Page 49 of The Players We Hate
Wren reached over, fingers brushing against mine where they rested on my knee.
“And now?”
I turned my hand, curling my fingers around hers. “Now’s no different.”
She let out a quiet breath, some of the tension easing from her face.
“She needs me,” I added. “I’m not gonna let her down.”
Wren didn’t try to say more. She didn’t offer empty comfort or argue. She just squeezed my hand, and I knew she understood.
Still, I could see the questions swirling in her eyes.
“What about the team?” she asked gently. “The games… the season?”
I gave a faint grin, one that didn’t quite reach my eyes. “Coach will understand. Family comes first. Besides, I’ll make sure I’m back in time for our next game.”
Wren nodded again, and for a minute we sat there with our hands linked and our hearts steadying in the stillness.
She was here. I had a game in a few days. Everything was still moving like it always did.
But nothing about this felt normal.
And the next time I saw Wells… there wouldn’t be any walking away.
ChapterFourteen
Wren
The campus was still asleep when I stepped outside.
Frost covered the ground, and every breath showed in the cold air. My fingers ached even with gloves on. I tugged my jacket tighter and adjusted the strap of my bag against my hip. The sky was still dim, stuck between night and morning, and the world felt quiet.
And then I saw him.
Talon leaned against his truck, one boot resting on the tire, a hoodie layered under his jacket, with his hands shoved deep in his pockets.
The moment I stepped off the curb, his head turned toward me.
He didn’t smile, but his stance eased.
“You always arrive early for road trips?” I asked, stepping closer.
“Didn’t sleep much,” he said, voice rough.
“Me neither.” I hesitated beside him. “Nerves?”
He glanced at me but didn’t answer. Instead, he reached for the strap of my bag and lifted it from my shoulder. His hand brushed mine in the process.
He opened the truck’s rear door and tossed my bag inside, shutting it with a soft thud. “It’s gonna have to be a short trip,” he said, turning toward me.
I tilted my head. “Practice?”
“My coach knows I’ll be there in time for the game, but I might miss some of the warm-ups,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck.
I nodded slowly. “So we’re on the clock.”
“Pretty much.”
