Page 15 of The Players We Hate
The sheets were twisted where she had been, the warmth already fading. I stretched out in the hollow she left, as if pressing myself into it could keep her there, could stop the moment from slipping through my fingers. Her scent lingered—lavender and vanilla, soft and sharp all at once. It settled over me as a quiet reminder that she had been here, and for a moment, she had been mine.
Wren.
Her name pressed into my chest, heavy and impossible to ignore. I shifted onto my back, muscles tight, the ache in my body matching the chaos in my head. I closed my eyes, but the image of her was still there—her lips parted, breath shallow, and eyes locked on mine as she came apart beneath me, unwilling to let the moment end.
And I hadn’t wanted it to either.
She slipped out after, and I let her go, giving her the head start she wanted so no one would catch us together. I should have gone with her. Instead, I stayed behind, staring at the ceiling as if it might hold answers.
It hadn’t been just a hookup.
That was what it should have been. Another distraction in a long line of distractions. A way to take the edge off the need to touch her. But the way she looked at me made it impossible to resist, and I gave in to the temptation of watching her fall apart in my hands.
That was when I knew it was already more. Not with the way her body answered mine, like she trusted me with pieces of herself she never meant to give away. I knew it the moment she whispered my name, soft and breathless, like it carried weight.
When she left, I tried to tell myself it didn’t matter. But even in the dark, her scent clung to me, and I couldn’t stop replaying it—the tremble of her body under my hands, the hitch in her breath when I pushed her closer to the edge, the way she clung to me as though I was the only thing keeping her grounded.
I had gotten off thinking about her.
Even hours later, I could still taste her on my tongue.
The buzz of my phone on the nightstand pulled me out of the memories. Three new messages lit up the screen.
Beckham: Great game last night, bro. Just caught the highlights and you were shutting 'em down like a beast.
Hayes: You and Owen were unstoppable. The Frozen Four is without a doubt happening this season.
Another ping.
Hayes: Tatum’s doing good. Says she finally unpacked everything. She got a job at a local bakery and seems happier. She said this was the fresh start she needed.
I stared at the message, jaw tightening.
Tatum.
My little sister. The one who had been forced to leave when it all went to hell. The girl who had to start over after her trust was shattered.
And I had hooked up with his sister.
Wren’s last name hadn’t left scars on her skin like it had on Tatum’s. Scars deep enough to make her run. Scars that almost broke her.
What the hell had I done?
I dragged a hand through my hair, guilt hitting hard and fast. I should have stopped it. Should have walked away before it ever got this far.
But I hadn’t. Because the moment she asked me to touch her, the moment her eyes locked on mine with that look I couldn’t shake, nothing else had mattered.
I swiped quickly and texted back:
Me: Appreciate it. Glad she’s settling in. Tell her I’ll call soon.
I dropped the phone on the nightstand and leaned forward, elbows on my knees, head in my hands.
This shouldn’t have happened. Wren never should have ended up in my bed.
But it hadn’t felt like a mistake. Not when every second with her gave me something I hadn’t even known I was missing until it was right in front of me.
Her last name didn’t matter. The rules didn’t matter. She was already under my skin, and I didn’t think I could cut her out if I tried.
