Page 74 of Hard Pass

He makes the next two throws through the targets. The third sails wide.

“You always needed pressure to perform. But this? This is what happens when you don’t have it in you anymore.”

Cole’s motions stutter ever so slightly as the words land, but he just grips the ball tighter and throws.

Over and over.

With each throw, it’s like something in him gives. Not all the way—not yet at least, but enough. And suddenly, everything I thought I knew about him, doesn’t fit.

This isn’t a man controlling outcomes. This is a man barely holding himself together.

The next throw slips from his hand and Cole yells, “Fuck” at the top of his lungs.

“Look at you,” the man says quietly. “Weak as fuck. Haven’t I drilled it in your head enough times? Never show weakness. And that’s all your doing. You don’t even trust your own arm anymore. So why should your teammates? Your coach? This organization?”

Cole’s head snaps up and for some reason, that’s when he sees me.

Everything stops.

The words. His movement. The second his eyes lock on mine there’s a shift in energy.

Awareness.

Humiliation.

Rage.

Dignity.

All of it flashing in the space of a heartbeat.

His dad turns slightly, following Cole’s gaze, but I don’t give him the time of day by looking at him. I can’t. Because I’m too focused on Cole. On the way he’s standing there soaked, breathing hard, exposed in a way I’m pretty sure he’s never been before.

And for the first time since I’ve started studying him and his sudden changes in gameplay, I realize that what’s been happening isn’t just a slump. This is damage that’s deep and old.

And still bleeding.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Cole

Dublin.

There she is, standing just outside the wash of light, rain slicking her hair to her face, clothes soaked, and eyes steadfast on mine.

Everything inside me locks up . . . because she just saw something she wasn’t supposed to.

Jesus.

Of all people, why did it have to be her?

Every emotion slams through me at once. Shock. Rage. Shame.

God, the fucking shame.

It crawls up my spine and settles heavy in my chest, pressing down until it’s hard to breathe. Because that—that—is not what anyone should ever see.

Not my teammates.