Page 18 of Hard Pass

CHAPTER FOUR

Cole

Report to the conference room instead of the film room?

We don’t do meetings like this midweek. Not unless something’s wrong—definitely not for me, the quarterback whose last two games have been absolute shit and who clearly needs the practice. Something’s off.

But I do what Coach says and head that way, not exactly in the mood for surprises.

“Any idea what this is about?” I ask as I fall into step beside Carter, the team’s player liaison and resident babysitter for anything that might turn into a headline.

“If I did,” he says, not looking my way, “I’d probably be drinking instead of walking you to it.”

“Not exactly encouraging,” I mutter. If I’m in trouble, at least I could’ve enjoyed whatever it is I did wrong.

We round the corner, and the glass-walled conference room comes into view. A few suits already sit inside. They look too composed, too serious.

League people.

What the hell are they here for?

Carter opens the door and gestures for me to go ahead. Lucky me. I hesitate for a brief second before stepping inside, like I’m about to walk into my own doom.

The room smells like coffee and feels like a rubber band’s about to snap. I take in the two men standing at the far end of the table—and then I see her.

She moves to the head of the table, posture straight, expression unreadable. Her dark hair is pulled back, but her makeup is subtle. Controlled. Professional.

Her gray eyes lift to meet mine and it hits.

It’s not gradual. Not a slow burn of recognition. It’s immediate.

Her throaty laugh. Her bold directness. The taste of her goddamn kiss.

Trouble.

My stomach flips.

No fucking way. Five years and I’d know that face anywhere. Except right now she’s standing in front of me in a tailored suit looking like she’s about to dismantle someone’s career.

Mine, apparently.

But the worst part? She doesn’t react. Not even a flicker.

I hold her gaze a beat longer—waiting.

But . . . nothing.

Huh.

Interesting.

Unless she truly doesn’t remember me. Sure we were drunk that night and in the five years since, I’ve bulked up considerably, but . . . she doesn’t remember me?

Clearly, I didn’t make the same impression on her that she made on me.

That’s a fucking new one.

I break the stare first and drop into a chair without being asked, leaning back like it’s just another meeting, and I’ve got all the time in the world.