Page 53 of The Players We Hate
“Listen, I didn’t want to say anything in front of your sister, but I need to tell you something. About Wells.”
The humor drained from my face. “What about him?”
Beckham glanced toward the kitchen to make sure no one else was in earshot. “I’ve had my suspicions for a while now. Back when I was still at Rixton, Wells was always hanging around the wrong people. We both know Rixton’s more of a hockey school, and if I wanted a real shot at the NFL, I needed to transfer somewhere scouts actuallypaid attention. But before I left, I saw enough to know something was off. I think Wells is tied up in game betting. Not just placing bets but running them, orchestrating, and I think he’s using players to do it.”
A cold weight settled in my stomach.
“I never could quite pin it down,” Beckham went on. “But I suspected he was up to something even then. I knew politics would end up interfering with my starting spot sooner or later, so I didn’t dig deeper.”
“You’re serious?”
Beckham nodded. “Dead serious. And I doubt he’s pulling it off alone.”
That caught my attention. “You think someone’s helping him?”
He hesitated, jaw tight before he finally said it. “I wouldn’t doubt if his dad has a hand in it somehow. With how much they do to keep their image clean and cover their tracks, there’s no way he doesn’t know what his son’s wrapped up in—unless he’s helping bury it. Or worse, he’s part of it himself.”
I leaned back, blowing out a sharp breath. “There’s no way Wren has any idea.”
Beckham’s jaw tightened. “Maybe she doesn’t. Living under that roof, she’s closer to it than anyone. Either way, if what you’re saying is true, it’s bad. Program-wide consequences bad.”
I shook my head. “I don’t want to believe it either, but I’ve met her dad. He’s intense, and he’s also the reason a lot of donors still back the university.”
Beckham frowned. “Why do you think he’d care about hockey? He’s politics and money. What’s he doing tied up in your world?”
“Exactly,” another voice cut in.
Reed stepped into the room, a bottle of water in hand. He hadn’t said much since our conversation in his room earlier, but now his eyes were locked on me. “I heard he was at your last game.”
“Governor Perry?” Hayes asked. Beckham glanced at his brother and gave a quick nod.
“Yeah,” I said. “He was up in the press box with a bunch of donors. Didn’t have to say a word, just being there was enough.”
A chill ran down my spine. I already knew about the new athletic facility they were trying to push through, and having the governor show up at a Rixton hockey game was the perfect photo op. He wanted people to believe he cared about schools and athletics, even if it was nothing more than a campaign move.
Reed crossed the room and leaned against the back of the couch. “It’s always about optics with guys like him. He’s powerful, Talon. Board seats, alumni connections, control over where athletic funding goes. If he wants something to disappear, it disappears. If he wants someone to take the fall…”
Beckham cut in, voice flat. “Then they don’t get a choice.”
A quiet beat passed.
Reed’s voice dropped, his gaze sharp. “Even if Wren isn’t involved, if this thing blows up and you’re standing next to her? They won’t ask questions. They’ll come for you.”
“You think they’d try to pin this on me?” It sounded ridiculous, but the knot in my gut didn’t see it as a joke.
“I think if someone needed a scapegoat badly enough,” Reed said slowly, “they’d make one. You’re on scholarship, right? You’ve got NHL eyes on you. One headline, even if they spun it right, could blow it all.”
I swallowed hard. Beckham clapped a hand on my shoulder, anchoring me. “Just be careful, man. You’ve got a lot to lose.”
My eyes drifted toward the window overlooking the backyard again. Wren was out there under the patio lights, laughing quietly with Ava and Hallyn like she hadn’t just walked into a storm.
Maybe she didn’t know the truth. Or perhaps she was already tangled in it, just like the rest of us.
***
The clock on the wall ticked past midnight, the low hum of the baseboard heater the only sound left now that everyone else had gone to bed.
I stayed behind in the living room, pretending to watch muted highlights of a game I already knew the outcome of. I knew I should sleep. I had to be on the road early if I wanted to make it home in time for tomorrow’s game, but my head wouldn’t shut off.
