Page 186 of Hard Pass

My chest tightens. “Yeah.”

“It happened again.” Her words hit my ears as my teammates move around me and head toward the door. “Just when we thought it was over. Just when . . .”

I don’t hear the rest of what she says because I already know.

“When?” I ask.

“What?”

“When was the bet placed?” I ask, my jaw tightening.

12:19. That’s how much time was left in the fourth quarter when I made a show of sticking my hand in my helmet before I took the field.

“With eleven minutes and ten seconds left in the fourth.”

Everything in me goes still.

I don’t need more than that.

I know the play. I know the moment. And I know exactly who I told.

My chest constricts.

“Cole?” I don’t answer. “What is it?”

“It’s . . . nothing.” I’m wrong. I have to be wrong. “Coach needs to talk to me and then I’ll head home.”

“Wait—”

I hang up. Not because I don’t want to hear her, but because I can’t.

Not right now. Not with my pulse pounding in my ears.

I drop down into my chair in front of my stall, lean forward, elbows on my knees, and hands hanging loose between them.

Stare at the floor.

Breathe. In. Out.

It’s not him. It can’t be. It has to be a fucking coincidence.

Just because I told him one thing, one detail, doesn’t mean that he . . .

My fingers curl. Uncurl.

It’s not him. We’ve been through too goddamn much. Too many years. Too many games. Too much life. I shake my head hard. No.

There has to be another explanation because if there isn’t, if it is him . . .

My stomach drops.

Patterns just don’t stop.

Dublin’s voice cuts through my thoughts. Clear and unavoidable.

They don’t lie.

Fuck.