Page 46 of Hard Pass

So yeah, I pick up. Even when I shouldn’t.

I shove the phone into my back pocket, refusing to give it any more space in my head . . . but if he doesn’t believe my hands are clean, then who the hell will?

See how hard they work for you when they think that.

Fuck. I glance at my watch and know exactly what I need to do.

The locker room quiets the second I walk in. Conversations dip. Movements slow. Eyes track me in a way they didn’t yesterday.

Yeah. They’ve seen all of it.

I keep my head down and move toward my stall. I can’t remember the last time I moved through this space without at least a comment or joke being made to me.

My dad is right. Or at least it feels like he is.

“Hey,” I shout, turning to face the room. A few heads glance my way. Someone turns the speaker down. “Can I get a minute?”

Conversations stop and my teammates in various stages of dress turn my way.

I step forward, rubbing a hand over the back of my neck before letting it fall. “Look, I’m not going to bullshit you,” I start and some guys shift so they can see me better. “You’ve all seen what’s out there.”

A few guys nod. Others just watch. But none of them speak.

“I wanted you guys to hear it from me first but uh, clearly that didn’t happen.” I blow out a frustrated sigh. “Gridiron is investigating me for betting irregularities tied to my performance.” Saying it aloud feels like I’m swallowing shards of glass. “What I need you to hear is that I didn’t bet against this team. I didn’t give anyone information to influence their wagers. I didn’t throw anything.”

I clear my throat. I can play in front of seventy thousand fans without a second thought but saying this to these guys—my team—has me rattled. “I know how it looks. I get that. And I know my play the last couple of weeks hasn’t helped with this perception. I’m working with GIA to figure out what the hell is going on so they can clear my name.” I glance around the room, meeting eyes where I can. “And if she—Dublin, GIA’s investigator—asks to speak to any of you, I encourage you to. I’ve got nothing to hide.” I shrug. “For what it’s worth, I’ve been working hard to fix my shit on the field too.”

“You’re good, bro,” Grandy says from the back of the room.

I nod. “Thanks. I expect the media noise to get worse before it gets better. But uh, we have a game this weekend. That’s where my focus is. You don’t need to worry about that.”

For a second no one moves and no one else talks. Then to my right, “All good, man.”

“Yeah, we got you.”

“Handle your business.”

The comments aren’t loud. It’s not some rally moment, but it’s enough.

When I glance up, Coach Brooks is standing with his arms crossed, watching me from the doorway. Our general manager, Grant Walker, is too.

Neither of them says anything. They just nod in acknowledgment as I head out to my next appointment.

I’m halfway down the hallway when a voice stops me. “You good, Valor?”

I glance over to where Lucas Hale leans against the wall, watching me like he already knows the answer.

I open my mouth. Close it. Fuck it. “Nah. Not really.”

He nods like that tracks and, considering the shit he went through last year with his shoulder forcing him to retire, if anyone can understand how fucked up I feel, he can.

“That’s understandable.”

“I’m just figuring shit out—or trying to.”

“Well, I’m here if you need anything,” he says.

No pressure. No judgment. He has no clue how much I needed that.