Page 33 of The Players We Hate
Tatum Pierce.
The screen blurred in my hands, the name staring back at me. My stomach twisted, thumb hovering. I’d thought about her more than I’d ever admitted—the whispers, the rumors, the way she disappeared almost overnight as if the world had erased her. I told myself it wasn’t my place, that it wasn’t personal. But it was. And the longer I kept my mouth shut, the more it ate at me.
I opened the message thread and typed quickly, my thumb trembling with guilt.
Me: Hey, it’s Wren. I don’t know if this is still your number, but I’ve been thinking about you. I’m sorry it took me so long to reach out. You didn’t deserve what happened. I hope you’re well.
I hovered over the screen before finally pressing Send, shame tightening in my throat. She had every reason not to answer. If she ignored me, I wouldn’t blame her.
Still, the second the message went through, I clung to the tiniest bit of hope. Even a sliver would’ve been enough.
The seconds dragged. Then the gray bubble appeared.
This number is no longer in service.
Just like that, the door slammed shut.
Silence pressed in, the hallway suddenly too small. I stared at the screen, waiting for it to change, for her reply to appear. It never did. She was gone. Not just from school or the spotlight but from everywhere. Vanished, as though she’d never existed.
My hand lowered slowly, phone still clutched in my palm as my heart ached.
I swallowed hard, blinking against the sting in my eyes. Reaching out wouldn’t fix anything. The truth was already carved deep, and the damage kept spreading.
Pushing away from the wall, I slid my phone back into my pocket. The faint sound of the arena carried from somewhere nearby. Low murmurs, the thud of footsteps, the electric hum of a crowd beginning to swell.
I had to get back before my father noticed I was gone. He expected me to smile, sit pretty, and pretend my presence in that box didn’t make my skin crawl. Pretend I hadn’t been alone with the boy who could dismantle everything if the truth ever came out.
For a moment, I let it all hit me—the failure, the guilt, the heat of Talon’s hands still on my skin. Underneath it was the hollow place where something real used to be. I’d tried to shove it down, but it wouldn’t stay buried.
My heels barely made a sound against the polished floor as I headed back toward the box.
The roar of the crowd faded to a dull backdrop, replaced by the buzz of the overhead lights and the faint echo ofdoors closing somewhere down the hall. I slowed when I saw my father standing there.
He was half shadowed by a structural column that stuck out from the wall, speaking with a man I didn’t recognize. They stood tucked into a recessed hallway, out of sight from donors and the rest of the guests in the suite.
I didn’t mean to eavesdrop. I shouldn’t have stayed. Something about my father’s stance, though—his rigid spine, hands curled into tight fists at his sides—kept me rooted in place.
“Keep your eyes on Pierce,” he said, voice clipped and cold. My stomach lurched. “I don’t care how much attention he’s getting for that scholarship fund or what kind of press he’s managed to spin. If he opens his mouth, I want to know about it before the press does.”
The man beside him was older, with silver hair cropped close to his scalp, wearing a dark suit that seemed to swallow him in the low light. He nodded once. A laminate badge dangled from his pocket, but I couldn’t make out who he was.
“Do you think he knows about the incident last year?” the man asked.
My father let out a sharp breath through his nose. “He knows enough. His sister was in the middle of it. We handled it before it became public and made sure Wells stayed clean. He’s a star recruit, the face of the program. We couldn’t let one misstep ruin everything.”
Misstep.
Like Tatum was a loose end to be tied up and forgotten.
I gripped the cold metal railing beside me, blood rushing in my ears.
“She’s the one who transferred,” my father continued, tone hardening. “We salvaged the situation. I won’t let anything, or anyone, jeopardize that again. Especially not with the election weeks out and the board still undecided on the facility expansion.”
The man asked, quieter this time, “And your girl?”
I stiffened.
My father paused, then let out a slow breath. “She doesn’t know a thing. As far as she’s concerned, applying for that internship makes her feel useful. Keep her close and let her think she matters. She’s a distraction and nothing more.”
