Page 131 of Hard Pass

COMPROMISED INVESTIGATION.

QUESTIONABLE JUDGMENT.

I clench my jaw as I scroll, slower this time, forcing myself to actually read the article instead of reacting to it.

What I didn’t catch the first time though is how every word is aimed at her. Every implication tied to her decisions, her credibility, and her judgment.

And me? I’m barely more than a prop to justify why she crossed a line.

They made her the story. There isn’t a single line about me being in the wrong. There isn’t a single question about what I wanted or what I did.

Just Dublin.

Fucking hell. Whoever wrote the article made a very deliberate choice about who takes the fall.

My phone buzzes yet again. The group chat that never stops—especially right now.

JAXON: bro???

MALACHI: are we talking about the article? It’s fake, right?

TRISTAN: You dawg. Did I not call this? Both you fuckers owe me $50

JAXON: Not the time, dude

MALACHI: Cole? You good?

I stare at Tristan’s message longer than I should.

Did I not call this? Both you fuckers owe me $50.

The fuck, dude? He’s never known when a joke was inappropriate and he nailed this one. Fucking idiot. At least Jax and Malachi are taking it seriously.

Another buzz. My agent. Ignore.

Another. Rebels PR firm. Ignore.

Another. My dad. Shocker. I unblock him and he gets right back to it. Ignore.

Another. Lucas Hale. Ignore.

Because none of them matter until I fix the one thing I actually can.

Her.

No. Not fix—there’s nothing that can fix this—but I can remedy how I left things between us when I left earlier.

I grab my shit and step back from my locker as the noise from the room presses in around me. Music. Voices. The usual rhythm. All of it feels off.

Like I’m not a part of it anymore. Or maybe I just don’t care about it right now.

And as I make my way through the space to the door, the entire fucking room shifts. There are glances my way. There’s subtle silence falling just a second too late when I pass.

“Yo. Valor,” a receiver says as we wait for the logjam of players clearing the doorway. He nudges me—actually fucking jabs me with an elbow while offering me a shit-eating grin. “Look at you, hitting that fine piece of ass. Doing us proud.”

Fuck. My chest goes still. And there it is. Right on cue.

. . . you’ll get an atta boy from the guys while I lose my career because of this. Because of you.