Page 97 of Hard Pass

It’s been seven nights of not seeing him. Since I touched him. Of not letting myself remember exactly how that felt.

My gaze lingers a fraction too long.

“You’re staring,” he says.

I clear my throat. “I’m assessing.” I turn back to the screen at the far end of the room before he can read anything else.

“Sure you are.”

I glance over my shoulder just in time to catch the corners of his lips turn up, but it’s the look in his eyes as they drag down my lips, to my chest, and then back up that has me shifting in my seat.

This place is so quiet you could hear a pin drop. Great. That means he can probably hear how fast my heart is beating.

“You—uh—did well yesterday,” I say, desperate for a neutral topic.

He shrugs like it doesn’t matter when I know it did. “I played decent.”

“Completion percentage was up. No interceptions. You guys won.” I shrug. “That sounds more than decent to me.”

“It’s never good enough,” he says.

I immediately think of his father. Of the cruel words and the harsh insults.

“You have to take the wins when they come, Cole.”

“Hmm.” He nods but I can see he doesn’t believe it. How can he when I can assume he’s lived a life berated like that? “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

He levels me with a stare. “Like you’re drawing conclusions that don’t need to be drawn.”

I open my mouth to refute him but then close it. He’s right. I’m not a therapist. I don’t get to assume. I hold my hands up. “You’re right.”

“Am I allowed to ask if there were any bets placed?” he asks, hand lifting to run through his hair, giving me a biceps show . . . and a perfect reminder of how they felt caged on either side of me.

Because that was hot.

I’d never seen myself as an arm girl, but his are pretty damn incredible.

“There weren’t any unusual spikes. No big movement or player props made that suggest inside information.”

He exhales and his shoulders sag, the relief visible. “So I played well and no one made money off me. I guess that’s a win, right?”

“Or,” I say, lifting the remote and rewinding the film a few seconds, “it means something else.”

His eyes narrow as he takes a step closer. “What?”

I motion toward the screen with the remote. “That’s why I’m watching film. Trying to prove a theory.”

“That’s not broadcast footage,” he says.

“No, you’d never catch it there. This is the team’s footage. It’s dedicated angles of you.”

I expect another question, a quip, something—what I don’t expect is him moving closer. Not just a step, but right up to me. My breath hitches, and my focus sharpens.

His hands brace on either side of me on the table in front of me—another innocent reminder of the other night that he’s oblivious to.

He doesn’t touch me though, but that doesn’t stop the scent of his soap from filling my nose.