Page 100 of Hard Pass

Cole stares at the screen, the muscle in his jaw ticking. I know this is probably hard for him to watch, but I have to give him credit because he doesn’t deflect. He moves toward the screen, one step, then another, until he’s a few feet in front of screen, shoulders tight and focus locked.

“Fine. Say I agree with you,” he says turning to look at me for the first time, expression unreadable. “But I haven’t always had the yips, and I sure as shit didn’t have a high interception rate until recently, so how does that fit with the theory you’re forming?”

“I don’t think the yips and this are connected. The yips might be part of it but . . .” I shake my head slightly, searching for the right way to explain it. “That’s why I went back to college games. I needed to see if this showed up before now. If it’s new or if it’s always been there.”

He watches me, wary now. “And?” he asks.

“And it’s there,” I say. “It just presents differently.”

His brow furrows. “Differently how?”

“You didn’t implode by throwing interceptions,” I say. “You simply adjusted.”

I turn toward my computer and scroll through the clips, hoping my anal retentiveness in file labeling won’t fail me now. It takes a second to find the college reel, but when I do, I pull it up and push play.

“When the tremor shows in college, your completion percentage drops for a series or two. You miss high. You check down more. You hesitate just long enough to avoid risk instead of taking it.” I glance at him. “You compensate.”

His slow exhale fills the room as his eyes narrow on the screen.

“But here?” I cue up the next clip. “There’s no room for that. The hesitation doesn’t turn into a safe throw.” I hit play. “It becomes a turnover.”

He presses his fingers to his eyes, like he’s trying to shut this out. Reset it. Deny it. Guilt washes over me because he’s doing nothing wrong intentionally in these clips, but clearly my analysis is affecting him.

“So no, this tremor isn’t new,” I say, voice quiet. “In college, it made you careful. In the NFL? You don’t have the same amount of time, and the pressure is infinitely higher. Here, it makes you vulnerable. Here it’s finally costing you.”

He chews the inside of his cheek as he walks around the room, fingers laced at the back of his neck, disbelief or acceptance—not sure which one yet—palpable.

“It doesn’t happen every game.”

So he is aware of it.

“Neither do interceptions.”

He stops in front of the table I’m sitting at and waits for me to lift my eyes to his. There is a lifetime of emotions in his, but they move so fast I can’t hold on to one long enough to know what he’s feeling the most.

“From your perspective, what does this mean?” he asks.

“It means someone didn’t just notice it,” I say. “It means they knew when to look for it. This doesn’t show up clearly or early enough on the broadcast to bet like this. Not with this consistency. This is someone who sees you before the game—or stands close enough to know when it’s coming.”

Cole scrubs a hand over his face and then shakes his head. “This is ridiculous. There’s no way that all the timestamps or whatever you call them line up perfectly.”

“No. They don’t. There are times you tremble and nothing happens, but the pattern is when you do, the probability is high that you’ll make an error.” I pause. “Especially this year. Even in games you’ve won, there’s a tremble, then a turnover.”

“Fuck.” Agony coats the word.

“They’re not guessing,” he says.

“No.”

“They’re watching me fall apart.”

I meet his gaze. Hold it. “They’re watching for when you might and betting on it. They have insight to make educated guesses.”

“I’m not throwing games.”

“I know.”

He whips his head up. “You know?” His voice breaks.