Page 81 of The Players We Hate
What did I do now?
If I brought this forward, it wouldn’t just destroy my father’s career. It would unravel something bigger—tangled up in university funding, political favors, and federal oversight I barely understood.
And if I didn’t? Then I was no better than him.
The cursor blinked on the laptop screen, unchanging, as if mocking how shaken I was. Two letters glared back at me.W.P.
I sank into the chair, frozen, the screen throwing a cold light across my face. My fingers hovered above the keys, useless, while a dull ringing filled my ears. One second, the file was there, clear as day. The next, the portal shut me out, dumping me back at the sign-in prompt as if it had never existed. But the knot in my gut told me it had.
I blinked hard, trying to bring the screen into focus, but the words blurred, twisting into shapes I couldn’t make sense of. I shoved a hand through my hair, staring at the screen that felt aimed right at me.
They knew I’d been there.
I didn’t know who “they” were. Compliance? The PAC’s IT team? Someone on my father’s staff?
Or the man pulling all the strings.
The initials seared into my mind like a brand. I could almost hear his voice echoing in my head, as clear as if he were standing behind me.
“Politics is the art of momentum, Wren. It’s not about the truth. It’s about controlling the narrative.”
It was one thing to suspect. Another to see it spelled out line by line.
The money started with the PAC. I already knew that. But seeing it move—pushed through a so-called student enrichment fund—made my stomach turn. On paper, it looked like support for students. In reality, it was just a pass-through. Money in, money out. Gavin’s name was on the checks, but I doubted he was the only one.
The fund was a cover. The sponsor was fake. The payout matched the NIL numbers exactly.
And my father—the governor, my own blood—had signed off on it.
The floor seemed to tilt under me. I shoved the desk chair back, the wheels protesting across the hardwood. What the hell was he doing?
The dorm was too still without Alisa’s chatter. The quiet pressed in. I started pacing, bare feet dragging against the floor with every step.
I didn’t have every piece, but the trail was clear enough. I’d grown up around it—policy briefings, strategy meetings, and dinner table politics. I knew the pattern.
Create a shell fund. Feed it donor money. Push it through a nonprofit stamped with the university’s name. Rebrand it as NIL support. Pay players. Pull them at the right time. Shift the odds. Build favors. Build power.
And the players tied to these deals? They weren’t random. They connected to donors and districts that mattered.
This wasn’t about sports or money. It was about control.
If I was right, and my father was using NIL deals to manipulate outcomes and gain leverage with the board, he wasn’tjust compromising the university. He was compromising everything.
The thought knocked the air from my lungs. I staggered back, gripping the counter to steady myself. My reflection in the dark window above stared back pale, hollow-eyed. Haunted.
This couldn’t be happening.
My chest tightened, and before I knew it, I was moving fast, nearly tripping over the rug as I rushed into the bathroom. The light overhead was harsh when it flicked on. I twisted the faucet and splashed cold water on my face, the shock biting at my skin. Drops clung to my lashes and slid down my neck. I gripped the sink, knuckles white against the porcelain, and forced myself to look up.
The reflection staring back at me didn’t look fine. She looked rattled and barely holding it together.
I tried to think. Who could I tell? How can I get proof? But every option twisted into a dead end.
If I told Talon, he’d blow it wide open and take himself down with it. If I went to compliance, they’d bury it before the ink dried. If I confronted my father—
No. Not yet.
I needed more. Names. Transfers. Proof that would turn smoke into fire. If I moved too soon, this wouldn’t just get shut down.
