Page 206 of Hard Pass

Just as I raise my fist to knock again, Tristan opens the door barefoot and holding a beer.

Completely fucking relaxed.

“Dude.” His brows lift in surprise. “What’s up? What’s the rush to see me?” His gaze narrows slightly and his voice grows serious. “You okay?”

The irony almost makes me laugh.

I step inside before he can move fully out of the way and do my best to mask my disgust. “How was your trip? Did you close the deal?” I ask.

“Not yet. I need to finesse a few more things for them, then yeah, I’ll get it closed.”

His house smells like a bachelor pad—takeout food and Febreze. ESPN drones quietly in the background from the ridiculously sized television mounted on the wall. His suitcase is at the end of the hall, unpacked. There’s a stack of papers on the kitchen counter, and his laptop is open with what looks like NFLSavant.com on the screen. A site that provides up-to-the-minute stats for the NFL.

On any other day, I wouldn’t think anything of it. All the guys track stats in one way or another. But right now? It might as well be a confession.

I don’t know if Tristan notices me looking at it, but he positions himself in front of the screen, leaning his ass against the counter.

“So what was so urgent you needed to see me an hour after I landed?”

I stare at him for a long moment.

At one of my closest friends.

At the guy who grew up with me through my high school years. The women. The experiences. The ups and downs of college and collegiate football.

Someone I never thought I had to protect myself from.

I cross my arms and lean against the back of the couch. “You tell me.”

He clenches and unclenches his jaw, confusion etched in the lines of his face. “Cole . . . I’m confused, brother.”

“Don’t brother me.”

He opens his mouth and closes it. Good. Because if he starts lying right now, I don’t know what the fuck I’ll do.

I grip the back of the couch on either side of my hips to stop myself from putting one through the wall.

Or his face.

His eyes flick over me carefully and his brow knits. “You look pissed.”

“You’ll be lucky if that’s all I am.”

The silence that follows is heavy. Tristan rubs a hand over the back of his neck and exhales sharply, but my glare is unrelenting. He shifts his feet, crosses his arms, uncrosses them, and then finally says, “Who told you?”

The question punches straight through my chest.

Not denial. Not confusion. Confirmation.

And all the bartering I did with myself that the bet was a coincidence, that he would never do that to me, and on and on, fly out the fucking window.

I stare at him. All the things I’d rehearsed in my head are gone. He really did it.

And suddenly every weird moment since the start of season replays differently in my head.

The questions and the timing of them.

The games he pressed harder after bad throws.