Page 222 of Hard Pass

I hate knowing what to watch for, but the two times I’ve seen what might be a tremor, he’s somehow pulled it together and not let it affect him.

Just because he confronted his father doesn’t mean the tremors are over. He knows that. I know that. But it hopefully means he’s on the road to healing and feeling even more confident.

“That was a hard fucking hit he just took,” Malachi mutters.

“He’s okay,” I say out loud and then on repeat in my head as Cole rolls his shoulders and appears to glare at the defensive lineman who hit him.

“Third and long,” Jaxon mutters as I glance at the scoreboard, wishing the score had changed and we’d broken the tie. Wishful thinking. “C’mon, brother. Let’s fucking go.”

The crowd rises to its feet as Cole jogs toward the line. My stomach churns, knowing this is roughly when the tremor has come in the past—fourth quarter, game on the line, the pressure mounting.

I glance over to the television, appreciating the close-up so I can see what’s happening with him. To him.

The camera zooms in and I stop breathing as his hand flexes once, the slightest of trembles on his fingers as he steps back from the huddle.

Not again. Please. Not after he’s tried to battle his demons. Let him have this one win to prove to him all the hard work to get here was worth it.

Cole steps into position. Calm. Focused. “Set.”

The ball snaps and the pocket collapses around him immediately. The entire stadium screams as if they can stop it from happening.

Cole sidesteps one defender, rolls to his right and keeps the play alive.

“You’ve got this,” I murmur just as I see it. It’s a split second—his hesitation—and the sight of it has me reaching over and digging my fingers into Willa’s arm. “No, no, no.”

I don’t know if I say the words out loud or in my head, but I can’t stop thinking that hesitation means—

He plants his feet and launches the ball downfield. You can hear the crowd suck in a breath as the ball spirals through the air and into the hands of Camden Wolfe.

Touchdown.

The entire stadium, including our suite, explodes in a deafening roar.

Jaxon leaps over a row of seats and fist pumps. Malachi throws his beer in the air. Willa screams so hard her voice breaks.

But I can’t move.

I can only stare at the man on the field, the man I love more than anything, and feel so impossibly proud of him. My chest physically aches with it.

And as if on cue, when he jogs off the field and pulls his helmet off—grin wide while teammates clap him on the shoulders—he looks toward the suite.

Toward me.

Then gives the slightest shake of his head like he already knows exactly what I was thinking.

See? I did it.

Emotion climbs hard and fast up my throat because the tremor happened. I saw it. The hesitation too. But this time? He didn’t let it distract him.

He didn’t spiral or panic. He didn’t lose himself inside the pressure.

He trusted in himself.

And that feels so much bigger than football. It feels more significant than this game and the playoffs—although it is pretty freaking cool.

I’m not waiting for him to break.

The realization steals the breath from my lungs.