Page 17 of Hard Pass

“Thank you.”

“The upside is at least you’ll be in your hometown?”

“Or might possibly be run out of it if I’m the one who finds out their golden boy isn’t quite so golden.” I stop as I reach my gate and stand there debating which open seat to take. “Send the data over to me to look at while on my flight.”

“Will do. And, Dublin?”

“Hmm?”

“Try not to terrify the organization in the first twenty-four hours. You tend to do that.”

I glance over to my reflection in the window. Composed and controlled, exactly as I should be. “No promises.”

I hang up before he can respond.

Another case.

Another athlete.

Another situation where the truth could be buried under ego, perception, and just enough coincidence to make everything look worse than it is. Or exactly as bad.

I take a seat between an elderly woman who’s crocheting and a man watching a video on his phone.

Except this time it’s not just another athlete.

It’s him.

Weeks after the Cabo trip, I turned on the television, a college football game happened to be on, and there he was. Helmet off. Eye black smeared on his cheeks. That same easy grin, like the whole world watching him didn’t faze him in the slightest.

A man perfectly comfortable being the center of attention.

“Isn’t that the point? What you wanted? That you got the star player everyone wanted—the notch on your belt—and then can walk away to brag about it?”

It had clicked then. His comment he made. Our joke about not remembering names in the morning.

Except it wasn’t a joke on his part, which is good, because of course he wouldn’t remember me.

Not the next morning after the hangover wore off, and most definitely not now, five years after that first meeting.

At least there’s that.

But you didn’t forget him, Dublin.

Whatever. I did. It was the idea of him I didn’t forget. The kiss that still wins out over all others I’ve had. One that has most likely been exalted due to the alcohol and the nostalgia of it all.

But that has no bearing now. Not when I have a job to do. Not when I have to be taken seriously.

He’s not the guy from the bar anymore.

And I’m certainly not that girl.

Cole Valor is just another athlete to investigate to check and see if he’s lying.

Because athletes lie.

Patterns don’t.

And I always trust the patterns.