CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Dublin
I don’t see him at first.
I’m too busy digging my keys out of my purse, mentally running through everything Manny sent over, and replaying the interception in my head like if I look at it from enough angles something new will reveal itself.
It hasn’t.
It only makes my suspicions worse.
I slam my car door, turn, and startle.
What the—
Cole’s a few feet away from me, leaning against a white SUV like he’s been there long enough to lose patience.
My pulse kicks hard and immediate. How did he know I was going to be here?
“Cole?” I swallow. “What are you doing here?”
His Adam’s apple bobs as his eyes hold mine. There’s an apology in them, but there’s also another emotion I can’t read yet.
“You’re a member,” he says, pushing off the SUV, hands shoved in his pockets.
“When your purse fell and I helped you gather it up. Gym tag on the keyring. Schedule folded in half with this class time circled every day. It’s not like I was spying .
. . it was just there when I picked it up.
” He takes a step closer, holding his hands up.
“I didn’t mean to scare you. I—uh, didn’t realize how stalkerish this might seem. ”
“Just a tad,” I say raising my eyebrows.
“I just really needed to see—talk to you.” He clears his throat.
“And it couldn’t wait until business hours?”
“Like you ever work just business hours.”
He has a point there.
I glance around the parking lot. “You really shouldn’t be here,” I say. “We can’t be seen together.”
“Hence the hat.” He tugs the brim of his hat lower. “And why can’t we be seen together? You’re investigating me, right? So naturally you’ll be talking to me.”
“At the Rebels complex, the stadium, the practice field, maybe. But not in a strip mall parking lot outside of a Pilates studio.”
He nods, his eyes moving to the asphalt and then back up. “I left the stadium after the game and have been driving ever since.” He sounds frayed. Broken.
“And?” I don’t know what else to do with that statement.
“I don’t know,” he says quietly and shrugs. “I’ve got a world full of people I could’ve gone to, and I’m standing here waiting for you.”
Where’d that lump in my throat come from?
“Waiting or stalking?” I joke to try and add some levity to the conversation.
But Cole only offers a ghost of a smile, eyes like a hurt puppy dog. “I just . . .”
And for the first time since this whole thing started, I see it. Not the star quarterback. Not the ego.
The toll this has taken.
The man beneath it all.
There’s conflict etched in every line of him. Fatigue. Frustration. He looks desperate.
“Congrats on the win,” I say because I feel like it’s a positive we should acknowledge. Because the game is why he’s here.
He snorts. “Yeah, there’s at least that.”
“Tell me about the game.”
He tilts his head slightly, like he’s studying me now. “You think I did it. Threw the interception to protect whatever bid was made.”
It’s not a question. It’s a challenge.
“I think,” I say carefully, “that from where I’m standing, there’s no version of that play that doesn’t look intentional.”
His gaze hardens.
“You’re in the game. In the best position to control the outcome. You’re driving down the field, about to cover the spread . . . and then you throw an interception moments after someone bet you would.”
“It was a coincidence. And something one could assume seeing as I’ve done the exact same thing the last two games.”
“A huge prop wasn’t bet those last two games though.”
“It was a coincidence,” he repeats with more resolve this time.
I scoff and don’t back down from his stare. I’m looking for anything to tell me otherwise but there’s nothing there.
“You’ll have a hard time finding people to believe that.”
“You included?”
The only answer I give him is the slightest of shrugs.
He drags a hand over the back of his neck, fingers pressing hard like he’s trying to work a knot out. “Do you want to know what was actually going through my head?” He steps closer. “How I just fucked my team over. How I thought I had these fucking yips under control but clearly don’t.”
His jaw flexes and he turns his back toward me slightly like he’s questioning his next words, but then he turns back around.
“I went to a goddamn sports psychologist,” he grits out, like the words slipped out before he could stop them.
“First time in my life. Just to fix this, and I can’t figure out if that makes me weaker or stronger.
” He throws up his hands. “All that to say and here we fucking are.”
My chest tightens as his voice breaks.
“The irony in all this bullshit is that not once during that game did I think about points or bets or whatever the hell is happening around me.” There is no performance in his words, no manipulation. Just raw and unfiltered frustration. “And now everyone thinks—”
And that’s when it hits me.
This isn’t a man trying to spin a story. This is a man who doesn’t understand why he’s failing at the one thing he’s always been able to control.
Leave me the fuck alone.
The words that have been replayed on every channel and social media site since he said them.
But the man standing in front of me now? He’s not that man.
He’s stripped down and exposed. Human.
And it absolutely should not matter to me—I have a job to do—but it does.
“Why do you do this?” he asks, catching me off guard.
“Do what?”
“This.” He gestures between us. “This job. The digging and picking people apart until you find what’s broken.”
Because everyone’s broken.
Because the truth always costs something.
Because control is easier than letting my guard down and then getting screwed in the process.
“Because the truth matters,” I say. “And because people lie.”
His gaze sharpens. “And you think I am.”
“I think that . . . something doesn’t add up.”
He lets out a slow breath, nodding once like he expected that.
“Then let me help you,” he says.
I hesitate. “I can’t make deals,” I say automatically.
“I’m not asking for a deal.” He closes his eyes for a beat and takes a measured breath. “I need this to go away, Dublin. I need it all to go the fuck away.”
“I’m working on it.”
“That’s not enough.”
My spine stiffens. “Excuse me?”
“I need my game back.” The words are rough, almost as if it cost him to say them. “That’s it. That’s all I care about. And if helping you figure this out helps it go away faster, then even better. I’ll do anything to clear my name.”
My breath catches slightly. “Cole . . .”
“I’ll bet on my life that it isn’t me,” he says, voice low. “Because right now? That’s the only thing I’m sure of.”
There it is. The line between us shifting. Not adversaries, not yet allies, but something damn near close.
“How can I help you?” he asks when I don’t respond.
Walk away, Dublin. Don’t answer that. Don’t cross that line.
“I’ll need access,” I say slowly, betraying myself and my protocol with every syllable. Because yes, while I need the subject of my investigation to cooperate, his offer goes beyond that. “Practice. Film. Conversations. I need to see everything as it happens—not after.”
“Done.”
“You don’t even know what I’m going to ask for.”
“I don’t care. I told you, it’s yours.”
And that response feels more genuine than anything he’s ever said to me.
“I’ll text you. We’ll have to meet up in places that make sense—the stadium, the field, etcetera as to not give a hint of impropriety.”
“Fine. Just tell me when and where.”
I turn to go because this is already too much—him being here, me agreeing to his offer—and his hand wraps around my arm.
Not tight. Not forceful. But we both freeze. My gaze drops to where his fingers press against my skin and for a second neither of us moves.
What’s there is unspoken. Unavoidable.
And then he steps back like he’s been burned and my pulse races in a way that has nothing to do with the case.
“Don’t make me regret this,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel.
“I won’t.”
I hold his gaze a second longer, no real idea what I’m searching for and, just as I’m about to turn and head into my class, I say, “Stronger.”
“Stronger?” His brows narrow.
“You said you weren’t sure if seeing a sports psychologist made you stronger or weaker.” I pause. “The answer is stronger.”
Then I head into my class without looking back. But that doesn’t mean when I push through the doors, my hand isn’t rubbing the spot on my arm where he held on.
“Um. Hello?”
I look up to see Willa waiting for me. Her hands are on her hips and her eyebrows are raised. “Oh my God,” she hisses. “Was that seriously him? The kiss to end all kisses?”
I shoot her a look. “Lower your voice.”
“Age suits him very well.” She says it like he’s fifty years old and graying when he’s twenty-four.
“The man has definitely filled out in all the right ways.” She gives an appreciative hum as she looks back out the window like he’s still there.
“And to think he’s your new case, and you didn’t tell me. ”
I don’t even bother to apologize but the resignation in my voice must say it for me. “It’s a long story.”
“I’m sure it is.” She grins. “You’ve had your tongue down the throat of the man you’re investigating.”
“Shush.” I look around as if anyone cares what we’re talking about.
“Why?” She laughs. “I thought it was tamer than saying he had his fingers—”
I quickly put my hand over her mouth and smother the words and her laugh that follows. “Willa,” I warn. “It’s not like that.”
“From my angle, it absolutely is. I mean, there’s a reason we dubbed him the nickname ‘the kiss to end all kisses.’” Her brow arches slowly. “Conflict of interest much?”
I level her with a glare. If my easy, fun-loving friend thinks it, then Marcus most definitely would. Shit.
“That’s why you need to keep your voice down,” I say.
“Does your boss know?”
“No.”
A startled look. “Dublin Locke is breaking the rules for a man?”
“Not a man.”
She smirks. “Looked like a pretty fine man to me.”
I roll my eyes. “Stop.”
“Just saying.” She holds her hands up. “Does confirming whether the kiss still holds up count as part of the investigation?”
“You’re being ridiculous.”
“Perhaps but you know you still wondered about it.”
I don’t respond because damn it, she’s not entirely wrong.
“Shh,” I say quickly as the instructor moves to the front. “Class is starting.”
The music kicks on. The room shifts as we take our places on our reformers. And as I settle into the cadence of the exercises, my thoughts slowly begin to process.
“I need my game back. That’s it. That’s all I care about. And if helping you figure this out helps it go away faster, then even better. I’ll do anything to clear my name.”
In all the cases I’ve been assigned, I’ve never had an athlete come to me like that. Desperate to clear his name and willing to do anything to help so he can fix whatever he thinks is broken.
That says something.
It has to.