Page 4 of The Players We Hate
Dating? Out of the question. I’d never had a real boyfriend. Never had time or permission. There was one guy I volunteered with. His father was in politics, like mine. We fooled around a few times, but it stopped right before it went all the way.
My parents wouldn’t say it out loud, but I knew they expected me to protect the family name like a full-time job.
My brother, on the other hand, got to make mistakes. He could date Tatum without a second thought, even when everyone knew it was headed for disaster. He broke her heart in public and still walked away untouchable. The gossip blogs loved him for it.
When it was him, it was a part of the charm.
When it was me, it was a front-page scandal.
I reached my room and dropped my bag at the foot of my bed. The space was small and functional, already split into two very distinct halves.
My side was neat and organized with shelves lined full of textbooks and law journals, a corkboard calendar crammed with due dates. My favorite candle sat unlit, lavender bedding tucked with military precision.
Alisa’s side looked like Pinterest staged an explosion. Clothes spilled over her desk chair. Neon throw pillows were piled high. A whiteboard was cluttered with photos of family and friends from back home, intermixed with doodles. A half-drunk energy drink teetered on the edge of her windowsill.
She wasn’t back yet, which didn’t surprise me. Her life was a whirlwind of student orgs, frat mixers, and whatever themed event she was committed to next.
I was tying my hair up into a loose bun, scrolling DoorDash for my usual order, when the door burst open.
“Wren! Tell me you’re not planning to spend another Friday night watchingScandalon Netflix and eating caprese salad in bed.”
“And if I am?”
She sighed dramatically. “Absolutely not. I’m putting my foot down. This is an emergency intervention. There’s a party tonight at the hockey house. They won their first preseason game, and apparently, someone’s cousin knows a guy who DJs for actual clubs. I’m going.” She planted her hands on her hips. “Correction: We’re going!”
I looked up from my phone, one eyebrow raised. “That’s a very suspicious invitation pipeline.”
She beamed. “But effective. You’re coming with me. Even if it’s only for an hour. You don’t have to drink. You don’t even have to talk to anyone. We’ll stand in the corner, sip soda, and silently rate outfits. It’ll be glorious.”
I hesitated, her words swirling with something I hadn’t let myself consider since we first became dormmates.
The possibility ofyes.
But then I thought about my mother. Our agreement and her silent rules. The press and their endless appetite for another story to twist.
No photos. No stories. No surprises.
Except Alisa was looking at me like I was a fun sponge she was determined to wring out, and a part of me wanted to see what a Friday night looked like outside these four walls.
“Fine,” I said, my voice quiet but sure. “But if I come, you can’t ask me to come to the fall formal.”
With a huff, she spun toward her closet. “Fine, deal. Now pick something that doesn’t look like you’re testifying before Congress.”
I powered down my laptop and closed the planner on my desk.
Maybe, just this once, it was okay to be seen.
While she changed into a cropped graphic tee, wide-leg cargo pants, and chunky sneakers, I reached for an off-white blouse and dark jeans. Polished enough without drawing attention. I twisted my hair into a loose knot and swiped on lip balm.
Halfway through tying my sneakers, my phone vibrated again.
Mother: Another reminder… Rixton’s alumni gala is next month. The press may ask about your transition from Kolmont. Keep your head down. Don’t let anyone bait you into drama. You’re there to grow, not implode.
I didn’t answer because if I did, I’d say something I shouldn’t.
The house was already packed when we arrived.
String lights dangled across the porch, casting a dim, flickering glow over the crowd that spilled into the yard. Music thundered from inside, the bass vibrating through the cracked sidewalk and into the soles of my shoes. It smelled like beer, sweat, and something sweet. Maybe spilled energy drinks or cheap cologne.
