CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
Cole
I hate this.
That’s the first thing that settles in my chest as I push open the door to the hotel lounge. Not nerves. Not pressure. Not even the game tomorrow. Just the quiet gnawing certainty that I’m about to test someone I’ve trusted for years.
Fuck. This sucks.
But I have to be fair. I tested Mal. I have to test Jax and Tristan—even though I already know the answer. It’s not any of them.
The space is dim, low-lit, built for late-night conversations or people who want to stay in its shadows. There are a few scattered guests and a television playing low for background noise.
Tristan’s already here. He raises a hand to get my attention from his corner table, looking relaxed with one ankle crossed over his knee, a beer in his hand, and one on the small table for me. His business shirt is unbuttoned at the collar, and he looks like he doesn’t have a care in the world.
Like he’s always looked.
“About time, brother. I was starting to think you bailed on me,” he says when I take a seat opposite him with my back to the wall.
“Sorry. Team meeting ran long and then it took a while through traffic to get back here.” I take a sip of my beer. “Thanks for this.”
“Always.”
“Your meetings go well?” I ask.
“Same old shit, different day.” He smiles. “Computer networks are far from sexy.”
“I don’t even pretend to understand what they are or how they work.” I huff out a laugh. “I’ll stick to the little kid games.”
“Lucky bastard,” he jokes and then glances at his phone “Big game tomorrow. You ready?”
I sigh. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”
He narrows his brows and studies me. “What’s that mean? You good?”
Simple question. Loaded answer.
I glance at my beer and just shake my head, hoping my shitty acting job works.
“Talk to me,” Tristan says.
I look down at my hands, flex my fingers once, twice.
God, I hate this.
Because the second I say it out loud, I can’t take it back. And if I’m wrong, I just put doubt where it never belonged.
I want him to be clean. Know that he is. I want to walk away from the game tomorrow afternoon and know I was right about him, just like I was about Malachi.
“Just . . .” I exhale and drag a hand over the back of my neck. “Shit’s been off lately.”
He watches me carefully. “Media shit?”
“Yeah. That. Everything. It gets in your head whether you want it to or not.”
“Welcome to being QB1,” he says.
“Yeah.” I pause, knowing this is where it shifts. This is where I step over the line I don’t want to cross. I glance around to make sure no one is near and lower my voice. “Between you and me?”
“Always.” No hesitation.
“My fucking hand’s been acting up again.”
He doesn’t react immediately, just looks at me a beat before he asks, “How bad?”
“Enough? I mean I’m noticing it way more than I was before.” I flex my fingers again to prove my point.
“Shit. What did the team doc say?”
“Nothing. It’s not anything physical to fix. All I know is that when my hand does that shit on the field, I have a fucked game. And I can’t have one. If I do, it could risk our playoff hopes.”
“Dude, when do you ever have a shit day? So you throw an interception, it doesn’t mean you’re going to lose the game,” he says.
“Yeah, but the last thing I need is the other team to catch on and exploit it. Coach has told me to hide my hand in my helmet if it hits when I’m on the sideline. Stupid but fucking true.”
He purses his lips and toggles his head from side to side. “It makes sense. If they can’t see you do it, they can’t use it to their advantage.” He takes a drink. “Man, that fucking sucks. I hope the trainers can help figure it out for you.”
I lean back slightly, exhaling like I’m trying to shake it off.
“Lucas is pushing this new play, late in the fourth quarter if it’s a close game. We can’t seem to get it right. Not the receivers and sure as shit not me.”
“I’d ask what the play is but it’s not like I’d know it.”
“It’s this new rollout option to the right side. It’s a tight window throw over the middle if the coverage shifts.” I take a sip of my beer and shake my head. “You’ll know it when the assistant coordinator runs this sequence.” I make a few arm motions to demonstrate the play call.
A play call that will inevitably be made fourth quarter but that isn’t shit at all.
And with that, I just gave him two opportunities to place a bet if he’s the culprit.
Every part of me wants to take back all the shit I just said, but I take another sip instead and then blow out a long, drawn-out exhale.
“You’re really worried, aren’t you? That you’ll force the play?”
“Or miss it,” I say. “Or hesitate just enough and oops, there’s another interception. In practice, man, that’s what’s been happening.”
He leans back now, considering. “It’s not like you to talk like this.”
“Yeah. Well. Apparently, I’m full of surprises lately.”
“Meaning Dublin? That was definitely a surprise to all of us.” He shakes his head. “So did not see that coming. Malachi maybe, but you?” He snorts. “Never.”
“Believe me, I didn’t see it coming either.”
The only blind side I’ve ever welcomed in my life. I love you. I still can’t get over her saying those words to me or how they make me feel. Incredible. Surprised that it’s possible she could feel that way. Lucky as fuck that she does.
“That’s my point,” Tristan says. “You have her. Life is good. So why all this negativity?”
I grit my teeth for a beat, choking on the lie. “Because I’m worried about tomorrow. Big fucking time.”
“Fuck, you’ve got to stop thinking like that,” he says.
There’s a measured pause as the server walks past us. “Just don’t say anything to the guys. I don’t want them worried about it. You know how Jax gets about shit like this and then Malachi will try to be Mr. Fix-it. I knew if I needed to get it off my chest, I could tell you.”
“Of course. Anything you need. I’ve got you covered, man.”
That’s the problem. I used to be sure.
“And look, adjust on the fly if you need to,” he says. “You don’t feel the play? Don’t force it. You’ve got other options. Trust yourself. That’s how you’ve gotten this far.”
“Yeah. You’re right.” I tap my beer against his. “Thanks for the pep talk.”
“Always. That’s what friends are for.”
I nod because that’s what I’m supposed to do.
I take another sip of my beer, letting the conversation drift after that—into lighter shit, into jokes, into anything that doesn’t feel like I just set something fucked into motion.
But it’s there, sitting between us, in every word I just said and every detail I shouldn’t have shared.
I glance at one of my oldest friends. Same guy. Same expression. Same person I’ve trusted for years.
That’s why tomorrow will come and go, and I’ll walk off the field knowing I never should have doubted him.
He wouldn’t do this to me.