Page 202 of Hard Pass

Probably the entire defensive line too.

Another cookie slides from my spatula onto the rack.

The NFL needs reassurance moving forward.

Another cookie.

They’re concerned about optics.

And another that flips over accidentally.

Your relationship with Cole Valor compromises perception.

I press the spatula beneath the next cookie with enough force that it breaks in half. Perfect. Just like my career.

I fought for you as much as I could, but if I push too hard, I risk losing the league contract . . .

I close my eyes briefly and set down the spatula.

I don’t think I can keep you on the team anymore.

Fuck.

I blink fast, refusing the sting behind my eyes because I don’t have time for this. And I sure as shit don’t have the right to fall apart right now.

Not today.

Not when Cole texted me that he’d just left his parents’ house, and the needing to handle something was confronting his father.

Oof.

His father.

The wound he doesn’t talk about unless the words are dragged out of him. A man whose voice lives in his head and steals the steadiness from his hand. The reason Cole can stand in front of sixty thousand plus people and still somehow feel like a scared kid waiting to be told he’s not good enough.

He went there today and faced it.

I need to process it all, Dub. It might take a bit of time, but I will tell you about it. Just . . . not today.

And I’m here, baking like a lunatic because my boss may have just politely, professionally, devastatingly ended my career.

I exhale slowly, set the spatula down, and shove the two tears that fall off my cheeks.

No. Not now.

Cole doesn’t need to walk through that door and find me falling apart. He’s dealt with enough today—probably things that ripped his heart out. The last thing he needs to deal with is my absolute bone-deep panic that everything I’ve worked for is slipping through my fingers, because I broke one rule I’ve always kept. Proudly. Unreservedly.

Don’t get too close. Don’t become the story. And don’t give anyone a reason to question your judgment.

I look around the kitchen at the baked evidence of my unraveling. God, I hate that even my breakdown is organized.

But when the front door opens, my heart drops. As quickly as possible I make sure my cheeks are dry and double-check my reflection in the kitchen window. When I’m satisfied I look somewhat put together, I square my shoulders and reach for the spatula again, pretending the cookies require my full attention.

Footsteps come down the hallway seconds before he steps into the kitchen. Our eyes meet and the emotion swimming in his steals my breath. His muscle pulses in his jaw and his shoulders are taut with tension.

“You’re back,” I say as if it were any other day. Not that he just drove six hours to tell off his father. I think. I don’t really know because he doesn’t want to talk about it yet.

“Long drive.”