Page 13 of Hard Pass

“You’re not. And I’m really glad I could prove that. The plus side is I pride myself on keeping investigations private until a decision has been reached. The public wasn’t privy to this and so there’s no PR required to rehab your image. The downside is I know this took a toll on you. For that, I’m sorry.”

“Like I said. Thank you.”

“There’s no need to thank me,” I say.

Gratitude can complicate things. And I prefer to stay away from complicated when it comes to my work.

I leave them with next steps, tell them about how both Glenn’s team and the league have been notified of my findings, and then say our goodbyes.

When I step outside of the conference room, I draw in a deep breath. Another case investigated. Another case closed. Clean without any loose ends—just how I like it.

I don’t slow as I move down the hallway. The quiet hum of the building replaces the tension I’ve been holding in my shoulders for the better part of the three weeks I’ve been here in Atlanta investigating. My shoes strike a steady rhythm against the tile, each step carrying me farther away from a case that could have gone very differently if even one detail hadn’t lined up the way it did.

But it did and that means a flight home. My apartment. A gloriously promised week without work where the only decisions to make involve takeout, some bad reality TV, and whatever book I fall asleep reading.

No spreadsheets. No flagged accounts. No athletes insisting they didn’t do something while the data suggests otherwise. No interviews or scouring the internet. And no wanting to think the best of someone while the details are showing you the worst.

Just blissful quiet. And God, do I need the quiet.

My brain feels like it’s been fact checking for weeks straight. It’s been one investigation after another. I can’t remember the last time I shut off completely.

By the time I reach the exit, I’ve already pulled up my boarding pass on my phone and mentally calculated how long it will take me to get through Hartsfield-Jackson’s security line at this time of day.

When I get to the terminal, the airport’s exactly what I expected—crowded, loud, full of people moving with purpose or absolutely none at all.

The none at all travelers are my favorite, especially when they just stop in the middle of a walking crowd and make everyone behind them put on the brakes.

But fortunately, I don’t run into too many of them as I weave through the controlled chaos. There’s a rhythm to it. Patterns in the way people move, the way they congregate, the way they hesitate.

Everything has a pattern.

That’s what I’ve built my career on.

And that’s what I trust, because trusting people has proven to be a mistake.

I shift my bag on my shoulder and step into the security line to wait my turn.

“Excuse me. Hi.”

I glance behind me at the woman speaking, her smile hesitant and her eyes flicking down toward the badge clipped to my belt.

“Yes?” I ask.

“I’m usually not nosy, but . . . do you work for the NFL?” she asks, a little breathless like she’s waiting for an exciting answer.

I follow her gaze to the small ID tag I haven’t bothered to tuck away yet. It’s not flashy nor does it have a logo splashed on it. Just my name, my company, and the league credential that gives me access where I need it.

“I’m sorry. That’s intrusive of me—a stranger—to ask you. It’s just I have a daughter who loves football, sports in general, really, and her dream is to work in the league someday.”

“Please. Don’t apologize.” I reach out and squeeze her forearm. “It’s fine to ask, but yes, in a way, I work for the NFL.”

Her face lights up. “That’s so cool.”

“It’s less cool than it sounds, although don’t tell your daughter that.”

“Oh, come on.” She laughs. “You’re around players and games and just . . . everything. That has to be amazing.”

I hesitate for half a second, weighing how much to say before deciding that honesty is easier. “Truth be told, if people see me coming, it usually means something is wrong.”