Page 64 of Hard Pass

“Do what?”

“This.” He gestures between us. “This job. The digging and picking people apart until you find what’s broken.”

Because everyone’s broken.

Because the truth always costs something.

Because control is easier than letting my guard down and then getting screwed in the process.

“Because the truth matters,” I say. “And because people lie.”

His gaze sharpens. “And you think I am.”

“I think that . . . something doesn’t add up.”

He lets out a slow breath, nodding once like he expected that.

“Then let me help you,” he says.

I hesitate. “I can’t make deals,” I say automatically.

“I’m not asking for a deal.” He closes his eyes for a beat and takes a measured breath. “I need this to go away, Dublin. I need it all to go the fuck away.”

“I’m working on it.”

“That’s not enough.”

My spine stiffens. “Excuse me?”

“I need my game back.” The words are rough, almost as if it cost him to say them. “That’s it. That’s all I care about. And if helping you figure this out helps it go away faster, then even better. I’ll do anything to clear my name.”

My breath catches slightly. “Cole . . .”

“I’ll bet on my life that it isn’t me,” he says, voice low. “Because right now? That’s the only thing I’m sure of.”

There it is. The line between us shifting. Not adversaries, not yet allies, but something damn near close.

“How can I help you?” he asks when I don’t respond.

Walk away, Dublin. Don’t answer that. Don’t cross that line.

“I’ll need access,” I say slowly, betraying myself and my protocol with every syllable. Because yes, while I need the subject of my investigation to cooperate, his offer goes beyond that. “Practice. Film. Conversations. I need to see everything as it happens—not after.”

“Done.”

“You don’t even know what I’m going to ask for.”

“I don’t care. I told you, it’s yours.”

And that response feels more genuine than anything he’s ever said to me.

“I’ll text you. We’ll have to meet up in places that make sense—the stadium, the field, etcetera as to not give a hint of impropriety.”

“Fine. Just tell me when and where.”

I turn to go because this is already too much—him being here, me agreeing to his offer—and his hand wraps around my arm.

Not tight. Not forceful. But we both freeze. My gaze drops to where his fingers press against my skin and for a second neither of us moves.