Page 80 of The Players We Hate
My burner profile still worked. It had taken days to get the credentials right and even longer to slip past the NIL portal without setting off alerts. A fake student identity buried deep in the backend.
Nothing more than a ghost in the system.
I scrolled through Gavin’s file again, the screen glare stinging my tired eyes.
Something was off. I’d felt it ever since the night I found out he walked away from the team, and the feeling hadn’t let go.
At first glance, it looked routine. A mid-tier NIL deal, four grand for local promos and online content. Nothingunusual, just one of dozens scattered across his record. But the sponsor’s name caught my attention.
Brighter Futures Initiative.
Too simple. Unlike the others, there was no logo, no links, and no physical address attached. Just a name and a date, floating in the file like it had been dropped in as filler.
I opened a new tab and typed in the name. Nothing. No website. No socials. No mention in the state business registry. It’s like the company didn’t exist at all.
My chest tightened as I ran a reverse domain search, then cross-checked payment records. Still nothing. The money had been pushed through something called the Rixton Student Enrichment Fund, a nonprofit buried under tax filings and vague mission statements.
My stomach twisted.
I knew that name. I’d seen it in donation reports my father left lying around his office—always near the bottom, always worded to blend in.
I clicked the attached approval form. The scan loaded slowly, line by line, until the final page filled the screen. My eyes locked on the signature at the bottom, and the air punched out of my lungs.
Typed: William Perry, Rixton University Board of Trustees
Handwritten: W.P.
The initials stood out, sharp and familiar. I knew my father’s signature instantly.
A cold chill crept up my spine, settling heavily in my chest.
For a moment, I couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. My hand hovered above the trackpad, frozen as the realization carved itself deeper into my chest.
He knew.
He wasn’t just complicit. He was behind it all—behind the fake payments, the shell nonprofit, and likely whatever pressure was being put on Gavin. Maybe others, too.
My father had used the NIL system as a front. Money funneled through a donor-linked PAC, disguised as educational support, was handed off to a player who faked an injury and then disappeared.
And now Talon and the rest of the team were left to deal with the mess. A mess my father created.
The betrayal didn’t hit all at once. It sank in slow, heavy, impossible to shake.
I pressed the heels of my hands into my eyes and dragged in a shaky breath. It should have surprised me.
It didn’t. Not really. Deep down, I’d always known what he was capable of—I just never wanted to believe he’d turn this ruthless, this selfish.
And maybe some part of me still wanted to believe he wasn’t the monster Talon said he was.
But monsters do not leave signatures this clear.
I pushed back hard, the chair wheels scraping loud across the floor. The sound echoed through the empty dorm room. Alisa had gone back home, and the silence pressed in heavier without her.
I paced once, twice, then stopped in front of the window.
The street outside was still, blanketed in snow from the last storm. It clung to the curbs and cars, piling on top of dirty banks that had never fully melted. Tennessee weather was always strange—snow one week, sunshine the next. The constant shifts made everything feel off balance.
I wrapped my arms tight around myself, swallowing the lump rising in my throat.
