Page 144 of Hard Pass

His chuckle is low and suggestive. “I definitely can be. Give me a few more minutes to recover and I’ll get there.”

I roll my eyes. I walked right into that one.

Then again, this new arrangement might just have some great side benefits.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

Dublin

I shouldn’t be here.

It feels arrogant. Tone deaf. Like I’m daring the universe to make this worse.

The thought settles in the second the door to the small, private suite at the Rebel’s Stadium clicks shut behind me.

It’s in my contract. It’s my suite. The guys are usually up there, but I’d like it if you’d be there today too.

“I’m here,” I murmur into the silence of the suite and step forward some so I can see the entirety of the field. The green of the turf seems so much more vibrant up here. And if I stay on this top level where the food and drinks are rather than move down into the seats, it seems that neither fans nor the broadcast cameras will be able to see me or know that I’m here.

I’ll be here for Cole, but no one else will know.

I go to set my purse down and stop when I see his jersey folded on the counter like it’s been waiting for me—placed there intentionally.

My fingers hover over it for a second before I let myself touch it. I trace the number “11” and then move to do the same with VALOR across its shoulders.

That’s when I see the corner of the envelope sticking out from the neck of it. I pull it out and see my name written across the top. I open it, already knowing whatever it says is going to matter.

Ready to walk through fire with me?

-Cole

I stare at the note, rereading it over and over. Logical, structure-driven Dublin would say he’s crazy and the answer would be no. She’d walk away.

There should be a thousand rational reasons why this is reckless and career-ending and the kind of situation I’d judge if it were someone else.

Instead—

A knock sounds at the door and two seconds later it pushes open. Three men walk in. They’re large, athletic, loud in presence alone, and given who they are, my stomach tightens.

His best friends.

Not teammates in the abstract. Not names on reports or peripheral people in his life. Not names attached to the cursory checks I did on them because my job required it that are now file names in my computer.

These are his people.

This is akin to me standing in Cole Valor’s kitchen wearing nothing but his T-shirt while the men who matter most to him walk in his front door unannounced and immediately take stock of me.

Awareness prickles down my spine instantly.

I’m not naive. They know who I am because of what’s out there on social media, but what did Cole say to them about me?

A horrifying amount of judgment flashes through my head in the span of two seconds. They’re going to think I’m irresponsible. Unprofessional. That I’m a complication he doesn’t need when his life is currently already full of them.

They’ll be protective of him. Bros before hos and all that ludicrous male bullshit.

And yet . . . some small, traitorous piece of me wants them to like me regardless.

He playfully warned me about them in numerous ways—that they’d razz the shit out of me, that they’d dare me to do shots, that they only want the best for him—so I guess it’s time to see exactly what that looks like.