Page 59 of The Players We Hate
I reached for the door handle. Time to pretend I was fine.
A valet stepped forward, opening the door before I could. “Evening,” he said politely.
I murmured a quick thank-you before stepping onto the cobbled sidewalk, pulling my coat tighter as the breeze funneled through the narrow stretch of downtown. Embers sat on the corner, its windows glowing warm against the dark.The low lighting and sleek glass weren’t about comfort. They were about the image. People didn’t come here for a meal. They came to be seen.
Of course, my mom had chosen it. Appearances were her currency, and she liked to spend big.
Inside, the place felt different right away. Warm light, polished tables, the quiet mix of voices carrying just under the low hum of jazz. Glasses clinked, and silverware tapped against plates. Two hostesses stood behind a marble stand, their black dresses sharp, their smiles practiced. I gave my name, and one of them nodded, already turning to lead me through the room.
“She’s not here yet,” I said, more out of habit than irritation.
“Of course. We’ll show you to your table so you can get comfortable.”
I was led to a small booth near the back, semi-private, lit by a single votive candle flickering inside a smoky glass holder. The cushions were buttery soft, and the silverware was perfectly aligned on crisp white linen.
I slid into the seat and dropped my clutch beside me. The knot in my neck started to ease, the chaos of the student center and the long car ride already slipping into the background. This was classic Mother. Show up late. Leave you sitting there under the lights she’d set up, waiting just long enough to second-guess yourself. Then walk in with that practiced charm like she owned the room.
I told myself I didn’t need her approval, though deep down, I still reached for it.
I unlocked my phone mostly to avoid eye contact. Notifications blinked at the top of the screen. One from theinternship coordinator I still hadn’t answered, and another from my father, just a generic check-in.
Father: Hope dinner goes well tonight. Don’t forget to bring the event packet your mom asked for.
I forced down the ache that came with his messages. Lately, he’d been acting differently. Lighter, less uptight, like the stress of the election had finally lifted. Almost like he thought he could charm me into forgetting everything else. But I couldn’t shake the image of him that night at the game, whispering in the dark to someone I didn’t know, as if the Wolves’ win meant more than points on a scoreboard.
I glanced up absently and froze.
A man had just walked in. Mid-forties, maybe older. Dark gray suit, sharp shoulders, a no-nonsense presence that demanded attention even in a room full of people trying so hard to be noticed. He scanned the restaurant, then made a beeline for a table a few rows away. It was partially blocked by a decorative wall of glass shelving filled with expensive wine and flickering candles.
Something was off about him. Not the kind that set off alarms, just the kind that felt too familiar.
He sat down with his back straight, fingers clasped loosely in front of him on the table, as if he was waiting for someone.
A second passed before it registered, but I knew that face. I’d seen him before.
I remembered the hockey game, right after the buzzer, outside the tunnel. He’d been there with my father, theirheads bent together. The kind of conversation meant to stay off the record.
My stomach tightened.
The server returned, her smile warm and practiced. “Can I get you started with a drink, hon?”
“Just sparkling water,” I said, my voice coming out softer than I expected. “With lime, please.”
“Coming right up.”
I nodded, eyes drifting back toward the man just as she turned away.
He flicked through his phone like someone used to waiting, but never for long.
I looked away, pretending to study the menu in front of me. My heart was ticking a little faster now, like it always did when something didn’t quite make sense.
Movement near the entrance caught my eye, and before I even registered who it was, my gut already knew.
A younger man stepped in. He was tall, broad, with that unmistakable athletic build. Hoodie pulled up, head lowered, jaw tight. I couldn’t see his face completely, but I knew what team he played for. The Rixton Wolves crest was faint on the side of his sweatpants.
He wasn’t dressed for a night out. He hadn’t come for dinner. He’d come to meethim.
He crossed the restaurant in slow motion and slid into the seat across from the suited man like they’d done it before. This didn’t feel like a last-minute, hush-hush meetup. It felt like a continuation of something already in play.
