He releases me, taking my hand and leading us toward the exit. T-Bone steps in his path, his shoulder slamming into Cole’s.
“I didn’t know you were a Ringmaster now.” T-Bone’s deep, smug tone fills the room, but Cole pushes forward, unfazed. “I guess fans paid to see the circus today,” he says as we clear the doors.
Keeping a hold of my hand, Cole charges toward the parking lot. He doesn’t slow as we push out into the fresh air. “Cole, slow—”
Something flies by my head, and I spin, stepping in front of Cole as the clang of the object sounds behind us. It’s dark, but there’s enough light to see a man approaching. He’s wearing a polo provided to all stadium employees and is unsteady on his feet.
“Cole Matthews.” It’s rough and slurred.
“Stay behind me,” I command as the man stumbles closer. I scan for weapons, knowing he could be hiding one.
The man grins, showing off his yellowed teeth, and the smell of liquor and stale tobacco wafts in the air. “You’ll never be as good as he was. You can’t even get your team to respect you. You’re pathetic.”
“Back off,” I order, monitoring the periphery as Cole’s chest presses against my back.
He laughs, spit creasing the corners of his mouth. “You’re nothing but a lousy excuse. Just a rich boy living off your daddy’s name, trying to pretend you’re him.”
I push into Cole, and he takes my cue, easing backward. My shoe bumps into the half-empty can thrown at us. The man stops his approach, swiping the spittle running down his chin.
A group pushes out the doors, stealing the man’s attention, and I force Cole back further. They study us as they pass, and the drunk man loses his balance, attempting to turn toward us again.
“To the car.” I keep my eyes trained on the man as he tries to regain his balance. “Stay behind it,” I order Cole as I quickly inspect the underside.
“You’re a complete disgrace to his name.” The man yells, but it’s jumbled.
I round the SUV, inspecting it as Cole tosses his duffel in the back and climbs into the passenger seat. I start the car and head toward the gate, giving him a second after what that man said.
“You ok?” I glance at him, waiting to pull through the security gate. He doesn’t say anything, and I sense the stable confidence draining from him.
“Someone swapped out my playbook. I was calling the wrong plays.”
I turn out of the lot, trying to decipher what that means. “What?”
His hands grip his knees. “My playbook! The one on my wrist. Coach calls a play, and then I relay it to my team.”
I glance at him again as I inch us forward into traffic. “Someone gave you the wrong plays?” No wonder the game was a complete mess.
“I thought maybe I wasn’t hearing Coach over the crowd, but. . . ” He pauses. “They were smart. They didn’t change all of them, but enough to make us look like fucking idiots!” His tone is filled with anger and disgust.
I process this for a second. “They wanted you to call the wrong plays so you’d lose the game?” I try to mentally contrast this new attack with the others.
He groans, his frustration building. “They not only wanted us to lose, they wanted to take me out at the knees. To make it look like I’m broke.”
“What did you do with it?” I ask, merging between two cars.
“I had to give it to Coach. At first, he didn’t believe me, but once he saw it. . . His assistant gave it to me, but he insists it wasn’t the one he provided. Someone swapped it out.”
“Do you believe him?”
Cole shakes his head. “If he wanted to screw me like that, he would have done it long before now. He has nothing to gain from this. He’d be putting his job on the line.” His voice is soft, and he sounds so tired.
That game was rough. He was humiliated in front of thousands, which doesn’t include the millions at home and the hours upon hours of commentators and sports shows that will dissect this, and him, for the next week. Then, he had to listen to some drunk tell him he’s worthless. I’d be concerned about that guy, but not after this new information.
I peek at him as traffic finally starts moving. He’s calm but looks a combination of exhausted and ready to tear someone’s head off.
“If this guy wants to ruin me, he’s doing an excellent job.” His tone is full of defeat.
I reach for his hand on his thigh, wrapping my fingers around his large palm. “We’re going to get them.”
