He let the words hang there.
My pulse thudded in my ears. “You’re asking me to sell out my teammates.”
Dad frowned, like I was being dramatic. “Don’t say it like that. You wouldn’t be hurting anyone. Just letting us know when something might affect a game. If someone’s ankle’s bothering them, if Parker’s shoulder’s tight before kickoff, if a starter’s not at a hundred percent. The coaches already know—this would just—broaden awareness.”
Broaden awareness. Fucking hell.
Kenton folded his hands neatly, looking every inch the businessman instead of the criminal he was. “All you’d do is send a text. Quiet. Anonymous. You’d be paid well for it. And you’d be helping people place smarter bets, which keeps the market stable. It’s all aboveboard in its own way.”
I almost laughed. “‘In its own way?’”
He ignored that. “You’d be surprised how many athletes are already part of it. We don’t ask anyone to throw games, Matthew. You’d never compromise play integrity. We just need information. Early information.”
Dad nodded, like this was all perfectly reasonable. “You could make a lot of money, son. More than most players see in their first five years in the NFL.”
I dropped my fork, the sound loud in the quiet room. “You’re out of your damn mind.”
Kenton didn’t flinch. “You don’t have to decide tonight. But I’d think carefully before saying no. It’s not illegal to talk. And people appreciate loyalty.”
The wordloyaltylanded like a threat wrapped in velvet.
Dad leaned closer, his voice soft, persuasive. “Think about your future, Matty. All it takes is one injury, and the NFL’s gone. This? This could set you up for life. You’ve got to be smart.”
I stared at him. “Smart isn’t selling information to a bookie.”
Kenton’s mouth twitched. “That’s a very narrow way of looking at it.”
My blood was roaring now. I could feel it under my skin, that familiar storm I only got on the field. “You’re talking about gambling rings. You’re talking about manipulating lines and insider trading on people’s injuries. You want me to spy for you.”
Dad’s expression hardened. “Lower your voice.”
“No.” I stood abruptly, the chair scraping across the floor. Lizzie jumped, spoon clattering against porcelain. “You brought my little sister here to make this look like a family dinner. You dressed up. You waited until dessert to pitch me like I’m a fucking mark. I’m not doing it.”
“Matty—”
“I said no.”
Kenton’s tone stayed infuriatingly calm. “You’ll want to be careful about closing doors too quickly. The people I work with value cooperation.”
I looked him dead in the eye. “So do I. Which is why I’m not getting into business with an asshole like you.”
Lizzie’s lower lip trembled. “Matty, don’t go,” she whispered.
I crouched next to her, brushing her hair back from her face. “I’m sorry, princess,” I murmured, pressing a kiss to her cheek. “Finish your cake, okay? You deserve it for being my number one fan.”
“Don’t leave mad,” she said, tears spilling down her cheeks.
I smiled, even though it hurt. “I’m not mad at you.”
Dad was gaping at me in shock. Kenton just watched with cold eyes.
I turned and strode out before either of them could say another word. The air outside hit hard, cutting through the heat still crawling up my neck. My pulse was still hammering when I heard it behind me.
“Matthew!”
My father’s voice filled the air, sharp and authoritative…like I was still fifteen and supposed to come running.
I didn’t slow down.
