CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Dublin
“Honestly, Dublin? I don’t have anything else.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose and pace the length of Cole’s kitchen like if I move enough, I’ll be able to find the answer hiding somewhere between the cabinets and the island.
“There has to be something, Manny.”
But if there was, we would have already found it. We’re a team. We work well together . . . but only if the data lets us.
“I know. Believe me, I know.” His exhale is slow and patient and frustrated. “But the last two games have given us nothing new. No large bets. No unusual spikes. No patterns. Nothing where someone might make a mistake that we can find and trace. It just stopped.”
“Patterns don’t just stop.”
“They do if whoever’s behind them gets spooked.” He pauses. “Or if they’re not there to begin with.”
I close my eyes and swear. “Goddamn technology is getting so good people can just hide behind it and never be found out.”
“I can only pull from what exists,” he says apologetically. “And right now? There’s nothing else to pull from.”
Fuck. It’s not his fault. It’s just so . . . frustrating.
“There’s something else . . .”
“What?” I laugh the word out and shake my head. Manny knows me well enough to know my frustration isn’t directed at him.
“The new team Marcus has investigating. They’re leaning toward labeling their findings and investigation as inconclusive.”
The words hit like a slap.
But it makes sense. If you can’t track data, then you can’t find a conclusion.
But that doesn’t help me. And it sure as shit doesn’t help clear Cole’s name.
“Inconclusive?” I repeat, sharper than I mean to.
“I know. I’ve tried to convince them to keep digging, but I don’t have a leg to stand on if I don’t have data to back it up.”
“Goddamn it,” I mutter, dragging a hand through my hair. “No. Sorry. I know it’s not your fault. I just . . . I need to clear him for his sake. Need to prove that my work wasn’t biased. That I didn’t—”
“I know. You don’t need to explain. You’re doing everything you can.”
It doesn’t feel like it. It feels like I’m failing.
“You know I appreciate you,” I say. “You’ve gone above and beyond for me.”
“I know.”
“Thank you, Manny. Keep me posted if anything changes,” I say.
“You got it.”
I hang up and stare at my phone, not saying the one other thing I want to—that I hope I’ll be working with you on other cases soon.
But that’s not his guilt trip to bear.
But fuck. Inconclusive.
No proof. No closure. No clearing his name. Just a question mark that will follow Cole everywhere during his career.
It’s complete bullshit.
I look at my phone and scroll to Marcus’s name. My thumb hovers over the call button. I could call him to argue and make my case . . . but then think of my call to him last week.
“I’m meeting with the NFL representatives next week. Our contract renewal with them is in jeopardy. They’re questioning our integrity and standard practices and want to meet to see what guardrails I’ve put in place to make sure this doesn’t happen again.”
Marcus’s words echo in my head. Right now isn’t the time to call. If I push, I’ll risk everything when I’m still holding on to hope that I can get my job back. And if I don’t push, Cole loses.
I set my phone on the counter with a frustrated sigh and shake of my head.
The front door opens. Closes.
I straighten instinctively, wiping the frustration from my face before I even realize I’m doing it.
“Hey,” I say when he walks into the kitchen. My attempt at sounding upbeat falls flat.
He doesn’t even pretend to buy it. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing major,” I say.
He levels me with a dubious look. “Dublin.”
“I just hung up with Manny. He said he thinks the investigation is leaning toward an inconclusive finding.”
I watch as Cole absorbs the words. His features tighten and he gives a small nod.
“Of course they are. Nothing like having an asterisk in people’s minds next to your stats the rest of your career and beyond because people thought you were cheating somehow.
” He walks to the back door, hands on his hips and stares outside.
“My name will be tied to it forever when I didn’t do anything. ”
“It might not be that bad—”
“It is,” he states. “Every game. Every throw. Every time something goes wrong, it’s going to be in the back of people’s minds.”
“I’ll find a way to fix this,” I say but there is more conviction in my voice than I feel.
He turns and looks at me for a second before shaking his head. “Quit killing yourself over this.”
The worst part is I think he means it. And I don’t know how to stop.
“I’m not—”
“You are. And the more you push, the less chance you probably have of getting your job back.”
I bow my head for a second and nod. “I can’t just let it go.”
“I know, but you can’t lose yourself trying to fix something that might not be yours to fix.”
I don’t have an answer for that, so I don’t try. Instead, I change the subject.
“How are the guys?” I ask, referring to where he just was—over at Jaxon’s to hang out and watch an NHL game.
“Good. The usual. Talking shit. Eating BBQ.” He shrugs. “They said next time you should come.”
I laugh. “Yeah. No. You guys keep your tradition, and Willa and I will keep ours.” I hold my fingers out and wiggle my freshly painted fingernails. “Mani-pedis and wine. Not a bad way to go.”
“I’ll take your word for it.” He holds his hand out to me. “Let’s go.”
I blink. “What?” I glance at the clock that reads eleven p.m.
“Shoes. Now.” He jingles his keys.
“Cole, what are you doing?”
“Kidnapping you. Leave your phone here.”
“Bossy.”
“Effective,” he says. “And less distraction.” He takes my phone and tosses it next to his on the couch.
Within minutes, the warm air rushes through the open windows of his SUV. My hair whips around as we drive without a clear destination.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
He glances over, one hand loose on the wheel, the other on my thigh. He grins. “No idea.”
I chuckle. “That’s reassuring.”
“It’s a big game this weekend,” he says. “We leave for L.A. tomorrow and so I figured I’d steal a little time with you before everything gets loud again.”
“Oh.” What girl’s going to complain about something like that?
We drive for a while, out past the edge of the city with the music playing and tension dissipating with each mile marker we pass. We drive until the lights thin out and the sky opens up to a world of stars.
He pulls off near a small field not far from the private airstrip on the outskirts—one of those quiet, out-of-the-way places you only find if you know it exists.
“Come on,” he says.
We climb out and I follow him a few steps before he drops a blanket on the ground, sits down on it, and then stretches out on his back with his hands behind his head.
I hesitate for half a second and then mimic his posture. But as I do, he stretches one arm out so his biceps is my headrest, and then pulls me up against him.
Silence eats up the night as we stare at the stars.
“Need a little peace and quiet before the chaos of Los Angeles?” I joke.
“Something like that,” he murmurs and presses a kiss to the top of my head.
“I wish I could go to the game but with Marcus’s meeting with the NFL coming up, it’s probably best if I lay low.”
“I agree.”
“At least Tristan will be there,” I say, more to fill the quiet than anything. “Convenient timing that he suddenly has business meetings in L.A. the same week as your game.”
“Guy’s got business everywhere,” he murmurs.
That tone gives me pause.
Something I don’t quite catch but before I can ask, another plane takes off, pulling our attention to the sky.
“I grew up about three hours from here,” he says.
“There was a small airstrip like this and sometimes after games, I’d just go lie there for hours and watch the planes take off and land.
As long as I was there, I wasn’t home on the receiving end of my critique.
I’d imagine where each plane was going and all the places I’d go if I got the chance. ”
“Where did you imagine?” I ask.
“College. The NFL. Those were the places I was going if I got the chance. Such a narrow-minded view but I was young and just needed a dream to hold on to.”
“I like that,” I say and press a kiss to the underside of his jaw, before setting my cheek on his chest.
“I’m going to make this right, Dublin.” He runs a hand up and down my back. “My name’s going to be cleared, and you’re going to get your job back.”
I smile softly because even if it can’t happen, he means it. He believes it. And I love that that’s how he thinks.
He tightens his arm around me, and side by side, with the sky above us and his heart beating against my cheek, we relax. Despite the question marks and turmoil, in this moment, I feel . . . content.
For a few hours, there’s no investigation. No pressure. No questions I can’t answer.
It’s just Cole and me in a field beneath the stars.
His hand in mine. His heartbeat steady.
About as simple as it can get.