Page 26 of The Players We Hate
Got my nails done that afternoon. I even curled my hair the way my mom always used to when I was younger. Wore one of the nicer sweaters she once called “presentable.” Yet still, it hadn’t been enough.
“You’re looking a little tired, darling,” she’d said while buttering a dinner roll. “The circles under your eyes are getting worse. You really ought to cut back on caffeine or... whatever it is that’s aging you.”
I bit my tongue. Told myself I’d imagined the glance she gave me and the slight wrinkle of her nose.
Then there was my father, going on about poll numbers, campaign stops, and how essential the university’s athletics were to securing the youth vote.
“As long as the Wolves keep winning, in both football and hockey, we’ve got Rixton’s backing locked,” he said with a politician’s grin, the kind that didn’t reach his eyes.
Like the entire school was a stage set for his re-election. Every win was another notch in his approval ratings. Every player was another face in a campaign ad.
He didn’t ask how my classes were going. Didn’t mention the internship I had applied for. Didn’t ask if I was happy.
I wasn’t even sure he remembered my major.
By the time I climbed out of the SUV, my head was pounding and my smile felt as though it had been carved from stone.
“Thank you, Greg,” I said quietly to the driver, who nodded and stepped back toward the curb.
I adjusted the hem of my coat and pulled my purse higher on my shoulder, nodding to the night security officer stationed outside the building. He gave me a polite wave and a soft “Welcome back, Miss Perry,” as I pushed through the doors.
The lobby was quiet, dimly lit, with only the hum of vending machines and the click of my heels echoing on the tile.
I exhaled slowly, already imagining the feel of my softest sweatshirt and the blessed silence of my room. I didn’t even care if Alisa was already home. I needed to be out of the world for a minute.
But then, I collided with someone.Hard.
I stumbled back, my purse sliding down my arm, the to-go bag from dinner teetering in my hand.
Strong hands steadied me before I could hit the floor.
“Shit, sorry,” the voice started, low and familiar.
My head jerked up, and my eyes met with Talon’s. My chest seized.
His hoodie was rumpled around the collar like he’d dragged it on after a workout, and the way his brow furrowed made the air catch in my throat.
“You okay?”
I nodded, breath catching. “Yeah. I-I wasn’t looking.”
We stood there, only a breath apart. The quiet pressed in, my pulse hammering in my ears, my heart split between running from him and giving in.
“I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said, his voice low and rough around the edges. He stepped back half a pace, giving me space but not really going anywhere.
His gaze flicked past me to the black SUV idling at the curb, the driver waiting by the door. Then it drifted back to me and stayed longer than it should have, heavy with the knowing that I wasn’t the same girl from that night.
And maybe I wasn’t.
Not after the way my mother looked me up and down and said, “You cleaned up well.”
Not after my father steered the conversation toward campaign polling and media appearances without ever once caring to ask a single question about me.
I’d spent the whole night trying to be small. Polished. Quiet.
And now Talon was here. Staring at me like he remembered every damn detail of the last time we were alone together. As if he was seeing through the version of me I’d tried so hard to become.
His mouth quirked slightly, the barest ghost of a smirk tugging at the corner. As if he knew exactly what memory had just flooded my head.
