Page 207 of Hard Pass

The way he brushed off conversations about the investigation quickly at times and asked too detailed questions at other times.

The bets stopping. Then starting again.

Jesus fucking Christ.

Who told you?

“You did,” I finally say, laugh sounding hollow. “Because I never would’ve looked at you otherwise.”

I expect him to backpedal instantly. To stutter and sputter and overexplain and get frantic.

Instead, his face hardens and somehow that’s worse. No guilt. No panic.

“It’s not like I killed somebody.”

My fist connects with his jaw, and the crack echoes through the room.

Tristan stumbles sideways into the wall with a curse.

My breathing is ragged, hands clenched, and body vibrating. All I want to do is hit him again, but I can’t. My hands are my tools and the last thing I need to do is damage them breaking the guy’s fucking nose.

Tristan presses his hand against his jaw and rubs it, eyes wide with shock before anger flashes hot and vicious across his face.

“You wanna fucking go?” he snaps, his own arm cocking back.

“You knew, as one of my best friends, where to cut the deepest. How could you?” My voice is terrifyingly calm.

“I didn’t mean for it to go this far.”

I laugh once, disbelieving. “You didn’t mean for organized betting tied to an NFL quarterback under federal-level league investigation to go this far?”

“I never threw a game.”

“That’s your defense?”

“I never fucking touched the field.”

“No shit. I did. But that didn’t stop you from using me, did it?”

His eyes flash. “I used information.”

I stare at him. Did he really just fucking say that? Has he really separated the two things in his head? Information versus friendship. Data points that mean more than me. Not once did he think about it being a betrayal.

“You noticed the hand thing,” I say quietly.

“It’s always been there. During college. Last year. But it got worse this year.” He pauses. “Not my fault you started tipping your throws, Cole.”

Christ. The man has zero shame. Like I’m some random athlete he’s watching on SportsCenter and not his best friend.

“You knew when I was struggling,” I say.

“You were easy to read if someone paid attention,” he says, justifying his decisions.

The betrayal in that sentence staggers me. Because someone was paying attention. My best friend.

“I did what anyone else would have done given the situation. You got worse and I got better at spotting it. There’s no crime in that.”

“I trusted you,” I say, voice rough and chest burning. “I let you in every goddamn facet of my fucking life.”