Page 66 of The Players We Hate
So I kept my head down. Tucked myself into a corner of the student center and did the work. I was good at it, too, but being good at something didn’t mean it didn’t wear on me.
I snapped the binder shut and slid it into my bag along with the typed notes I’d been keeping—player inconsistencies, sideline behavior, clips flagged from game tape. The usual. All neat. All unsigned. All are waiting for the right hands.
I pulled on my coat, tightened my scarf, and stepped outside. The evening air bit at my cheeks as I crossed campus toward the arena. The sky was already dark, the east lot half empty. Most of the team had cleared out by now. My plan was simple: swipe my badge, drop off the file, and leave. Make it quick and clean.
At least, that was what I thought until I stepped into the hall leading to the Wolves’ training wing and heard the sharp click of a video controller echoing off the walls.
Light spilled out of the media room, game footage flickering across the screen and casting uneven shadows against the glass. Inside, I sat with my arms crossed, eyes locked on the ice as if the outcome still mattered.
I froze.
At first, all I noticed was the set of his shoulders under a black Rixton hoodie and the hard line of his jaw. He had that same look—always on edge, either ready to swing or ready to shut everyone out.
I thought about leaving before he noticed me. Truly, I really did.
I hadn’t taken more than a step when his voice cut through the room, calm and low.
“Didn’t peg you for a night owl.”
My throat tightened. “I could say the same.”
The video stilled with a soft click, and the silence that followed felt too loud. Then he turned his head, just enough to glance at me over his shoulder.
“You just passing through?” he asked.
I hitched the strap of my bag tighter across my shoulder. “Dropping off some documents.”
His eyes flicked to the folder in my hand. He leaned back in his chair, gaze narrowing.
“Documents, huh.” A muscle in his jaw twitched. “You’ve been doing a lot of that lately.”
I started toward the door, but his voice caught me again, lower this time.
“I saw your notes after practice yesterday. You pick up on things most people miss. You’re good at it.”
I froze. So he had seen them. Or at least knew enough.
I turned slowly to face him. “That was confidential.”
He gave a humorless smile. “Not when it’s left on a desk in the staff room.”
“It wasn’t meant for you.”
“Then maybe don’t leave player reports lying around where anyone can read between the lines.” His tone shifted, quieter but sharper. “You’re watching Gavin. Kade, too.”
I didn’t answer.
He tilted his head, studying me. “What are you hoping to find?”
It felt like a test—him dangling a thread to see if I’d pull.
I straightened, forcing my expression flat. “That’s none of your business.”
He stood, slow and deliberate, the kind of movement that made you aware of how close the space between you really was.
“Well, it kind of becomes my business when you treat my teammates like they’re case files.”
I kept my voice steady. “This isn’t personal, Talon. It’s work.”
