Page 118 of Hard Pass

“You know my track record,” I say evenly, knowing the fight is already lost. “You know how hard I work. I mean”—I run a hand through my hair in frustration—“I can work behind the scenes so you can save the relationship with the NFL. I can . . .”

“You’ve been nothing but gold for me,” he says solemnly. “That’s why this is the last thing I ever expected.”

I swallow over the lump in my throat because that’s the part that hurts the most.

“I’m sorry,” I say for what feels like the tenth time. Every part of me means it.

He nods once, but it doesn’t undo the disaster, and it sure as hell doesn’t change what’s coming.

“Go home,” he says, dismissing me with a finality I don’t want to accept.

I don’t move right away because if I do, this becomes even more real. Irrevocably so.

For the first time in as long as I can remember, I didn’t follow a pattern.

Didn’t stay objective.

I chose something else. Someone else. And now everything I’ve built is about to break because of it.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Cole

“Cole. Good to see you again.” Dr. Hawley’s greeting washes over me.

Her voice is quiet. Neutral. No doubt designed to make me feel like nothing in here can hurt me, which is ironic considering every time I walk out of this damn place, I feel worse than when I walked in.

Because words can most definitely hurt. Even when they’re your own. Maybe even especially so.

I sit back in my usual patterned chair across from her, one ankle hooked over my knee, and arms loose like I don’t have a care in the world. It’s a practiced posture I’ve perfected over the years, and it serves me well now.

Truth is, I’m still not comfortable with someone digging around in my head thing. It’s . . . fucked. But so is the way I’m continuing to play, so here I am. Again. Hoping she can fix whatever needs to be fixed without looking too closely.

Yes, I know how ridiculous that sounds. I’m also well the fuck aware that our sessions aren’t going to discuss anything remotely close to the mechanics of throwing a perfect spiral.

And yet that’s exactly what needs to happen. Getting my arm back. My aim back. My fucking precision back.

I’ve done the bullshit exercises she’s suggested—box breathing, visualization, meditation, mindfulness—and my game performance is living proof it works for shit.

So here I am yet again.

Showing up for my appointment determined to give her a bit more so she can unravel whatever has me fucked up, but the second I walk through her damn door, I shut down and close up like a goddamn tomb.

It’s a total mindfuck.

And one hundred percent my fault since I’m not giving her the access she needs to help me.

I run my fingers over the patterned fabric, needing something to do with them while I try to quiet my head.

“Rough week?” she asks, her eyes taking in my fidgeting despite my practiced posture.

I huff out a laugh. “That obvious?”

She tilts her head. “You tell me.”

I shrug. “Just noise. It comes with the job.”

“Is this the same noise you’ve brought up in our previous sessions?”