CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Dublin
I refresh my Google search and still nothing, so I open my contacts list instead.
My mom answers on the second ring. “Hi, sweetheart. A call instead of a text? Should I feel special?”
The sound of her voice almost undoes me. I’ve held so strong all day, and I refuse to let it break me.
But fuck, it definitely tests me.
“Hey,” I say and try to keep my voice steady.
There’s a pause. “What happened?” My mom knows me too well.
Leave it to my mom to notice right away. I close my eyes for a beat. “So, there’s a story about to come out any minute. It’s not going to paint me in the best of lights.”
“Put me on speaker,” my dad’s muffled voice says in the background. There’s some mumbling but within seconds his voice comes clearer. “What kind of story, Buggie?”
“The kind where my professional judgment will probably be questioned.” I swallow hard. “And where I’m going to look irresponsible.”
They don’t respond and I’m not sure if I appreciate or loathe the silence that follows.
“I crossed a line during my current investigation. Nothing illegal. Nothing unethical in terms of the actual case work. But optics-wise?” I emit a humorous laugh. “It’s not going to look great.”
“Honey,” my mom says softly.
“I just . . .” I pinch the bridge of my nose. “I’m sorry if this embarrasses you guys.”
“Nonsense.”
“But I was in the wrong, Mom. I . . . I got involved with the player.” My chest aches.
“Okay. It happens. And not to sound cliché, but these things pass,” she says. “People talk and then they move on to the next thing. That’s how the world works.”
“And we’re proud of you,” my dad adds. “Always. Regardless.”
I laugh weakly. “You might want to wait until after we read the article before committing to that.”
“No chance,” he says immediately. “And I lost my readers, so I probably won’t even read it.”
I chuckle but tears sting my eyes.
My dad falls quiet for a second before cautiously asking, “Was he worth it, Buggie?”
The raw honesty in his question catches me completely off guard.
“I don’t know,” I whisper.
His soft chuckle comes through the line. “That usually means yes.”
“Frank,” my mom says, almost like a warning.
I imagine her shooing him away and I smile. “Listen, kiddo . . . rules matter. They do. But sometimes life gets messy when something—or someone—matters enough. Doesn’t make you a bad person. It just makes you human.”
I bite my bottom lip to prevent the huge hiccupping sob I feel welling up.
“Just make sure that whatever comes next,” he says, “is something you can still respect yourself for when the noise dies down.”
And that’s why he’s always been my rock. His steady wisdom. His moral center. His guidance instead of judgment.
“I will,” I say quietly.
“And, sweetheart?” my mom says.
“Yeah?”
“You don’t have to sound so scared with us. We’ll always have your back.”
“Always.”
So much so that when we hang up a few seconds later and the refresh buttons shows me the article has finally dropped, I’m able click on the link with a little more solid footing beneath me.
Besides, it’s not like ignoring it will make it go away.
For thirty seconds, I just stare at the headline, curiosity and dread warring inside of me over what comes next.
GRIDIRON INTEGRITY ANALYTICS INVESTIGATOR LINKED ROMANTICALLY TO COLE VALOR AMID GAMBLING PROBE
My stomach turns.
Linked romantically.
Such a polite way to say “fucked.”
I scroll before I can talk myself out of it.
Multiple sources confirm that Dublin Locke, lead investigator for Gridiron Integrity Analytics, has been personally involved with Valor during the active inquiry into suspicious betting activity surrounding his recent performance.
My throat tightens. Multiple sources, my ass.
Like I’m not a person. Like Cole isn’t a person.
Like whatever happened between us can be reduced to anonymous confirmation and ugly implication.
I keep reading.
The revelation raises questions about whether Locke’s findings can be considered impartial, particularly as sources close to the matter say it appeared she was preparing a recommendation favorable to Valor before all betting links had been fully resolved.
I stop breathing.
That isn’t technically wrong and that’s the problem. It’s close enough to the truth to make denying it sound desperate.
It had to be the offsite facility. A camera in the room? An employee who stopped by unannounced? A janitor for God’s sake? Because that’s when I told Cole I believed him. That’s when he kissed me before leaving.
“Fuck,” I groan.
My fingers shake as I scroll.
This is not the first time Locke’s judgment has faced scrutiny.
Several years ago, she was involved in the controversial Murdoch investigation, a case that ended with Gridiron Integrity Analytics facing scathing criticism over procedural handling after questions were raised regarding improper relations between Locke and Murdoch himself.
As of this date though, no accusations were substantiated.
The phone slips from my hand and lands faceup on the table.
Fucking Murdoch.
Of course, they found that case, dragged it back out to use it like this was proof of a pattern. The irony in that.
I press both palms flat against the table, trying to breathe through the sudden, violent rush of humiliation and anger. Horror that spreads everywhere—over my skin, behind my eyes, down my throat until I feel like I might choke on it.
This is what Marcus meant. This is what I did to him, to the company, and to the work I spent years building brick by careful brick.
My phone lights up. Willa. I don’t answer.
It lights up again. Willa.
Then a text.
WILLA: I saw it. Call me. Now.
WILLA: Dublin.
WILLA: Do you need me?
I stare at the words until they blur. Need. What an impossible word. Because yes, I need someone.
I need Marcus to look at me how he used to before I disappointed him.
I need the article to be wrong.
I need Cole to have ignored my lies.
I need to go back to the moment before I followed him to his house in the rain. Before I let him in when he was standing on my doorstep. Before I let this become real enough to destroy me.
The phone rings again and this time I answer, because if I don’t, Willa will show up with wine, rage, and possibly a shovel to bury the bodies she plans on hiding.
“Do you need me?” she asks without hello.
I close my eyes. Her voice almost breaks me. “No.”
“Dublin—”
“Thank you, but I just need to be alone. I knew this was a possibility, I just didn’t realize it would be as vile.”
Silence.
Not disagreement. Not judgment. Just Willa knowing me well enough to understand that pushing too hard right now will make me shut every door I have left.
“Okay,” she says softly. “But alone doesn’t mean abandoned. I’m ten minutes away. Say one word.”
“I know.”
“And for what it’s worth? The article is complete bullshit. Sources, my ass. That’s lazy reporting.”
A laugh catches in my chest but never makes it out. “It’s not all bullshit.”
“No,” she says, “but it’s cruel and there’s a difference.”
I don’t have an answer for that, so I say nothing.
“I love you,” she says.
That does break me a little.
“I love you too.”
When the call ends, I’m so grateful she didn’t ask a question about Cole because that probably would have broken me completely.
I look around the apartment, hating the silence that feels like it’s holding its breath and waiting for me to explode, and pick my phone back up to read the last line of the article.
Neither Locke nor Valor responded to requests for comment.
I laugh then. It’s a broken sound that fills the apartment, and I’m not sure which is worse—the silence or my hysteria echoing in my laugh.
Of course we didn’t respond. We didn’t even know our lives were being rewritten until the ink was practically dry.
Fuck me.
Has Cole seen this yet? Has his team—his agent, Josie, anyone—reached out to him to tell him how to respond? Will he actually listen?
I set the phone down and stare at nothing, contemplating what hurts worse—the article, my career, or the look on Cole’s face when I told him we were done and he left. Believed me.
No. That’s not right. He didn’t believe me. That’s what hurts. He knew I was lying and he left anyway because I asked him to.
He did exactly what I asked. So why does it hurt that he didn’t fight me on it? That he didn’t tell me to shush with my ridiculous requests and that we’d figure this out together?
My chest caves around the thought.
How did this get so real so fast?
Not the scandal. Not the fallout.
Him.
Me.
The terrifying reckless thing I let myself feel before I understood how much it would cost?
And now I’m sitting here with my name and reputation in tatters, my phone lighting up, my job up in the balance, and the one person I want to call is the one I pushed out the door.
For once, there is no pattern to follow.
No data points to trust.
No controlled next step to analyze.
There is only the mess of my own making . . . and me, standing in the middle of it with no idea how to fix it.