Page 30 of Hard Pass

“You’re welcome,” Tristan says sarcastically as they all settle in like they own the place.

Jaxon digs through the pantry for snacks. Tristan grabs the remote and turns on ESPN. Malachi scans the backyard like he’s contemplating a cannonball into the pool.

This isn’t different from any of the hundreds of times they’ve come over unannounced, but the way they keep glancing at each other? They’re circling the wagons.

Yeah.

I needed this.

“I take it you’ve seen it,” I say, and they all exchange a look. “You guys aren’t as subtle as you think.”

“How long has this been going on?” Jaxon asks.

I shrug. “A day or two.” I know it’ll bug them I didn’t say anything sooner. “I was told to keep it close to the vest. I wasn’t hiding it from you guys.”

“No big, dude.” Malachi waves a hand my way. “We get it. But . . . fuck, man.”

“The investigation wasn’t supposed to go public unless I was found guilty, at fault—whatever their term is.”

“And someone ran their mouth to the fucking media,” Tristan says, disgust edging his tone.

“Seems like it,” I murmur.

“Sooo?” Jaxon says. “You secretly making bank with the bookies?”

I level him with a glare. “Seriously?”

“C’mon, man. I’m just fucking with you. We all know you wouldn’t risk it,” Tristan says.

“It’s total crap,” Malachi chimes in.

“No one believes you did it,” Jaxon says.

I huff out a humorless laugh. “Yeah? Because from what I saw online, it feels like they do.”

“That’s just noise,” Jaxon says, tapping his bottle to mine.

I hold his gaze for a second because I want to believe that, but I just don’t know if I do.

“We know you,” Tristan says. “And you’re not nearly smart enough to pull something like that off.”

“Fuck off.” I laugh.

Tristan grins. “Had to go there.”

Jaxon coughs to hide his laugh. “What he means is, you’re not that guy.”

“Glad you clarified.” I take a long drink, letting the cold settle low in my chest. It helps . . . a little.

“So what actually happened?” Tristan asks. “Like how did this land in your lap?”

I shrug like I don’t care, like I’m still not trying to piece it together myself, when it’s all I’ve thought about the past twenty-four hours.

“They flagged some betting patterns,” I say. “Brought in this investigator who says it lines up with my shitty performance.”

“Investigator?” Malachi asks. “That sounds official.”

“Very,” I mutter. “The NFL takes this kind of shit seriously. It’s all a fucking joke, but I have to play along until she gets her power trip fill and moves on to the next case.”