Page 147 of Hard Pass

“Game day tradition,” Jaxon says.

“C’mon, Dublin. It’ll help you not give a fuck what they think,” Malachi adds.

I shake my head, but a smile crawls over my lips. What could it hurt? Besides, when did I last enjoy a football game when I wasn’t working?

“Fine. Twist my arm,” I say, and my response is met with cheers.

• • •

The tequila goes down smooth. Too smooth.

I’m not sure how many I’ve had—the guys have this system with when and how according to the game—and I just go along with it. Clearly it’s been established for a long time.

I’ve gotta hand it to them, they were right. The shots definitely help in the not giving a fuck department, because I’m at the edge of the box after the first quarter, acting like every other fan here—well, except for the fact that I’m sleeping with the quarterback and currently embroiled in a scandal with him, but who’s counting?

Not me. And I’m definitely not counting the number of shots either.

The stadium’s loud as I grip the railing so I can get a better look at the field stretched out beneath us. The lights are bright, the chaos is controlled, and the Rebels are currently winning.

And it doesn’t matter how buzzed I am, I can’t seem to turn my head off from the things I do out of habit. Scanning the crowd. Looking for patterns. Watching people and movement and behavior. It’s simply ingrained in me.

There are thousands of people in the stands. Fans with their phones out, screens glowing as their fingers tap or scroll.

Somewhere in that magical place between being buzzed and overstimulated, my mind starts calculating automatically. During this timeout for a broadcast commercial break, how many of them down there are tracking stats? How many are making last-minute wagers or probability bets?

It would be impossible to isolate and unreasonable to think one could track it.

I turn around and look at Cole’s friends in the suite behind me. Malachi. Tristan. Jaxon. All three of them are on their phones too, joking back and forth as they tap away.

Nothing about this looks suspicious—them and the thousands of others on their phones—and that’s exactly the problem.

And it’s all completely normal, so much so that no one would question what they’re doing. No doubt it’s the same with the employees who work in the stadium and the team staff as they wait the game out.

“Ohhhhhh, he’s about to have one!” Malachi yells, standing and pointing to the field.

I turn just in time to see Cole drop back. It feels like everything slows down as he moves—fluid and controlled. But then I see it. The hesitation. The split-second where his body pauses just long enough to matter.

That fleeting moment shouldn’t matter, but it does, because I know what it means. What might be coming in the next few plays.

My stomach tightens and I don’t even realize I yell, “You’ve got this, Valor!”

“C’mon,” Tristan mutters as he steps up beside me.

Cole adjusts, throws, and it lands squarely in the waiting arms of the receiver in the end zone.

Our suite erupts right along with everyone else in the stadium. The roar is deafening.

“Let’s go!” Jaxon yells, holding his hand up.

I stare at it for half a second, then slap it because apparently this is my life now—high-fiving his best friends like I belong here.

“That was perfect—” Jaxon says.

“Not perfect, but he recovered quick enough—” Malachi says.

“And that’s seven.” Tristan fist-pumps when the extra point is kicked.

“I need another shot,” Jaxon says as he moves up to the hospitality area of the suite.