Page 103 of The Players We Hate
We hadn’t just played distracted. We’d played weighed down, the truth dragging at every stride until there was nothing left in us. Maybe that was exactly what happened.
I stayed hunched forward, forearms on my knees, staring at the same patch of rubber floor until my vision blurred. My jersey lay crumpled across my lap, sweat-soaked and shapeless, something I barely recognized.
One by one, the guys filed out, heads down, too ashamed to meet anyone’s eyes. I couldn’t blame them. We weren’t used to this. We were the team that pulled miracles in thelast five minutes, that found ways to win when we had no business winning.
But tonight there was nothing. No spark. No comeback.
I stood slower than I meant to, shoved my jersey into my duffel, and hauled it over my shoulder. Everything ached—not just from the game, but from months of carrying more than I should’ve, holding it in until it set deep in my bones.
I didn’t stop. Didn’t wait for PR or the reporters crowding the tunnel. Not yet. I kept moving—down the tunnel, through the back hall, into the cool dim light behind the arena.
That’s where I saw her. Wren. Leaning against the wall near the players’ entrance, arms crossed, wearing one of my old hoodies like it belonged to her. Her hair was pulled into a messy bun, strands falling loose. Her eyes caught mine the second I stepped out, and everything in me went still.
She didn’t speak. She didn’t have to.
I stopped in front of her, the overhead lights throwing our shadows long across the floor.
“You okay?” she asked, her voice soft.
I swallowed hard, my throat thick. “We lost.”
“I know.” She didn’t look away. “You had more than the season weighing on your shoulders tonight. You were defending everything else that had come with it, too.”
My jaw tightened as I dropped my gaze to the floor. “Doesn’t feel like I carried it well.”
She moved closer, her fingers threading through mine. They were cold at first, then warmer as she held on, steady in a way that anchored me.
“We told the truth,” she said quietly. “We didn’t let them bury it. You didn’t let them win.”
The breath that left me came rough, jagged, like it had been lodged in my chest all night. “I thought if we won, it would make it worth it. Maybe I could undo what happened to my sister. Make being away from my mom when she needed me mean something. That somehow, winning would give it all a purpose.”
“And now?” she asked.
I forced myself to meet her eyes. “Now I just hope it’s enough to change what comes next.”
Wren stepped in, closing the last bit of distance between us until I could feel her breath. She cupped my face, her thumb brushing slowly along my jaw.
“You don’t have to fix everything, Talon.”
Her words hit deep, heavy in my chest, but at the same time, they loosened something that had been locked tight inside me.
“You just had to stop carrying it alone.”
My eyes closed at the feel of her touch. At the quiet truth in her voice. The way she was still here, still standing beside me after everything.
I leaned in until my forehead rested against hers, my voice so low it barely left my throat. “Thank you.”
Her breath warmed against mine. We lingered there for a beat before I closed the space and kissed her. It was simple, certain, the kind of kiss that left no doubt what I wanted.
When I pulled back, she didn’t move far. Her hand stayed on my jaw, her eyes steady on mine, cutting through every wall I’d put up.
All season, I’d been afraid of being seen with her, worried about what would happen once it got back to her dad. Not anymore.
With Wren beside me, with the truth out and the secrets burned down to nothing, I didn’t feel like a pawn in someone else’s game. It wasn’t everything, but it was enough.
The press room was brutal. Bright lights in my face, voices firing questions from every angle. They didn’t want answers. They wanted to pick me apart and see what was left.
Hands shot up before I even reached for the mic. Red lights blinked from the cameras, waiting to catch every word, every slip, like they were hoping I’d hand them something bigger than the game.
