Page 106 of The Players We Hate
My chest tightened, but I nodded. “You’re really doing it.”
Her chin lifted. “Yeah. I am.”
For a moment, I saw the girl she used to be—the one who kept everything neat, polished, careful, holding it all together on a tightrope no one else noticed.
But that wasn’t who stood in front of me now. This Wren had steel in her spine and fire in her eyes.
I picked up the hoodie at the foot of her bed and held it out. “Maybe throw this on? Just in case someone’s waiting with a camera.”
She looked at the hoodie, then back at me. Instead of putting it on, she folded it neatly and tucked it into her duffel.
“I’m not wearing it,” she said, steady. “I’m done hiding, Talon. I’ve spent my whole life playing it safe, doing what was expected. If they want a picture of me walking away in my boyfriend’s hoodie, with him beside me, let them.”
The room went still, the kind of stillness right before puck drop when the air is heavy with breath you haven’t released yet.
I cupped her face, my thumb brushing her cheek. “You don’t have to prove anything to anyone.”
“I’m not,” she whispered. “Not to them. I’m proving this to me.”
That was when it sank in. She wasn’t just breaking away from her father’s shadow. She was claiming her own name.
I laced our fingers together. “Let’s go.”
We slipped down the stairwell, every creak of the steps echoing in the quiet. Outside, the streetlights cast long shadows, and across the road, the cars were still there—same tinted windows, same outline. Waiting.
Wren didn’t falter, her hand firm in mine. The second we stepped outside, it hit us all at once. Voices overlapping, lights cutting through the dark, camera flashes popping sharp enough to sting the eyes.
Her grip trembled, just for a second, and I held steady, guiding her down the steps outside her dorm. My spine prickled. I didn’t need to look around to know they’d been waiting.
Reporters packed the sidewalk, bodies pressing forward, phones and microphones shoved toward us. Some bore the local station logos I recognized, but plenty didn’t. This wasn’t just campus news anymore. It had already spread past Rixton.
“Mr. Pierce, how involved were you in the exposé?”
“Wren, are you the one leaking information to the press?”
“What does this mean for your father and his administration?”
“Wren, are you sleeping with the captain out of revenge?
That last question hit harder than the rest. Wren’s stride faltered, and I slowed with her.
We stopped in the middle of it, flashes going off in our faces, voices pressing in from every side. Her shoulder brushed mine, her pulse racing. She stood rigid, expression set, but her eyes gave her away. The storm she’d been holding back was right there.
She didn’t have to meet my eyes for me to know. We were done hiding, and I wasn’t letting anyone shove her back into the dark.
I slid my thumb over the back of her hand, then turned toward her. My other hand came up to her cheek, and before I could think twice, I kissed her.
The world didn’t fade—it exploded. Flashes went wild, reporters gasping and shouting over each other, but none of it touched me. All I felt was her mouth on mine, her fistscurling into my hoodie, dragging me closer, kissing me back hard enough to knock me off balance.
No hesitation. No fear. Just us.
When we finally pulled apart, the noise had dropped. Microphones lowered. For once, the press didn’t seem to know what to do.
Wren’s breath caught, lips still parted, before a laugh slipped free. A real laugh, not forced or nervous.
“Think that answered their question?” she asked, her voice light even though her eyes still shone.
I brushed a strand of hair away from her face, smiling before I could stop myself. “Loud and clear.”
