Page 60 of The Players We Hate
The older man leaned closer, murmuring something under his breath. The player didn’t respond, just slipped a hand into the pocket of his hoodie, shoulders tight.
I strained to make sense of the exchange without making it obvious I was watching.
The server returned with my drink and set it down quietly.
“Give you a few more minutes?” she asked.
“Yes, thank you. She should be here any minute,” I said, barely glancing up.
The player shifted in his seat, and the candlelight skimmed across his face, clear enough this time for me to recognize him.
I knew him.
He wasn’t a starter, not someone constantly in the spotlight like Talon or Kade, but I’d seen him at the Halloween party. At the Devil’s Backbone bonfire. He’d been on the roster. And now here he was, meeting with a man who, as far as I knew, had no business being anywhere near student athletes.
I dropped my gaze to my drink, pulse hammering. This wasn’t nothing. I was almost sure I’d just seen something I wasn’t supposed to.
The sound of my mother’s voice cut through my thoughts like a sharp blade.
“There you are, darling. You’d think they’d seat us closer to the front. This is practically exile.”
I looked up just in time to see her glide toward the table. All poise and expensive perfume. Heels clicking a deliberate rhythm across the marble floor. Her cream-colored coat draped over one arm, and her hair was perfectly styled in soft waves. She always made entrances like she expected applause.
“Hi, Mother.” I stood and offered a quick kiss on the cheek. Her skin was cool and faintly scented with Chanel No. 5.
“Have they brought the drink menu yet?” she asked as she sat down, laying her napkin neatly across her lap, just like she used to at every dinner when I was a kid.
“I already ordered a sparkling water,” I said, settling back into my seat.
“Good. I could use a glass of wine,” she muttered, lifting the menu. “My head is pounding. The traffic from the capitol was impossible. Your father keeps talking about improving it, but honestly, I don’t see much progress.”
I bit the inside of my cheek and kept quiet, eyes on the menu I couldn’t read. Gavin Cruz. The name clicked into place now, sharp and certain. He sat a few tables behind my mother, shoulders hunched, hair damp from what had to be practice.
“Was your day productive?” she asked without looking up.
I nodded. “Good. Actually, I got offered an internship today.”
That made her pause. She looked up quickly, her voice dipped in sugar. “Really? Which one?”
“With the university,” I said, keeping my voice level. “Athletics department. A compliance intern position.”
A beat of silence stretched between us, just long enough for me to feel the weight of it.
“Oh.” She blinked once, placing her menu flat on the table. “I was under the impression you were going after the governor’s fellowship in strategic communications. That would’ve been far more impressive.”
“I was,” I said evenly. “But this came up unexpectedly, and it’s different. The fellowship’s more politics and speeches. This role places me within the athletic department, where I actually handle cases and make decisions. It’s hands-on and not just observation.”
She picked up her glass and swirled the wine before taking a sip. “I suppose it’s fine for experience and would look good on a résumé. Still, I would’ve chosen something with a little more weight. Compliance feels so small. Like shuffling papers in the back office.”
Her voice was soft, but the implication landed with the precision of a stiletto. It always did.
“I’m not chasing titles, Mother. I want to learn something useful. Something that matters.”
She hummed, unconvinced. “Just don’t lose sight of the bigger picture, Wren. You have a name people already recognize. That can open doors most students will never get close to. It would be a shame to waste that on paperwork.”
I nodded and took a sip of water, pretending her words didn’t land the way they did. It wasn’t surprising. My mom had a way of showing disappointment without ever saying it outright—just enough to make me second-guess myself but never enough to call her out on.
As she launched into a discussion about the upcoming charity gala she was organizing, I let my attention drift. Her voice faded to background noise, like the soft jazz playing through the speakers above.
