Page 20 of The Players We Hate
Of course, she was sending the driver.
They didn’t want me moving around campus on my own anymore. Not when people whispered and the press still circled like vultures waiting for the next soundbite or slipup. It wasn’t about protecting me. It was about control—over me and over the narrative.
So now I had security. Not official Secret Service level, but close enough. A black SUV. A rotating list of names I was expected to check in with. A reminder that privacy was a prettier word for surveillance.
I swung my legs over the side of the bed, hand dragging through my tangled hair. My pulse stuttered against my ribs, my stomach sinking as though it already knew what my mind wouldn’t say out loud.
While I’d spent every night replaying Talon’s voice saying my name, the way he held me as if I might break, he’d given me nothing but silence.
Tonight, I didn’t have the luxury of dwelling on it. By 6:15, I was waiting outside my dorm in the soft blue sweater my mother once claimed “photographed well.” It was safe, polished, and predictable. Just what she expected. My hair was pulled into a low twist, my makeup neutral, my expression unreadable.
Right on schedule, the sleek black SUV pulled up to the curb. The driver, one of the rotating stone-faced men assigned to me for “protection,” stepped out wordlessly and opened the door.
I slid into the leather seat and settled in for the drive to the cabin, trying not to let my nerves show, even as they clawed at the inside of my chest.
The lake house looked as it always did this time of year, wrapped in gold leaves and filtered light, tucked into the woods like a secret you couldn’t quite keep buried. My parents’ SUV was already in the driveway, parked at a perfect angle as if the image alone mattered.
The second I stepped out of the car, Lincoln and Teddy barreled down the porch steps. The goldens were all wagging tails and floppy ears, tongues hanging as they raced straight for me.
“Hey, boys,” I murmured, crouching down to rub their ears, letting them nudge my knees and lick my hands.
For a moment, the easy welcome calmed me—until I realized no one’s come to the door.
No mom on the porch with a tight smile and a comment about my shoes. No dad stepping out of his study, phone in hand, giving me a distracted nod inside.
They knew I’d be here.
Shetextedme.
Still crouched beside the dogs, I glanced at the front door, then up at the windows glowing with warm light. It was too quiet. Too staged.
I stood, brushing the dog hair from my sweater. “Great. Now I look like I rolled in it,” I muttered, before heading inside and letting myself in.
“Hello?” I called, stepping inside and setting my bag down in the entryway.
No answer.
The house smelled of pinewood and my mother’s faint floral perfume, the kind of trace she always left behind. Inside, it was warm and quiet, the fire in the hearth burning low. I glanced into the kitchen and the den. Both were empty.
The silence stretched.
I was halfway to texting my mom when I caught the low hum of a voice coming from deeper in the house. I followed it slowly, each step sinking heavier than the last as I neared the familiar door at the end of the hall. My father’s office. The door was cracked enough to let his voice slip through.
“I’m aware of the risks,” he clipped. “But it’s being handled. Athletics is our biggest donor draw. If we lose credibility there, we lose influence.”
I froze outside the doorway.
There was a weight in his voice I recognized from boardrooms and press conferences, from family dinners where image was everything and emotion was unwelcome.
“The hockey program is strong this year,” he continued. “Pierce is the standout. Stats like that carry weight if we keep distractions to a minimum.”
Pierce.
The name echoed like a warning bell. My chest tightened.
Talon Pierce.
I took a step closer, holding my breath.
