Page 99 of Hard Pass

“Bad throw,” he mutters.

“Not the throw.” I rewind, pause just before the release, and point. “There.”

He leans in closer. This time his body does touch mine, his chest to my back, and as much as my body fires at the connection, I’m hoping I’m not going crazy and that he sees it too.

“What am I looking at?” he asks.

“Your hand.”

“My hand’s been working fine for years,” he says but there’s a tinge at the edges of his voice that tells me there’s more there.

I run the clip again.

“Okay,” he says. “What am I supposed to be seeing because . . .”

“Not your throwing hand,” I say. “Your left. What you do with it in between plays.”

Cole takes a step toward the screen. He glances over to me and then points to my computer. “Can you play it again?”

I do as he asks. And when it finishes and he doesn’t respond but rather crosses his arms over his chest, eyes narrowed in deep thought, I replay it again.

He finishes the throw. The play ends. He turns and there. It’s subtle and almost unnoticeable, but his hand trembles. And then he flexes his fingers once, twice, before shaking his hand.

“Okay,” he says. “What are you—”

“The tremble. The flex. The shake,” I explain, confused how he doesn’t see it. “It’s easier to see here because these are the team’s internal cuts. Different angles. Between plays.” I tap my computer screen to demonstrate. “You don’t get this attention to detail on TV.”

“So my hand has a tremble to it. It’s no big deal,” he says, tone defensive, as he flexes the hand right in front of me without realizing it. “I’ve always done it. It just comes and goes during the seasons.”

I nod. “Mm-hmm.”

His eyes flash over to mine, expression irritated. “I told Doc Hawley about it. She says it’s stress induced,” he fires back. “It’s nothing. A quirk. What’s your point?”

Never show weakness.

If I hadn’t witnessed the scene between him and his dad, I would have taken Cole’s defensiveness as a hint of guilt. But now his reaction makes total sense to me.

The tremble is weakness to him.

Now to explain to him why I’m not looking at that tremble as a sign of weakness, but rather a tell one could make predictions on.

“I’ve been looking at these reels for hours. Play after play. Going all the way back to your college days.”

“I still don’t—” He exhales, frustrated, and drags a hand through his hair. “Explain this to me like I’m twelve because I’m not following.”

I wait for him to meet my eyes. “I’m saying the bets being placed aren’t random.”

I hit play, appreciative of the Rebels staff for setting up a Cole-only film reel for me. Clip after clip rolls. Different games. Different practices. Different angles. Same pattern.

I talk as the film runs. “At some point, there’s a tremor in your left hand. You throw all game without it, but when it shows up”—I lift the remote to slow down on the tremble—“and within four or five plays later . . .”—I fast-forward four plays—“an interception.”

I stare at his profile, see his Adam’s apple bob, and his lips twist.

“The tremor isn’t the signal,” I say quietly. “It’s the confirmation.”

“Another one,” he whispers.

I flip through the clips faster now. I’ve spliced together the ones showing the tremor and amassed all the relevant data in one endless stream.