Page 29 of The Players We Hate
“Oh my God—”
Talon tensed, and my body stiffened. Reality crashed into me like a freight train.
My cheeks flushed hot as my eyes widened, breath heaving while I scrambled to push at his chest. Helet me down gently, hands falling away even as his chest heaved with every strangled breath.
I bent to grab my purse, the clasp having sprung open, its contents scattered in a trail of proof. ChapStick. Keys. A tube of mascara. I shoved them inside with shaking hands.
What the hell did I do?
I didn’t wait to answer. Couldn’t.
I backed away, my eyes flicking to the girls. One was already whispering into her phone, while the other stared at Talon like she’d seen a god.
I couldn’t breathe.
“Wren—” Talon started, reaching toward me.
But I was already moving.
“No,” I whispered, my voice hoarse. “I have to go.”
And then I was gone, racing up the stairs two at a time, heart pounding, shame crawling under my skin.
I’d lost it. Right there in the lobby, where anyone could’ve seen. And still, some part of me wanted to run back to his arms and do it all over again.
Chapter Eight
Talon
By Monday night, it was like we’d fallen back into the same pattern.
Not to me, but maybe to her.
Wren hadn’t looked at me once since she bolted that night. Not in the halls, not on campus, not in the cafeteria when I nearly brushed past her at lunch. And sure as hell not now, with us standing a few feet apart in the same box suite, donors and board members around us like nothing ever shifted.
She barely even glanced my way. Her posture was perfect, shoulders back and chin high, every inch of her composed. No trace of the girl who unraveled under my hands in the dark, like she couldn’t get enough of me.
The Rixton Wolves arena vibrated with noise. Chants thundered from the student section, jerseys blurred in a sea of black and purple, and the cold stung my lungs every time the door opened to the ice. First regular season game. First real test. We were undefeated in the preseason, and expectations were high.
I should’ve been in the zone.
Instead, I was stuck under the soft glow of the university’s luxury suite, stuffed into a collared shirt and told to shake hands with the people who kept the program alive with their checks.
“Coach says this one’s the backbone of the team,” a donor said, clapping me on the back.
I forced a handshake and muttered something polite, already looking past him. My eyes landed on the corner of the room—on Wren. She stood beside her dad, Governor Perry, wrapped up in a circle of board members and big donors.
She wore a gray wool coat, hair pinned back, earrings glittering under the lights. She looked every bit the polished politician’s daughter. Not the girl who’d come apart under my hands a few nights ago.
Her gaze skipped over me like I wasn’t even there. But I caught the way her fingers tugged at her sleeve, the nervous habit most people wouldn’t notice. I did.
“Governor Perry,” the university president said, stepping forward with a glass of champagne. “You being here tonight? It means a lot. Especially with the new athletic facility plans moving forward.”
“Rixton’s athletics program deserves top-tier facilities,” her dad replied smoothly. “Between the hockey and football programs, this school’s already a powerhouse. It’s time we treated it that way.”
Another man chimed in. “We’ve already seen a spike in applications and media attention. With state funding and alumni donations, we could turn Rixton into the top destination in the Southeast.”
The governor beamed. “It’s about community and opportunity. The kinds of things voters care about.”
