CHAPTER TWENTY
Dublin
Rain batters the café window.
It falls relentlessly, one sheet after another, turning the outside world into a blur of gray accented with red taillights.
But the café is loud enough to drown out most of the conversations around me, which truth be told, is the main reason I chose this place.
No one cares who the woman is, sitting in the booth in the far corner, framed by windows, with work spread out across the table and a cup of coffee partially gone and growing colder by the second.
No one’s here watching me as I watch him, wondering what I see.
Anonymity is a wonderful thing.
My laptop glows in front of me with spreadsheets layered across the screen in a way that would make most people’s eyes cross. Mine don’t.
They narrow and look for patterns, starting over again with the timestamps because I know deep down, that’s where the truth is.
Not the headlines. Not the online commentary. Not the speculation.
The timestamps don’t lie and considering the fact that earlier today our forensic accountant deemed Cole’s bank and investment accounts as squeaky clean, I need to start chasing other avenues.
Then again, squeaky clean doesn’t necessarily mean he doesn’t have an account or two under someone else’s name where he can place bets from. Hell, it wouldn’t be the first time an athlete I’ve investigated did that, so it’s still a loose end I need to tie up.
But in the meantime, I’m focusing on timestamps.
I drag my finger down the column on my screen, tracking each play with each bet with each time.
Every game for the past two seasons. I have half a mind to look back at his college days as well—patterns, after all—but am remaining focused on his time with the Rebels.
Bet placement.
Line movement.
Play execution.
Again and again in a way that’s too clean to be a coincidence and too consistent to be luck. And yet . . . I tap my pen against the table, the rhythm uneven as I struggle with one of the most frustrating elements of my job—uncertainty.
I like black. I like white. I like right. I like wrong. I like a concrete stance regardless of what side of it you’re on, and yet I wade in uncertainty every day trying to find those solid truths.
And achieving that goal is far from simple. If it were, I would have Cole’s situation figured out already.
The bets being made are precise, calculated, almost like . . . I stop myself before the thought fully forms.
What am I missing?
I lean back in my chair, exhaling slowly as I drag my gaze from the screen to the rain-streaked glass and the cars passing by, heading home, after a long day of work.
Think.
The answer has to be somewhere in all of this. Where else should I look? Where do I need to double-check?
And that’s when my mind betrays me—not with data but with memory.
Cole on the field yesterday. It’s the first time I’ve seen him play in person.
The first time I’ve understood the depth of his skill—even when he’s not playing at his best, his talent’s obvious.
And it’s in a way that makes it hard to look away.
The muscles. The fluidity. The sweat-misted skin and tight pants.
I pinch my nose and sigh. That is not what you’re supposed to be thinking about, Dublin. You’re supposed to be—
I frown. The missed throws. It wasn’t the throw itself that stuck with me.
It was the moment before it.
I close my eyes and try to see it again. Was it a hitch? A hesitation? A subtle movement that I noticed but now can’t place?
Or maybe I’m seeing what I want to see, and it could vary depending on which narrative I want to feed.
I hate that. Hate when instinct tries to creep into a process that should be objective and controlled—because instinct is messy. And messy gets people burned.
It’s right there—so goddamn close—I can feel it.
I move back to the spreadsheet and numbers on my screen again. The bets aren’t reacting to the play. They’re ahead of it.
That’s the problem. That’s the piece that doesn’t fit. No one reacts that fast—that accurately—unless they know what’s coming.
Unless they’re told it’s coming.
Unless there’s precursor signaling it. Something consistent that can be played off as always having happened.
My fingers still on the keyboard as the slow, unwelcome realization begins to take shape. Maybe it isn’t Cole and it isn’t information being leaked, but rather an observation.
“Shit,” I murmur as my pulse ticks up a notch.
I need to look at this differently. Not the numbers, reports, and summaries. I need to watch the actual moment, frame by frame. Before the play. Before the throw. What is it that’s setting someone off?
I snap my laptop shut, decision made. I need to see his game film. I need to see him.
Impulsivity. It’s not my norm and yet here I am pulling up to the Lone Star Rebels practice facility as rain continues to fall harder than before. My windshield wipers work overtime and still barely keep up with the torrent.
The facility looks almost deserted—the majority of lights are off in the building and by the glow near the practice facility, it looks like there might be a few lights on near the field.
Which . . . the place being nearly empty shouldn’t be a surprise since it’s—oh shit. It’s 8:30 at night.
How did that happen?
It happened because most people have a life and don’t chase patterns that may or may not exist.
I cut the engine and sit for a second, staring out at the storm and letting the sound of the rain hypnotize me. This is stupid. There’s no reason for me to be here. I can ask for film tomorrow.
Within seconds I have my car back on and just as I turn the wheel, my headlights sweep across the lot and light up the large white SUV parked in the roundabout near the entrance. I lift my foot off the gas when I see only two other cars in the lot.
Cole. The security guard. And someone else.
My curious mind kicks into high gear. Is there a secret meeting going on? A betting meeting being had?
This isn’t Scooby-Doo, Dublin. If he were guilty of this, how stupid would he be to organize it all at the facility?
But then again, this place is nearly empty and what better place to avoid arousing suspicion.
Shit.
Do I really want to do this?
No. Not with how wary I am turning up after hours where my intentions can be misconstrued. Again. Just like they were in the Murdoch investigation . . . but at the same time, I won’t be able to stop thinking about it if I don’t. And the suspicion will taint every other part of the investigation.
With a sigh and a resignation that I’m about to get absolutely drenched, I grab my keys, and jog to the front door. By the time I step inside, water is dripping from my hair, and my jacket is clinging to my skin.
At least it’s not a cold rain, right?
The security guard looks up from his desk, surprise flickering across his face.
“Ms. Locke, right?”
“Hi. That’s nice to be remembered.”
He chuckles. “You’re kind of the talk of the town with how much you’ve been in and out of here the past two weeks.”
“Yeah, I get it. No one ever wants to see me coming.”
“I do.” He grins.
“Ahh.” I hold my hands over my heart. “You make me feel loved.”
“So?” he asks, eyebrows quirking. “Are you here for more interviews? By the list I’ve been keeping, there aren’t many employees left for you to speak to.” He motions to the outside. “Nor are they here with it like that outside.”
“I know. Bad timing but I was driving by and saw Mr. Valor’s SUV. Is he still here? I needed to run a few things by him.”
His smile is warm as he nods. “He gave me a standing order to let you through any time you needed him.” He points to the screen in front of him where I’m assuming he’s watching cameras of the complex. “But uh—he’s not in the building.”
Of course he’s not. That’s what I get for making the mistake to come in here. For letting instinct override logic.
“He’s down on the field.”
I blink. “The field?” In this weather?
“Yeah.” He shakes his head and chuckles. “I’ll never claim to understand football players. But he’s trying everything to break whatever has a hold of him.”
“Okay. Thanks.” I take a few steps past him.
“You sure? You do realize how hard it’s raining, right?”
“I’ll be fine.”
I don’t wait for him to finish. I don’t think. I just move.
Through the hallway.
Past the vacant offices and weight room toward the double doors that lead out to the practice field.
The rain has let up some but the sound of it hitting the metal roof that edges the field makes a symphony of noises.
And then I hear . . . voices?
I stop. Yes. Voices. They’re loud and angry and biting. Tones that only stoke my curiosity and have me moving down the walkway to get a view of the field.
A few generator-powered light trees are on the sidelines, illuminating a small section of the field, but everything else is bathed in darkness.
Standing just at the edge of the light’s halo on the turf is Cole.
His soaked shirt’s plastered to his body, his hair’s dripping, his face is a mask of indignation, and his shoulders are tight as he grips a football in his hands.
And across from him is an older man. Rigid. Formidable. Still in a way that feels deliberate.
Even from here, the tension between them is palpable. The history. This type of discord doesn’t come from having a shitty day but rather one that’s been building for years.
Cole hurls the ball downfield at one of the numerous targets set up. The action is hard—violent—almost as if he’s trying to throw something out of himself that won’t shake loose.
Another ball is already in his hand, and his feet are moving seconds before the ball sails through the air.
“You call that a throw?” The voice, cold and controlled, cuts through the rain.
I freeze and it’s not because of what was said, but because of how he said it.
Cole doesn’t flinch and his only response is to pick up another ball and hurl it to the next target ten yards farther. The ball wobbles slightly, not terrible but with the rain, it probably slipped in his hand, but not right.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” the man mutters, shaking his head. “This is what you’ve been reduced to? A goddamn pussy who can’t handle some rain?”
My stomach pitches at the words. Cole’s shoulders go rigid. He picks up a ball but doesn’t look at him. “No one asked you to take the road trip to surprise me.”
“Someone’s got to put your soft, sorry ass in check.” He crosses his arms over his chest. “Again.”
But before the second syllable is out, Cole has already released the ball in his hand, and it misses the target wide by two feet.
Even from here, I can hear Cole’s muttered curse.
“You used to be better than this,” the man says. Not loud, not yelling, but worse—disappointed. “A son I could be proud of rather than this shit I see here.”
A son.
Holy shit. This is Cole’s father? My head spins at the thought, but I can see the subtle resemblance now. But . . . this is what Cole deals with? Is this what I couldn’t place before? The flicker in his eyes? The something that shifts right before the throw?
It’s not doubt.
It’s this.
Abuse he puts up with in silence.
Cole’s next throw pings the edge of the target and it bounces off it, hitting the ground with a splash from the oversaturated turf.
“You used to have control. Be good. Not this sorry shit I’m seeing here.” His dad walks up and bats the ball out of Cole’s hand just as he’s about to throw it.
Cole’s posture changes then. It’s a subtle fracture, but I see it. Defeat? Resignation?
“I do have control,” Cole snaps, grabbing another ball without once looking at his dad.
“Do you? Because from where I’m standing, you look worse than you were at fifteen. Now you’re a boy who’s about to lose everything.”
The rain has eased and now I can see that Cole’s jaw’s clenched, but his only reaction is to launch the next throw. It spirals wide of the target, and I swear my shoulders tense almost as much as his do as I wait for the next spew of abuse.
He goes to pick up another ball, and his dad kicks the basket of them so hard that it knocks over. And now Cole is face-to-face with his father, only a few feet apart. Sure, Cole has a good six inches on his dad in height, but there is no mistaking who’s terrorizing who here.
“I didn’t raise a son who chokes under pressure.” His dad’s words slice through the storm. No hesitation. No regret.
Cole’s hands fist as his shoulders heave. I know he’s just thrown a bunch of passes, but I’m certain the movement is from trying to rein in his anger rather than exertion. “I’m not choking,” he says, voice low.
His dad emits a condescending laugh. “You are. And now you got the whole world watching you do it. Fucking pathetic.” He shakes his head and steps closer.
“You think this betting scandal is your biggest problem? It’s not.
It’s this”—he gestures toward the field, toward the missed throws, toward Cole himself—“your piss-poor excuse for talent.”
My chest tightens and heart aches for the little boy who had to go through this growing up and the grown man standing there feeling he still has to take this.
“Pick up the balls you knocked over and start over again,” his dad orders as he moves a few feet away.
Cole throws again. Harder. Faster. Like if he just keeps going, he can outrun the words.
He makes the next two throws through the targets. The third sails wide.
“You always needed pressure to perform. But this? This is what happens when you don’t have it in you anymore.”
Cole’s motions stutter ever so slightly as the words land, but he just grips the ball tighter and throws.
Over and over.
With each throw, it’s like something in him gives. Not all the way—not yet at least, but enough. And suddenly, everything I thought I knew about him, doesn’t fit.
This isn’t a man controlling outcomes. This is a man barely holding himself together.
The next throw slips from his hand and Cole yells, “Fuck” at the top of his lungs.
“Look at you,” the man says quietly. “Weak as fuck. Haven’t I drilled it in your head enough times? Never show weakness. And that’s all your doing. You don’t even trust your own arm anymore. So why should your teammates? Your coach? This organization?”
Cole’s head snaps up and for some reason, that’s when he sees me.
Everything stops.
The words. His movement. The second his eyes lock on mine there’s a shift in energy.
Awareness.
Humiliation.
Rage.
Dignity.
All of it flashing in the space of a heartbeat.
His dad turns slightly, following Cole’s gaze, but I don’t give him the time of day by looking at him. I can’t. Because I’m too focused on Cole. On the way he’s standing there soaked, breathing hard, exposed in a way I’m pretty sure he’s never been before.
And for the first time since I’ve started studying him and his sudden changes in gameplay, I realize that what’s been happening isn’t just a slump. This is damage that’s deep and old.
And still bleeding.