Page 71 of Hard Pass

And that’s when my mind betrays me—not with data but with memory.

Cole on the field yesterday. It’s the first time I’ve seen him play in person. The first time I’ve understood the depth of his skill—even when he’s not playing at his best, his talent’s obvious. And it’s in a way that makes it hard to look away. The muscles. The fluidity. The sweat-misted skin and tight pants.

I pinch my nose and sigh. That is not what you’re supposed to be thinking about, Dublin. You’re supposed to be—

I frown. The missed throws. It wasn’t the throw itself that stuck with me.

It was the moment before it.

I close my eyes and try to see it again. Was it a hitch? A hesitation? A subtle movement that I noticed but now can’t place?

Or maybe I’m seeing what I want to see, and it could vary depending on which narrative I want to feed.

I hate that. Hate when instinct tries to creep into a process that should be objective and controlled—because instinct is messy. And messy gets people burned.

It’s right there—so goddamn close—I can feel it.

I move back to the spreadsheet and numbers on my screen again. The bets aren’t reacting to the play. They’re ahead of it.

That’s the problem. That’s the piece that doesn’t fit. No one reacts that fast—that accurately—unless they know what’s coming.

Unless they’re told it’s coming.

Unless there’s precursor signaling it. Something consistent that can be played off as always having happened.

My fingers still on the keyboard as the slow, unwelcome realization begins to take shape. Maybe it isn’t Cole and it isn’t information being leaked, but rather an observation.

“Shit,” I murmur as my pulse ticks up a notch.

I need to look at this differently. Not the numbers, reports, and summaries. I need to watch the actual moment, frame by frame. Before the play. Before the throw. What is it that’s setting someone off?

I snap my laptop shut, decision made. I need to see his game film. I need to see him.

Impulsivity. It’s not my norm and yet here I am pulling up to the Lone Star Rebels practice facility as rain continues to fall harder than before. My windshield wipers work overtime and still barely keep up with the torrent.

The facility looks almost deserted—the majority of lights are off in the building and by the glow near the practice facility, it looks like there might be a few lights on near the field.

Which . . . the place being nearly empty shouldn’t be a surprise since it’s—oh shit. It’s 8:30 at night.

How did that happen?

It happened because most people have a life and don’t chase patterns that may or may not exist.

I cut the engine and sit for a second, staring out at the storm and letting the sound of the rain hypnotize me. This is stupid. There’s no reason for me to be here. I can ask for film tomorrow.

Within seconds I have my car back on and just as I turn the wheel, my headlights sweep across the lot and light up the large white SUV parked in the roundabout near the entrance. I lift my foot off the gas when I see only two other cars in the lot.

Cole. The security guard. And someone else.

My curious mind kicks into high gear. Is there a secret meeting going on? A betting meeting being had?

This isn’t Scooby-Doo, Dublin. If he were guilty of this, how stupid would he be to organize it all at the facility?

But then again, this place is nearly empty and what better place to avoid arousing suspicion.

Shit.

Do I really want to do this?