Page 63 of Hard Pass

The toll this has taken.

The man beneath it all.

There’s conflict etched in every line of him. Fatigue. Frustration. He looks desperate.

“Congrats on the win,” I say because I feel like it’s a positive we should acknowledge. Because the game is why he’s here.

He snorts. “Yeah, there’s at least that.”

“Tell me about the game.”

He tilts his head slightly, like he’s studying me now. “You think I did it. Threw the interception to protect whatever bid was made.”

It’s not a question. It’s a challenge.

“I think,” I say carefully, “that from where I’m standing, there’s no version of that play that doesn’t look intentional.”

His gaze hardens.

“You’re in the game. In the best position to control the outcome. You’re driving down the field, about to cover the spread . . . and then you throw an interception moments after someone bet you would.”

“It was a coincidence. And something one could assume seeing as I’ve done the exact same thing the last two games.”

“A huge prop wasn’t bet those last two games though.”

“It was a coincidence,” he repeats with more resolve this time.

I scoff and don’t back down from his stare. I’m looking for anything to tell me otherwise but there’s nothing there.

“You’ll have a hard time finding people to believe that.”

“You included?”

The only answer I give him is the slightest of shrugs.

He drags a hand over the back of his neck, fingers pressing hard like he’s trying to work a knot out. “Do you want to know what was actually going through my head?” He steps closer. “How I just fucked my team over. How I thought I had these fucking yips under control but clearly don’t.”

His jaw flexes and he turns his back toward me slightly like he’s questioning his next words, but then he turns back around. “I went to a goddamn sports psychologist,” he grits out, like the words slipped out before he could stop them. “First time in my life. Just to fix this, and I can’t figure out if that makes me weaker or stronger.” He throws up his hands. “All that to say and here we fucking are.”

My chest tightens as his voice breaks.

“The irony in all this bullshit is that not once during that game did I think about points or bets or whatever the hell is happening around me.” There is no performance in his words, no manipulation. Just raw and unfiltered frustration. “And now everyone thinks—”

And that’s when it hits me.

This isn’t a man trying to spin a story. This is a man who doesn’t understand why he’s failing at the one thing he’s always been able to control.

Leave me the fuck alone.

The words that have been replayed on every channel and social media site since he said them.

But the man standing in front of me now? He’s not that man.

He’s stripped down and exposed. Human.

And it absolutely should not matter to me—I have a job to do—but it does.

“Why do you do this?” he asks, catching me off guard.