Page 27 of The Players We Hate
Heat crept up my neck.
“Come on,” he murmured, nodding toward the doors. “Let’s get you out of the spotlight.”
I didn’t even hesitate as I followed him inside.
And for once, I didn’t care who was watching.
The lobby was still and dimly lit, the soft buzz of fluorescent lights humming overhead as the glass doors shut behind us. I barely noticed how tightly I gripped the take-out bag until the crinkle of paper echoed down the hall.
Talon kept walking until we were tucked in beside the stairwell, out of view from the front desk and away from the driver still waiting outside.
He leaned back against the wall, arms crossed, the sleeves of his hoodie pushed halfway up his forearms. His gaze had softened from the guarded look he wore that night. There was no teasing smirk, no cocky shield. Only a quiet, simmering focus.
“I’ve been thinking about you,” he said. The words came out rougher than I expected.
I blinked, unsure I’d heard him right. “What?”
His eyes stayed on mine. “Since that night. I haven’t been able to stop.”
My breath caught.Oh God.
For days, I’d kept myself moving, always one step ahead of the memory, burying myself in class and club meetings, pretending dinner with my parents hadn’t unraveled me. But the truth was, I hadn’t stopped thinking about him either.
The way his hands had moved over me, finding every curve and edge I usually tried to hide. For that one night, I wasn’t invisible. I felt seen.
I swallowed hard, forcing the words through the knot in my throat. “I… yeah. Me too.”
He exhaled, his shoulders shifting as if the confession had let some weight off. “I almost reached out. A few times.” He rubbed the back of his neck, eyes dropping to the floor. “But every time I saw you on campus, you disappeared.”
I looked away, guilt flashing through me.
He wasn’t wrong.
I’d seen him at least four times this week alone. Outside the arena. Across the quad. In the dining hall. And each time, I ducked my head or chose a different path, telling myself it was better that way.
Facing him meant facing everything that night stirred up in me. And I wasn’t sure I was ready for that.
“I didn’t know what to say,” I admitted quietly. “I didn’t want to make it any weirder.”
“Was it weird for you?”
My pulse quickened.
“No,” I whispered. “That’s the problem.”
His eyes lifted, and for the first time since that night, I saw something real flicker there. Not just desire, but recognition.
“Then why haven’t you said anything?” he asked, his voice low, rough around the edges.
I didn’t want to want you. Wanting you meant unraveling everything I’d worked so hard to hold together. And the truth was, I was scared.
But I couldn’t say any of that. So instead, I gave him the only truth I could manage.
“I thought it’d be easier if we pretended it didn’t happen.”
He took a step closer, close enough I could smell the warm cedar and soap on his skin. Close enough that I forgot how to breathe.
“Has it been?” he asked, eyes locked on mine.
