Page 110 of The Players We Hate
Rowdy nudged my elbow, pointing at the last mini slider. “You want it before I take it? Last chance.”
I shook my head, laughing when he grabbed it. For the first time in weeks, I felt myself start to breathe again.
The table stayed loud for another minute before the energy shifted. Talon leaned in, his voice low but firm enough to cut through. “We need to talk about Gavin.”
Rowdy set his fork down. Owen sat up straighter. Even Kade’s grin slipped.
Talon kept his tone even. “Reed’s been keeping tabs. The official story is he’s taking medical leave after the injury and maybe transferring. However, Reed discovered that he never went home. He’s been staying with a family friend, lying low and trying to dodge the press. Nobody’s sure if he’ll pop back up at another school or disappear for good.”
The weight of it hung there. Not a clean answer, but enough to know Gavin was gone—for now, at least.
Then the lights dimmed, pulling the attention of the room to the stage. My father walked onto the stage, applause breaking out before he even spoke. His voice carried easily, smooth and practiced.
“Tonight is about looking ahead,” he said. “It’s about the next generation and the importance of expanding the Children’s Hospital here in our community. These kids need us, and it’s our responsibility—and our honor—to step up.”
The room answered with polite applause, cameras flashing, heads nodding on cue. His delivery never changed. It was the same speech I’d grown up hearing—words that sounded good until you remembered who was saying them.
I pressed my hands together in my lap, forcing myself to stay still. For years, I shrank when he spoke in front of acrowd, convinced there wasn’t space for me. Sitting here now, it was clearer than ever. He wasn’t up there for the kids or their families who needed that hospital wing. He was up there to repair his reputation.
My gaze slid across the room until I found my mom at a table near the front. Her hands were folded in her lap, her posture stiff. When she caught me looking, she gave me a slight smile, but it faded fast. The space between us felt heavier than the crowd around us. I didn’t know if I wanted to go to her or stay where I was.
“We’ll move into the auction shortly after dessert,” he said, closing things out.
The applause came when my father stepped back from the microphone, but it didn’t have the same weight it once did. I caught it. So did he. His jaw flexed before the practiced smile returned, but the room was already moving on.
Servers started setting plates down in front of us, but I barely glanced at mine. I pushed my chair back, planning to slip away to the bathroom before the auction started. I had just started across the room when a hand clamped around my arm.
“Wren,” my father said smoothly, his smile still fixed for the cameras. “Stay a moment.”
I froze, glancing toward the other side of the room where Talon stood with a kid who had run up to him earlier, excited to meet him. The boy held a stick almost as tall as he was, his suit jacket sliding off his shoulders. Talon signed the blade and ruffled his hair. The kid grinned ear to ear while his mom pressed a hand to her chest, eyes shining. Cameras flashed, reporters leaned in, donors drifted closer.
Talon didn’t have to put on a show. People believed him because he was real, which was exactly what my father hated most. His grip on my arm tightened, holding me in place while the room’s attention slid away from him.
Frustration boiled up in me—at my dad, who still wouldn’t let go even when it was clear his grip was slipping.
His voice stayed smooth, still for show. “A photo, maybe? You look radiant tonight.”
I hated how his tone almost sounded convincing. It had been weeks since we’d spoken without a fight, and part of me wanted to think he meant it. That maybe he was trying.
Photographers lifted their cameras, waiting for the picture. I stayed still. His smile slipped, and once he tugged me out of frame, the warmth was gone.
“You’ve lost your way,” he muttered, his grip tightening on my arm. “Pierce has a reputation—you know it. He’s disrespectful and selfish. He’s been waiting for a chance to get back at us after what happened with Wells and his sister, and you’re handing it to him. Do you even understand how this looks? You’re dragging our family through the mud, making a spectacle of yourself for him.”
The words stung, not because I believed them, but because I’d been hearing versions of them my whole life.
Before I could answer, Talon stepped in. “Something wrong?” His voice was calm, but there was an edge to it.
My father sneered. “You know exactly what’s wrong. You’ve dragged her into this. Whatever anger you’re carrying for Wells, you’re taking it out on her. You’re using her to get back at me and our family, and she’s too blinded to see it.”
The urge to shrink back tugged at me, to smooth things over before it got worse. But not this time. I stepped forward, away from Talon and closer to him.
“This isn’t Talon’s doing,” I said calmly. “This is me. My choice. You don’t get to twist it into something else.”
His lip curled. “What’s wrong with you?”
“You,” I snapped. “You covered for Wells. You let him ruin Tatum’s life because protecting your image was more important than doing what’s right. You think if you smile hard enough, shake the right hands, and write the big checks, it’ll all disappear. But it didn’t. And it won’t.”
His mask cracked, just for a second. Fear, then anger.
