Page 12 of Hard Pass

That’s all there is to it.

CHAPTER THREE

Dublin

The conference room smells like stale coffee, stress, and men who think they’re smarter than they actually are.

I don’t bother letting them know they’re not.

And I don’t sit so I’m on the same level as them.

Instead, I stand at the head of the table, one hand braced against its polished wood as I flip the manila folder closed, allowing the silence to make everyone uncomfortable.

Because it should. Anytime I’m called in to look at a player, they most definitely should be wary.

Pairs of expectant eyebrows raise as they wait.

“You’re clear, Glenn,” I finally say.

The player across from me exhales so loudly it morphs into a laugh. Relief floods his expression like someone just pulled him back from the edge of a cliff he didn’t know he was standing on.

“Jesus,” the tight end mutters as he drags a hand over his face and slumps back in his chair as both his attorney and league representative pat his shoulders in congratulations. “You have no idea how much—”

“I do,” I say calmly. “I know.”

Because it’s true.

I know what it’s like when your career hangs on a fabricated narrative. When numbers and timing and coincidence start to line up in a way that makes people ask questions they don’t actually want answers to.

I know how fast those questions can turn into accusations.

And I know how easily those accusations can tarnish or ruin your reputation.

“Professional opinion? You were sloppy.” I push the folder toward him and his now disconcerted expression. Most people don’t like to hear when they’re in the wrong. “Not intentionally, I get that, but enough that it raised flags.”

Glenn’s agent shifts beside him. “He didn’t do anything wrong.”

“You’re right, he didn’t.” I meet his agent’s gaze. “But you have to look at it through my company’s eyes. You changed your routine the same week the betting lines shifted. You skipped two media appearances. Your performance dipped just enough to look suspicious if someone was already watching but not enough to raise red flags.” I cross my arms over my chest. “From the outside, it looked intentional and selective, especially after a similar incident you had last season.”

Glenn frowns and shakes his head. “I had the flu.”

“I know,” I say. “And I confirmed it. You had a positive flu test in your medical record. I had trainer statements and checked timeline consistency . . .” I let that sit for a beat before I continue. “Which is why you’re sitting in front of me being cleared instead of the league suspending you pending a further investigation.”

His shoulders drop again, but this time the action isn’t defensive. It’s relief that this is all over.

“Perception matters,” I say, meeting his lawyer’s eyes as he nods. Facts matter more and they don’t lie. People do though. “You don’t get the luxury of coincidence in this league. Not anymore. Not since online betting has been legalized, since the futures markets have become a growing trend, and since both have majorly influenced the game.”

Glenn’s agent nods. “We understand and will make sure to tighten everything up so there are no more misunderstandings . . . or coincidences.”

“That’s for the best.” I reach for my bag. “Because next time, you might not get me.”

And next time, the outcome might be more of a rush to judgment than digging through test results a player wanted hidden so they could play regardless of being sick.

“I’ll admit,” the agent says, “I was a little worried when you were assigned to Glenn’s case. You’re young. You probably don’t have—”

“Don’t let appearances fool you.” My smile is as condescending as his comment. So is the look I level him with that has him shifting in his seat.

“Again, thank you, Ms. Locke,” Glenn says, trying to ease the tension. “Truly. I knew I didn’t do anything wrong, but it’s still terrifying to be accused of being underhanded. I’m not that person.”