CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Cole
“I do.”
She knows I didn’t throw the games.
I’ve taken a lot of hard hits in my life on the field, but the power that those two words hit me with is stronger than I’ve ever felt.
Because no one says that. No one looks at the mess I’ve been lately and doesn’t immediately start picking it apart.
She knows.
I hold her gaze for a second longer, searching for hesitation. Doubt. Anything. There’s none, and I’m finally not just bracing for impact.
It feels like I can breathe easier for the first time in I don’t know how long.
“Okay,” I say slowly, more to myself than to her. “So, if you believe me . . .” I drag a hand through my hair, pacing once before turning back to her. “Then what now?”
That’s the question, right? Because Dublin’s belief in me doesn’t fix anything. Whoever the hell is cashing in on my tell isn’t going to stop.
I think about who’s around me before games. Who’s always there. Locker room. Sidelines. Warmups.
It’s always the same faces, the same routines. Equipment managers. Physical therapists. Runners. Assistants. Executive staff. Sports analysts. Training staff. Coaches.
Then there are the team videographers—the very team that put these player exclusive clips together for Dublin who could’ve picked up on it. It’s their sole job to watch their designated player and document their games. Document me and my games.
Shit. I grit my teeth. It’s one thing to believe someone’s watching. It’s another to believe it’s someone I trust.
“I mean . . .” My thoughts tumble out of control. “If you believe me, then this is over, right? I’m cleared. It’ll be announced publicly and—”
She exhales and I don’t like the sound of it. It doesn’t carry the ease I’d assume comes with exoneration.
“I need to go back through everything,” she says as she writes a note on the pad of paper beside her. “All my interviews. Staff access. Anyone who has proximity before games, practices . . . anyone who could see the tremor before it happens in real time.”
“But why? If I’m cleared, what does it matter who is betting?”
“Because if they work for the team, it’s a problem. Besides, don’t you want to know who is using you?”
“Of course, but I’d also like my name cleared publicly. And soon. So can’t we do that and then you do whatever it is you do to find out who it is?”
She angles her head to the side like she does when she’s deep in thought.
She scrunches her nose for a beat, almost like she’s compromising herself with whatever she’s about to say next.
“Yes.” It’s almost a sigh. “I need to memorialize my findings in a professional document rather than all my handwritten notes here. We have a report that I need to do for internal documentation. Company protocol requires that we get it approved before any public announcement. I’ll submit it to Marcus and try to get a press release drafted and issued to the media in the next couple of days. ”
Quicker would be better, but I’m not going to rush the woman now advocating for me.
“Thank you.” I breathe in a deep breath. “And then after that? Do you focus on the betting data?”
“That’ll be the plan. I’ll cross-reference everything again and try to narrow the timing, look for overlaps.” She shrugs. “Patterns don’t lie. People do. And people also make mistakes. My team and I just need to find the one this person made.”
Yeah, I know all too well how people make mistakes.
“What if whoever is doing it doesn’t make a mistake though? What if betting is so high tech now that they’ll hide behind VPNs and offshore platforms?”
She raises her eyebrows, and I realize I look way too knowledgeable on a subject I’m claiming innocence about.
“I’ve been researching.” I shrug. “Trying to educate myself and know what I’m up against.”
She purses her lips and nods. “Understandable.”
“What if that’s the case though?”
“There’s always a crack somewhere. At least in my experience there has been, but I’m not going to lie to you, not finding an answer is a possibility.”
Fucking great. I sigh and run a hand through my hair.
“Awesome. And me?” I ask. “Am I supposed to do anything different?”
“You play,” she says. “Just like you did yesterday. Just like you have every other day of your life.”
I huff out a quiet laugh. “Yeah, because that’s been working out great for me lately.”
Her gaze softens. “Yesterday it did.”
She’s right. About all of it. My innocence. About the field of candidates who might have done this to me. About how I need to settle into the turmoil and ride it out.
But at least I’ll soon have something I can use to prove my innocence.
To the league.
To the media.
To him.
It’s never good enough.
His voice hits like it always does. Sharp. Immediate. Automatic. Except for this time . . . it doesn’t sting the same way.
It’s almost as if Dublin’s belief in me, her certainty, has dulled his disapproval.
This isn’t you throwing games.
I let me shoulders drop on my exhale. “I’ll help.”
“You’ve said that before.”
“And you never took me up on the offer. I’ll help, Dublin. Whatever you need,” I say. “You want access, I’ll get it for you. You have the schedules and shifts, but I can review them with you and find an overlap that you might have missed.”
“I know. I appreciate it. I have to be cautious of confidentiality.”
“Well, I’m not going to sit back while someone uses me like this. Someone who obviously doesn’t care about the ramifications for me since they’re still out there betting.”
“Okay. Thank you,” she says as she stands up and starts gathering her things.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“It’s getting late and I’ve put in a lot of hours. I’m heading home.”
She says the words, but I swear to fucking God there’s something else here she’s hiding. Because she just went from clearing me to . . . I don’t know what.
“I’ll walk you out,” I say.
“No need to. I’ve got it.” Her smile is strained, demeanor totally changed.
“Dublin?”
“I’m fine. Really,” she says, shouldering her tote bag and going to walk past me.
I grab her arm. “I didn’t ask how you were. I only said your name.”
She blinks and swallows, those bee-stung lips of hers parted slightly and so fucking tempting.
“You want to tell me what’s wrong?” I ask, my voice quieter now, but there’s still an edge to it I don’t bother hiding.
It’s one thing to say we can’t do this again. It’s another to dismiss me completely.
Her gaze flicks away first.
That tells me everything I need to know.
“The case will be over soon,” she says. “I don’t know. I guess that means . . .”
“Means what?” I press.
Her fingers tighten around the strap of her bag. “It means this”—she gestures between us, quick and dismissive, as if she can erase it if she moves fast enough—“needs to be over too.”
My chest tightens. It’s immediate and unexpected.
“You want this to be over, or you think it should be over?” I ask.
“I don’t know what to think,” she fires back, frustration bleeding through now. “That’s kind of the problem.”
I chuckle. It’s short and humorless. “Funny, because you keep telling me it is and at the same time, you keep bringing it up. Sounds to me like your wants are louder than your thoughts.”
Her eyes snap to mine. “I’m the one actually trying to follow the rules,” she says.
“You mean, your rules.”
“Rules nonetheless.” She lifts her chin.
Yeah. There she is. Pushing back. Fighting it.
“I’m trying to protect my job,” she adds. “Your career. If this gets out—”
“Stop.” I take a step closer, itching to goddamn touch. “Stop hiding behind that excuse.”
Her breath hitches.
Yeah, she remembers every fucking second just like I do. The kisses. The fingernails dug into my biceps. The half-moan, half-begged call of my name as she came.
“It’s not an excuse,” she whispers.
“We slept together,” I say. “You didn’t have to. I didn’t make you.”
“That’s not—”
“And you enjoyed it just as much as I did.”
A charged silence fills the room.
I step closer. “You don’t get to act like this is just me.” My voice is rough, trying to hold back my frustration. “Like I’m the only one who wants more of whatever this is.”
Her jaw tightens. “This has nothing to do with want.”
“I beg to differ, but I’ll play. Then what is this about?”
“Control,” she snaps.
That almost makes me smile. “Yeah,” I say softly. “How’s that working out for you?”
Her breath stutters. Her eyes drop for just a second to my mouth.
There it is. That crack. That moment she loses the fight with herself.
“Don’t,” she whispers, but she doesn’t move, doesn’t pull away and create space between us.
And that? That’s everything.
“You’re right,” I murmur, reaching up to cup her face and rub my thumb over her bottom lip. “We shouldn’t be doing this, but don’t stand there and lie to me about not wanting it.”
Her inhale is quick and it’s almost as if it lets her gain a fraction of that control she craves because she shoves me back—not hard but enough to make a point.
“God, you’re infuriating,” she breathes.
“Yeah?” I catch her wrist before she can step away, pulling her right back into me. “You’re not exactly easy either.”
Her chest hits mine. Our breaths mix together. And now there’s nothing left between us but the truth we’ve both been avoiding.
“You don’t get to look at me in that way and walk away like it didn’t matter,” I say.
Her expression flickers. She blinks. Her lips part as if to argue but nothing comes out.
And then my lips are on hers.
The kiss isn’t careful and it’s far from controlled. It’s what’s been building—every glance, every almost, every second of restraint—with nowhere else to go since the last time I tasted her.
Our tongues meet and bodies heat. She tastes like spearmint and seduction as her lips hesitate for a brief second, fighting against her stubborn reason, before surrendering to the kiss.
To me.
She makes that same sound again, soft and breaking and yeah, that’s all it takes.
That’s what I need.
Her bag slips from her shoulder, hitting the floor with a quiet thud that has nothing on my heartbeat. Her hands fist in my shirt.
Yes, Dublin. Hold on to me. That’s what I want too.
And suddenly it’s not about rules or careers or consequences, it’s just this.
Just her.
Just the way she kisses me back.
This isn’t just attraction. This is her choosing it. Choosing me. The kiss deepens, rushed but certain, like we’ve both stopped pretending this is a situation we can walk away from.
“No one’s ever made me feel this desperate before,” I murmur against her mouth.
I pull back to breathe and then pause to process the confession I never intended to make.
Her lips are still parted. Her eyes unfocused. Her control . . . gone.
“What are you doing?” she whispers, confusion etched in her every word.
“Not a damn thing I should be.”
Her gaze flicks to the door. “Look where we are.”
Yeah. I know. That’s the problem.
She steps back first, control snapping into place like it never left. Except it did. I saw it. I felt it.
I want more of it.
But her hands tremble as she grabs her bag.
“I have to go,” she says quickly.
“Dublin—”
“Don’t,” she says, shaking her head, already moving past me. “Just . . . don’t.”
And then she’s gone.
I stand there for a second, staring at the door she just walked out of.
My jaw tightens and my body craves. I want her. I don’t know for how long or what exactly I want, but the woman is impossible to fucking quit.
In the past, I’d have moved on. Gone to a bar. Called up an old ex. But do something to take my mind off her. That feels fucking impossible.
She spent hours watching film with one intention—to find the truth. To validate my innocence.
Sure that’s attractive in and of itself, but it’s more than that. It’s . . . fuck. It’s her brains. It’s her belief in me. It’s the fact that I can see in her eyes how bad she wants me, wants more of whatever this is.
Just like I do.
Yeah. I’m not ready to stop fighting for more of the noise she quiets. Of that feeling I have when I’m with her.
Of her.