CHAPTER NINETEEN
Cole
“Again.” The word cracks across the field.
Not your dad.
It’s just Coach.
I nod, already stepping back under the center, forcing my fingers to settle on the laces.
A simple out route. Five yards. So routine I could do it in my sleep.
Snap.
Drop back.
Plant.
Throw—
It’s off.
Not by much. But enough.
The ball sails just outside his reach and hits the turf with a dull thud that sounds louder than it should in a near empty practice field.
“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath.
“Reset,” Coach calls from the sideline. “Same thing.”
Same thing. That’s the problem. I can’t.
I roll my shoulder and try to loosen what won’t loosen. My grip feels wrong. Too tight. My mind’s too aware. Like I’m thinking of throwing instead of just doing it.
And there’s the fucking tremble. Shit. I flex my hand and then fist it a couple of times. Trying to shake it out without drawing attention to it.
I glance over to the stands were Tristan, Jaxon, and Malachi are sitting in the front row, waiting for me to finish practice.
Jaxon glances down at my hand and then meets my eyes. “You good?” he mouths.
I nod. Flex my hand again and then step into formation.
Snap.
Drop.
My receiver is open. In perfect position.
Throw the damn ball.
My arm comes forward and there’s that goddamn fraction of a hitch again. The ball flutters. It’s pathetically ugly and short of the receiver.
A few guys shift on their feet. No one says anything, but they don’t have to. They see it. Anyone with eyes can see it.
The yips.
“Fuck,” I mutter, yank my helmet off, and drag a hand through my hair.
“That’s enough for today,” Coach says to the group.
My shoulders sag. Put the extra fucking time in and it doesn’t seem to be helping for shit.
“Valor,” Coach says and motions me over to where he’s standing. He studies me the same way he’s been doing all practice—as if he’s trying to decide how hard to push.
“Coach?” I hand off my helmet to an equipment aide offering to take it in for me.
“Talk to me,” he says. “How’s it going?”
My laugh lacks all humor. “Assuming you already know since you just watched this session.”
“I need words, Cole.”
“I’m frustrated as fuck.” I shake my head. “I’ve gone twice to Doc Hawley and done the breathing exercises and visualization she suggested last session. You’ve seen me out here every damn day putting extra reps in.” I gesture to the field. “And I still can’t hit a routine five-yard pass.”
“You can and you did.”
“Not at my normal completion percentage.”
“Because you’re forcing it,” Coach says.
“I don’t have a choice. I’m paid to perform. To be the guy you signed and—”
“You can’t muscle your way out of this,” he says. “The more you push, the deeper you’ll dig the hole. You’ve got to let it come back to you.”
“Easier said than done,” I mutter. “Considering . . . everything.”
“Everything.” He lets the word hang there as he holds my gaze. “Did you do it?”
His bluntness startles me. “What?”
“Don’t believe I stuttered.”
For a second all I feel is heat and anger and disbelief. “You think I’d risk everything I’ve worked for over some bets?”
“You addressed your team, but you’ve yet to face or talk to me.”
“Because I didn’t think . . . I thought you of all people would know that I didn’t fucking do it.”
His eyes hold mine before he nods once. “That’s all I needed to hear.” He cuffs me on the shoulder. “It’ll come back to you. I have faith in you.”
And then he walks away with me staring after him, teeth clenched, shoulders tight. Coach doubted me?
Jesus Christ.
I shake my head in disbelief and that’s when I spot her—Dublin. She’s standing just outside the tunnel, hair moving in the warm breeze.
More interviews, no doubt. Does she have anything yet?
Our eyes meet and a foreign fucking feeling spreads through my chest.
She’s not looking at me like everyone else is—waiting for me to screw up.
Not judging, not accusing, but more like she saw something out here and doesn’t know what to do with it.
I hold her gaze and then see her lips curl up in a ghost of a smile before she turns and walks back into the tunnel.
I almost call out to her.
“Yo.”
The shout pulls me out of my thoughts where my three worlds are colliding—football, friends, and whatever category Dublin falls into.
I turn to see the guys in the first row of seats, feet on the railings, acting like they own the place.
“We still hitting the bar after you’re done?” Tristan calls out.
“Is it Wednesday?” I ask.
“That would mean yes,” Malachi says as he reaches out to fist bump me.
I glance toward the tunnel, distracted by Dublin. “Give me a minute. I need to uh—”
“Take your time. Clearly by that practice, you need all the reps you can get,” Tristan teases.
“Fuck off,” I say and flip him the bird. Those words coming from anyone else would be an automatic fight. But from them, it’s like my own personal therapy. The whole it’s okay if your family teases you but no one else can thing.
And these guys are my family.
“My bad.” Tristan pats his chest and grins. “You’ll snap out of it soon. We have faith.”
“How about I have faith that whoever that woman was watching you is hot as fuck,” Jaxon says, lifting his chin toward the tunnel. “Who was she?”
“Who was who?” I feign cluelessness.
“You actually think we’re going to buy that a hot woman walked on the field and you didn’t notice her?” Malachi asks. He glances over my shoulder to where Dublin was standing. “Because we sure as shit noticed her.”
“That’s the investigator,” I say casually.
It takes a whole three seconds for the ohhhhs to drag out.
“The investigator,” Tristan says, eyebrows raised.
“Yeah. The one he referred to as fine.” Malachi whistles. “She was way more than fine.”
I smack his feet off the railing and roll my eyes. “Shut up.”
“Man’s under investigation and still pulling that kind of attention,” Jaxon says. “Mad respect, dawg.” He holds a fist out for me to bump.
I leave him hanging. “It’s not like that.”
“Uh-huh,” Tristan says. “Sure it isn’t.”
I shake my head, grab a water bottle, and take a long pull on it simply to break up the conversation. “It’s that bad, huh?”
“Your arm or your hand?” Jaxon asks.
I frown. Fuck. “What do you mean?”
“The arm’s what it is, but your hand, bro. Why do you keep flexing it and shaking it out?” Malachi asks.
“It’s nothing new,” I say, stomach tightening. “Just a habit.”
“Habit?” Tristan arches a brow. “Since when?”
“Beats the fuck out of me,” I say, playing it off. “I don’t even realize I do it.”
“Really? Because we’ve noticed it more so in the past few weeks,” Jaxon says.
Hold the fuck on.
They noticed. And if they noticed, who else has? Opposing teams? Fans? People watching film? Bettors?
A cold thought slides in. Is that it? Is that my tell? Is that what the asshole’s betting on?
The hitch I feel. The second I overthink. The moment everything slips.
Is that the visible tell that’s trackable? Predictable?
“Damn,” Malachi says, breaking into my spiraling thoughts. “What are you thinking, bro?”
I’m thinking that someone has watched me close enough and can predict what I will do . . . and possibly after my twitch.
“I’m not sure if I’m really that predictable,” I say.
Tristan grins. “Dude, if you are, then we’ll have to work out how to make us some money from it.” He hits Jaxon’s arm and lifts his chin toward me. “His hand flexes and then I’ll run to make a bet. Is that what you’re thinking?”
“Like you even know how to place a bet online.” Jaxon rolls his eyes.
“Can’t be hard. I’m sure there’s a YouTube tutorial somewhere,” Tristan says.
“There’s a YouTube tutorial for everything,” Jaxon says.
“You in, Mal?” Tristan asks.
“My addictive personality says I should pass on this one,” Malachi jokes. “Remember when I got into mountain biking?”
We all groan. I laugh. “How can we forget?” I ask. “You bought more gear than needed. You watched YouTube videos nonstop—”
“And then talked about it the other times you weren’t watching it or going out and riding,” Tristan says.
“That was a stint,” Malachi says.
“If that’s what you want to call it,” Jaxon says.
“In other words, I’ll sit out the betting and losing my ass on our best friend here,” Malachi says.
“Whoever it is, is probably looking at the patterns,” Tristan says.
Patterns. Isn’t that the term that Dublin keeps using?
I hang my head and shake it. “Can we just stop? Please?” I ask, and then I drag a hand over my face as all of the implications hit me. “Jesus.”
“Relax,” Tristan says. “We were just kidding.”
But I’m not. Because what they meant as a joke, feels like a possibility.
And that possibility doesn’t shake.
Not when I head to the locker room.
Not when I step in the shower.
And sure as shit not when I throw back my first beer in the back room of O’Dell’s Tavern where they’ve put us so the chaos surrounding me doesn’t affect their other guests.
But the second and third beers feel so fucking good that I order a fourth. It’s exactly the help I need to forget for a bit.