CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
Cole
The team plane lands in Austin without an update from Dublin.
Her only text: I’m still waiting on Manny.
I keep my phone clenched in my hand the whole coach ride back to the Rebels facility, checking it every few minutes for something I don’t want to see.
Exhausted and desperate to get home after a victorious but physically challenging game, there’s not much in the way of talk as guys grab their stuff from their lockers and bug out without the usual shit talking and razzing.
I pick up my phone on the first ring. “Hey. Hi. We landed. I’m at the facility getting my shit.”
“Cole,” she says softly. Cautiously.
My chest tightens. “Yeah.”
“It happened again.” Her words hit my ears as my teammates move around me and head toward the door. “Just when we thought it was over. Just when . . .”
I don’t hear the rest of what she says because I already know.
“When?” I ask.
“What?”
“When was the bet placed?” I ask, my jaw tightening.
12:19. That’s how much time was left in the fourth quarter when I made a show of sticking my hand in my helmet before I took the field.
“With eleven minutes and ten seconds left in the fourth.”
Everything in me goes still.
I don’t need more than that.
I know the play. I know the moment. And I know exactly who I told.
My chest constricts.
“Cole?” I don’t answer. “What is it?”
“It’s . . . nothing.” I’m wrong. I have to be wrong. “Coach needs to talk to me and then I’ll head home.”
“Wait—”
I hang up. Not because I don’t want to hear her, but because I can’t.
Not right now. Not with my pulse pounding in my ears.
I drop down into my chair in front of my stall, lean forward, elbows on my knees, and hands hanging loose between them.
Stare at the floor.
Breathe. In. Out.
It’s not him. It can’t be. It has to be a fucking coincidence.
Just because I told him one thing, one detail, doesn’t mean that he . . .
My fingers curl. Uncurl.
It’s not him. We’ve been through too goddamn much. Too many years. Too many games. Too much life. I shake my head hard. No.
There has to be another explanation because if there isn’t, if it is him . . .
My stomach drops.
Patterns just don’t stop.
Dublin’s voice cuts through my thoughts. Clear and unavoidable.
They don’t lie.
Fuck.
They do if whoever’s behind them gets spooked.
My breath burns in my chest, but I can’t push it out and draw it in fast enough.
This isn’t random. It never was.
I handed it to him. I told him. Every detail—my hand, the play. Jesus.
“And look, adjust on the fly if you need to. 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.”
That’s how I’ve gotten this far?
And yet, he has no fucking problem ruining my career that’s only just begun. Why? Why the fuck would he do that?
I shove up off the chair.
Space. Air. Privacy. Something to hit.
The hallway is empty when I move into it. My footsteps echo as I walk without thinking, pushing through the double doors into the training area.
The room’s empty. The lights are dim. Without thinking, I move toward the medicine ball in the corner and grab it.
Turn.
And then launch it at the wall as hard as I can.
My grunt fills the room as it slams into the concrete wall and bounces back.
I catch it and throw it again. Harder.
The sound cracks through the room. Echoes.
Again and again.
Over and over.
Each throw harder than the last.
Each impact knocks something loose I can’t shove back down.
“Fuck.” The word rips out of me as I throw it again, this time with everything I have left in me. It rebounds wild and I barely catch it.
I throw it again anyway because if I stop, I have to think, and if I have to think, I have to accept it.
He knew.
I grunt as the ball leaves my hands.
He fucking knew.
I pick it up and slam it into the wall again.
And he did it anyway.
My arms burn. My chest is so tight it hurts. My vision blurs.
All I can see is him sitting across from me. Nodding. Of course. I’ve got you covered, man.
A harsh laugh tears out of me. Covered. Yeah. He covered me all right.
I rear back to throw again—
“Cole.”
Throw. Grunt.
“Cole.”
Stronger this time as the ball slams into the wall again.
I turn. “What?” tears out of my throat.
Camden Wolfe is standing in the doorway. Watching me. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Nothing,” I snap. “Leave it.”
I go for the ball again, but he steps in front of it. “No, man.”
“Move.”
“Not happening. I’m not going to let you tear your arm up.”
“Wolfe, not in the fucking mood—”
“No shit. That’s why I’m not moving.”
I step into him. “Get out of my way.”
He doesn’t budge. “Make me.”
That’s all it takes. I shove him—hard. He stumbles back half a step, then plants.
“Really?” he says, eyes narrowing. “You want to take a swing at me?” He holds out his arms. “Go right ahead but it’s not going to help whatever shit’s eating you.”
“Just go,” I grit out. “I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine.”
“Go!”
“No.”
I swing. Not clean. Not controlled.
He catches it, grabbing my arm. “Hey—”
“Let go!” I wrench it free, but he’s already stepping in again, hands up, ready.
“Take it out on me if you have to, Valor, but I’m not leaving you here alone.”
“I don’t need—”
“Yes, you do.”
I hate that his words are true. I lunge again, not even sure what I’m aiming at anymore.
He grabs me this time. Locks me in with his arms around my shoulders, holding me in place.
“Easy,” he says. “Easy.”
“I’m fine,” I grit out.
“Yeah,” he grunts as I try to get him off me. “You keep saying that.”
My chest heaves and my body hurts and it . . . hits. Not anger or rage but something far worse. An inexplicable weight.
I sag into him before I can stop it. My grip tightens on his shirt . . . and everything just breaks. I fight the sob that rips out of me. I try to hold it in. I don’t. Then I’m pressing my forehead into his shoulder, fighting it, trying to hold it together, trying to—
“Valor,” Wolfe says. “Let it out.”
“He”—my voice cracks and I swallow hard—“he knew.”
Wolfe doesn’t ask who or what, he just holds me up and keeps me there.
“Dude, you’ve been under more pressure than most guys can handle. Your job. The media. The investigation. All of it.”
I shake my head. It’s not that. It’s worse.
“It’s okay,” he says, voice gruff. “You don’t have to carry all of it alone.”
Breathe in. Breathe out. Repeat.
I don’t know how long we stand like that, but I push back and wipe a hand down my face, trying to pull myself back together.
Wolfe steps back and gives me space.
He doesn’t look at me like I’m broken or have lost it. All he does is nod. “You good?”
I draw in a shaky breath. “Yeah,” I lie.
“Okay.” He nods as our eyes meet. “As far as I’m concerned, this never happened.”
He claps me once on the shoulder and then turns to walk out, leaving me alone in the silence of the room.
I force myself to keep breathing. To keep processing.
The rage is still there. The betrayal riding shotgun next to it.
Nothing has changed and yet everything has.
The urge to get on a plane and go back to Los Angeles to confront him is immediate. Violent. Consuming. And a phone confrontation is out of the question. But even as confused and furious as I am, I also know it’s best if I wait the few days until he gets back.
Until I can calm down and decide the best way to confront him.
Because fists aren’t going to fix this and right now, that’s all I’ve got.
So I stand there. Breathing. Trying to get my shit together.
My hands shake as I drag them down my face.
Come home to me.
Home.
My calm in the storm. That’s where I need to be.
With Dublin.
Because right now, the only thing keeping me from completely losing it . . . is her.