Page 64 of The Players We Hate
I studied him. The way his hands shook. The constant clench of his jaw. He wasn’t hurt. He wasn’t pissed. He looked guilty.
“Is someone pressuring you?” I asked, lowering my voice.
His head snapped up.
“No,” he said, too fast. “It’s nothing like that.”
“Gavin—”
“I’m just tired, okay? School, hockey, scouts breathing down my neck… I’ve been off my game. I wasn’t paying attention, took a stupid hit, and tweaked my knee. That’s it.”
It was a decent excuse. One that might’ve worked if he hadn’t been so jumpy. If his eyes weren’t darting at the door every few seconds, like he expected someone to walk in and catch him.
“You’ve got every right to be tired,” I said slowly. “But if something else is going on, now’s the time to talk.”
“I told you,” he muttered. “It’s not.”
I didn’t buy it. His shoulders weren’t slumped from being tired, and that look in his eyes wasn’t exhaustion. It was fear. And the way he snapped back whenever anyone questioned him just proved it.
The locker room door shut behind me with a dull thud, cutting off the noise inside. The air still smelled like sweat and rubber. I stood there a second in the hallway, eyes adjusting to the dim light, footsteps echoing off the empty walls.
I leaned against the cinderblock wall, the cold seeping through my sweatshirt, and pulled out my phone. My thumb hovered over the screen—I'd promised Kade I’d reach out too.
I hated this part. Hated what it meant to drag someone else in. To ask for help digging into things that probably weren’t mine to touch. But I couldn’t shake Gavin’s face in the locker room. Couldn’t ignore the way his eyes kept darting to the exit, like he expected someone to be waiting for him.
He wasn’t tired or nervous. He was afraid. And it wasn’t only Gavin I was thinking about. Too much had been stacking up—Kade’s truck window smashed out, the way the guys had started acting differently, and then Wren showing up at practice with her perfect posture and that cool stare. Like she already knew where this was headed and was just waiting for the rest of us to figure it out.
I scrolled through my contacts, past teammates and family, until my thumb paused on one name. Reed Hendrix. I hit call. It rang twice before he answered.
“Didn’t expect to hear from you tonight.”
His voice came through calm and steady, the same as always.
“Yeah,” I said, shifting against the wall and rubbing the back of my neck. “Sorry to bother you this late.”
Reed gave a low laugh. “What is it this time? You're calling to check on your sister, or is there more drama happening in Rixton? Or maybe you just want an excuse to run away here, too?”
He didn’t wait for me to answer before his tone shifted. “You’re not calling for nothing. What’s going on?”
I glanced down the hallway again out of habit and lowered my voice.
“I need your help with something. It’s got to stay between us, though.”
Reed didn’t answer right away. The silence on the other end wasn’t hesitation. It was him listening, weighing.
“Go on,” he said.
“There’s a player on the team. Gavin Cruz, junior forward.” I tried to keep my tone steady even though my pulse was kicking faster. “He’s been nursing a leg injury, but nothing about it adds up. His story keeps changing. He skates fine when no one’s paying attention, but the second a coach is near, he’s limping like he’s barely holding it together.”
“You think he’s faking?”
“I don’t think. I know.” The words came out sharper than I meant. “It’s not just that either. He’s jumpy. Paranoid. Flinches when guys ask simple questions. I’ve seen players fold under pressure before, but this feels different.”
I dragged a hand down my face, the weight pressing on me, heavy as gear I couldn’t take off.
“He’s hiding something. And I think it’s bigger than him.”
Reed stayed steady, his voice even. “You think he’s tied up in the betting? Beckham mentioned he had his suspicions.”
