Page 67 of The Players We Hate
“Right.” His voice cut sharper now. “And this work just happened to fall into your lap right after your brother got bounced from the football team?”
That one hit.
I blinked but kept my chin level. “I earned this.”
His nostrils flared. He didn’t like how calm I was, and I could see it in the tight set of his jaw and the way he held himself too still. But I’d learned how to keep my composure. My mother had made sure of it.
“This isn’t about you,” I said, stepping forward. “It’s not about Kade. Or Gavin. Or my brother.”
He shifted into the doorway, blocking it.
“No? Then what is it about?”
I held his stare. “It’s about integrity. About doing something that matters. So I’d appreciate it if you didn’t get in my way.”
His lips parted like he had a comeback, but nothing came out. His jaw tightened, chest rising a little too quickly, like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to push harder or back down.
Finally, he stepped aside.
I walked past him with my head high, heels clicking against the tile. I didn’t look back.
I found an empty office and slid the manila folder into the dropbox slot by the compliance door.
Every form was signed. Every observation logged. I noted Gavin’s name just enough to raise a flag, but kept the details vague, careful to make sure mine stayed out of it.
My fingers lingered on the edge of the slot for a moment before I let the file fall through.
The anonymous tip was ready. I wasn’t proud of it, but I hadn’t come here to protect anyone’s feelings. I was here to protect the players and the game, even if it meant setting fire to a few bridges along the way.
The walk back felt longer than it should’ve. My steps echoed off the concrete, sharp enough to make me feel called out. I kept my eyes forward, refusing to look toward the video room again. My heart pounded steady in my chest.
I should’ve taken the side exit, the one I always used. But something stopped me.
Because I could still feel him. Talon and his stare that never gave anything away. The tension in his jaw, sharp enough that it almost had a sound. He had an infuriating habit of pressing into places he didn’t belong, as if I owed him answers I wasn’t about to give.
I stopped at the stairwell before the lobby, pressed my palm to the wall, and forced a breath in. I was just about to move when I heard footsteps behind me. My fingers curled at my side. Of course, he followed.
I didn’t turn, and I didn’t need to.
“Wren.”
Just my name, low and close, enough to keep me rooted in place.
I drew in one more breath before facing him. He stood a few feet away, shoulders tight under hishoodie, hands flexing as if he couldn’t decide whether to cross his arms or put a fist through the wall.
His eyes locked on me, steady and unblinking, trying to catch something I didn’t mean to show. The weight of it crawled under my skin, leaving me exposed.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“Walking,” I said, motioning down the hallway, as if it weren’t already obvious.
“Don’t—” He stopped himself, pulled in a breath, then stepped closer. “Don’t play coy with me.”
“You following me now, or are we calling this a coincidence?”
“I’m asking what your endgame is,” he snapped. “Because this—” He gestured, like he couldn’t even pin down what he meant. “This isn’t nothing. So why are you really here?”
The laugh that slipped out wasn’t amused. It was sharp and bitter.
