Page 59 of Hard Pass

“Fuck,” I whisper as the defender steps into the route, hands out, body fast.

Interception.

The stadium erupts in a torrent of boos, but I don’t hear it. All I see is the scoreboard.

The margin.

The exact number the bettor needed to keep it under the spread. Fuck. Not a blowout. Not a noticeable collapse. Just enough of an error—precise and deliberate—with thirty seconds left in the game, to essentially secure the under.

This isn’t a coincidence. It can’t be. I’ve done this long enough to know the difference.

And suddenly my thoughts I had seconds ago about telling Marcus, about admitting I know Cole—gone. Because that doesn’t matter right now.

This does. The pattern. The timing. The fact that someone knew exactly when that throw would go wrong.

“Jesus,” I murmur.

Because the only person who had that timing would be the one throwing the ball.

Fuck.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Cole

I drop back and the pocket holds.

My eyes move through the read—left, middle, right—and it’s all there. Everyone’s exactly where they should be. I’ve run this play a thousand times without thinking.

Steward breaks open toward the back of the end zone.

“That one mess up your odds?”

My fingers tighten on the laces.

“Glad I could help, you fucking cheater.”

I hitch my shoulder. It’s barely anything but my brain stutters when it shouldn’t.

“Yeah, we all know you did it.”

I know this throw. I can do this throw in my sleep. But something in me pulls back a fraction and that’s all it takes.

The ball’s in my hand, and my dad’s on the porch watching. Always watching.

“Again.”

My shoulder burns. My arm feels like it’s about to fall off. I’d rather be out with the other fifth graders riding my bike. Not here. Not with him.

“I said again,” he demands.

I don’t want to go again. I don’t want to miss. Don’t want to see that look on his face when I don’t get it right. So I hesitate, then throw it wrong on purpose.

Because if I mess up, then it’s my choice.

And he can’t control that.

“Valor!”