Page 173 of Hard Pass

I drag a hand over my jaw. “Fucking women.”

He doesn’t even blink. “That’s your opening argument?”

“It’s a strong one.”

“It’s lazy as hell.”

“See?” I point at him. “Honest feedback.”

He studies me with that calm, irritating expression he wears when he’s already ten yards ahead of everyone else. “Dublin?”

I don’t answer.

He nods once. “Dublin.”

I take another sip of beer because that’s easier than saying any of this out loud.

“You’re gonna have to talk or I can’t do you any good,” Lucas says.

“Fuck,” I sigh. “She came out of nowhere. That’s the fucking problem.”

“Is it?”

“Yeah.” I turn the bottle between my hands, head shaking. “One second, I know what my life is—football, practices, games. Avoiding my dad’s calls. Hanging with the guys. Living that QB1 life, right? And then she walks into a conference room, calls me on my bullshit, looks at me like she’s already solved half of me, and suddenly—”

Because suddenly what, Cole-y boy?

Suddenly I’m leaving a jersey from my private collection in the suite for her.

Suddenly I’ve memorized how she takes her coffee, what she likes on her hamburger, what she refuses to eat.

Suddenly I’m skipping my routine with the guys, making lame excuses why, because I’d rather spend it with her.

Lucas nods like he understands what I’m processing. “Suddenly?” he prompts.

My laugh borders on a sigh. “Suddenly I’m fucked.”

He smacks a hand on the bar top. “There it is.”

The memory of the suite flashes in my mind. Dublin in my jersey . . . pulling me into that blind spot. Dublin . . .

“She was a blind spot,” I say, the words coming out before I think them through, causing his brows to lift. “I didn’t see her coming.”

“Or you weren’t looking.” He shrugs and then smirks. “So this is really, real then.”

“Do you think I’d be sitting in a bar hours after a game with my ribs aching like a motherfucker and calling you if it weren’t?”

“Hmm.” It’s all he says.

All he needs to because it’s like all these words have been held in, and I need to get them out.

“She’s living with me,” I say. “Sleeping in my bed. Wearing my jersey. She fits in my house like she’s supposed to be there, which is insane because Dublin Locke shouldn’t fit easily anywhere in my life.”

His smile is faint. “Sounds about right.”

“And tonight I come home after getting my ass handed to me on the field, and she’s there. Waiting. Worried. Beautiful. Frustrated over the fucking case and still trying to clear my name, even though doing that might cost her everything.” I take a sip. “And then I bring up after the season. Taking her away. A trip. Bali. Somewhere. Fuck if I know. A place that isn’t this shitstorm and she looks at me like I offered to fly her to Mars.”

“Maybe for her, you did.”