enough.
“How tight?” I ask.
“Current betting line has them winning by six and a half,” he says.
So that means if the Rebels win by seven points or more, the bettors lose.
On screen, the ball is snapped. Cole drops back in complete control. He steps into the pocket, scans the field, and releases for a perfect, twelve-yard gain.
“They’re driving,” I murmur.
“Yeah,” Manny says. “And that’s the problem.”
And he’s right because if the Rebels score here, then they cover the spread. And covering the spread means someone loses a lot of money.
“But this all looks pretty normal,” Manny says. “No outlier bets. No large, last-minute wagers.”
“Hmm.” My eyes stay locked on Cole. His performance seems steady and more composed than one would expect given the maelstrom swirling around him.
The announcers fill the lull while an injury is tended to.
“. . . you have to wonder how much all the outside noise is affecting Valor . . .”
“. . . questions about performance, consistency and even integrity come into play and by the sizable hits he’s taken today, it’s clear the Cougars defense feels the same.”
“. . . that’s a lot of pressure for any quarterback. And to have to perform while your future is left in question.”
The injury is cleared and the game resumes. Cole’s next play, a handoff to the running back, and then the one after, a five-yard gain on a screen pass, earn the Rebels another first down.
Manny’s words repeat in my head—because they’re right. The scrutiny Cole’s under, this intensity of pressure? It would break most people. Hell, it would break me.
And yet he’s on the field shutting it out and moving the ball like none of it exists.
My fingers tighten on my phone because for some reason it matters to me that he is, which is a problem.
It’s only because you’re watching the fallout in real time and feel guilty, Dub. You’ve never had a leak during an investigation before. Quiet murmurs within an organization but never a full-blown media campaign where you’ve had to witness the repercussions play out.
And why am I rooting for his innocence when I’ve remained indeterminately neutral in every other investigation I’ve ever done? Well, since the Murdoch case anyway.
But if he isn’t the source, then someone is doing it to him—using him—and who the hell could that be? And why?
“Any luck on tracking the accounts?” Manny asks.
I sigh. “Nope. Garcia’s working on it, but it’s as you’d expect.”
“VPN masking?”
“Of course. Offshore betting platform. Likely a crypto-based—no personal documentation. No traceable trail.” I pause. “Multiple accounts too.”
“As usual,” Manny says.
“They’ll slip,” I say. “This whole situation feels sophisticated but not polished. Amateurish. The feeler bets at the end of last season, the escalation pattern now. It’s not as clean as they think.”
“They always make mistakes.”
The Cougars fail to convert on third down and punt.
“Our boy is back up,” Manny says.
And he is. He secures ten yards in the first throw. Then they struggle with two stalled rushing attempts. The last one Cole is hit so hard, I gasp as his helmet smacks the ground.
But he gets back up and completes the next pass for another first down.
“Make sure to log the timestamps on every shift,” I say. “Every spread adjustment. Every live bet that moves it. Every sharp—”
“Dublin.” Manny’s tone shifts.
“What?”
“Big movement. A large live bet.”
I look back to the screen where Cole keeps completing passes and moving them downfield.
“They’re adjusting the spread to a higher differential?” I ask, pulse ticking up a notch.
“No.” He pauses. “That’s why it stands out. All the other bets are pushing the over higher.”
“This one?”
“They’re protecting it.”
Protecting it. Meaning despite everything pointing to a touchdown, someone is betting it won’t happen.
My mind races.
He’d be insane to have someone place a bet right now with the world watching . . . unless that’s exactly why he would.
Or unless, it’s not him.
Grrr. I press my fingers to my eyes. This is such a mindfuck.
This is why you can’t have any personal ties to the person you’re investigating, Dublin. This is why you should call Marcus and let him decide if he should take you off the case or not.
“Hold on,” Manny says in that same tone that has my stomach sinking. “Player prop just hit. Huge bet.”
Player proposition bet. An assumption of what the athlete you’re betting on will or won’t do.
“What prop?” I ask, teeth sinking into my bottom lip.
Manny exhales slowly. “Interception.”
The one thing that Cole can control on the field.
My gaze snaps to the screen.
“They’re about to score,” I murmur.
“Yeah,” Manny says quietly. “Which means the new bet loses.”
Unless . . .
Time slows. Cole plants his foot. Draws his arm back. Everything about him says this is another clean throw.
Another step forward. Another inch toward sealing the game over spread.
But then Cole hitches. It’s small, subtle, but it’s there.
“No . . .” I breathe as the ball leaves his hand.
And even before it reaches the receiver, I know.
“Oh, shit,” Manny says.
“Fuck,” I whisper as the defender steps into the route, hands out, body fast.
Interception.
The stadium erupts in a torrent of boos, but I don’t hear it. All I see is the scoreboard.
The margin.
The exact number the bettor needed to keep it under the spread. Fuck. Not a blowout. Not a noticeable collapse. Just enough of an error—precise and deliberate—with thirty seconds left in the game, to essentially secure the under.
This isn’t a coincidence. It can’t be. I’ve done this long enough to know the difference.
And suddenly my thoughts I had seconds ago about telling Marcus, about admitting I know Cole—gone. Because that doesn’t matter right now.
This does. The pattern. The timing. The fact that someone knew exactly when that throw would go wrong.
“Jesus,” I murmur.
Because the only person who had that timing would be the one throwing the ball.
Fuck.