Page 21 of The Players We Hate (Rixton U #2)

Talon

The scrape of blades tore across the ice, chased by the hard crack of a puck slamming into the boards.

My breath fogged the inside of my cage as I bent low, circling toward center ice and calling for a line change.

My muscles ached, sweat trailing down my spine beneath the gear, but I kept pushing.

Slowing down wasn’t an option, not with everything outside the rink falling apart.

Practice had been brutal since our fourth loss of the season, and today was no different.

Drills were faster. Hits harder. Every missed pass felt like taking a check into the boards.

It wasn’t just pressure from the coaches either.

The whole team had started looking over their shoulders, like we all sensed something shifting beneath us.

I coasted to a stop near the bench, gulping air as Rowdy tapped his stick against the boards behind me.

“You’re tight today,” he muttered. “Pissed or focused?”

“Both,” I said, tugging off my glove just enough to swipe sweat from my forehead.

He nodded toward the far end of the rink. “She’s back.”

I didn’t need to ask who. My eyes scanned the ice and found Wren right away.

She stood just past the plexiglass near the tunnel, clipboard tucked under one arm, a travel mug in the other. She wasn’t talking—just watching.

Even from across the rink, she looked out of place. Her brown hair neat, slacks pressed, boots that probably cost more than my gear. But today she looked off. Too still, like if she moved the wrong way, she might come apart.

I caught the cracks anyway—the way she shifted her weight like she couldn’t settle, the pen on her clipboard bending under her grip.

“Man, what is she doing here?” Owen asked, skating up beside me during the water break.

“It’s the third time this week,” Rowdy muttered, shaking his head.

I grabbed my bottle and took a long drink before answering.

“I think she’s interning with the athletic department,” I said, though the words sounded weak even to me.

“That’s what they’re calling it?” He scoffed. “First, she’s hanging around practices, then Gavin goes down, and Kade’s truck gets trashed. You don’t think that’s suspicious?”

I didn’t answer. Mostly because I’d been thinking the same thing.

The timing lined up too well. Everyone had started looking sideways at Gavin—missed plays that didn’t make sense, injuries that didn’t add up.

Kade had picked up on it early and started digging, trying to piece together the inconsistencies .

Coach had already come down on Kade once, accusing him of betting, which only made him more restless, more convinced something wasn’t right.

While he was out at the cabin with Willow—his stepsister he’d been around a lot lately—he came back to find his truck window smashed.

A puck shot through it, Gavin’s number written across the tape. The message was clear as day: back off.

Owen leaned closer, dropping his voice. “Word’s spreading. About her brother.”

My jaw tightened. “What about him?”

“He lost his scholarship. Quiet transfer. Some DII school clear across the state. Nobody’s saying it outright, but it’s not hard to figure out why after what happened with Tatum.”

My throat tightened. It wasn’t out in the open yet, but I wasn’t shocked that the whispering had started.

Nothing about the Perrys stayed quiet for long—not when people were always waiting for their perfect image to crack.

Reed had done his thing behind the scenes, digging just enough to put Wells under without leaving a trail back to him or Tatum.

It hadn’t happened all at once, but piece by piece, it added up until Wells was done.

“What are you getting at?” I asked.

Owen’s eyes followed Wren for a moment. “Just feels off. Her brother flames out in a scandal, she disappears for months, and now she’s suddenly in our space, hovering like she’s got a badge. You know how this looks, right? Guys are starting to talk.”

I didn’t have to ask who. I’d already overheard them in the locker room .

The governor’s daughter has got front-row seats now, huh? Wonder who she had to sweet-talk for those.

She’s here to make a name for herself, not to help us. If someone sneezes wrong, she’s gonna call it a violation.

She’s probably keeping a list already. First Kade’s truck, now Gavin’s out? She’s digging. I say we don’t make it easy for her.

That last one came from a freshman who hadn’t even earned a starting spot but still felt bold enough to talk shit. No one corrected him. Not even me.

And I hated it. Not because I believed Wren needed defending, since she wouldn’t have wanted it anyway, but because the version they carried around in their heads wasn’t who she really was— Or at least not the person I’d come to know.

I’d seen more than they ever had.

I remembered when she told me about Tatum and her brother, how she hadn’t known anything about it the first time we met. She’d said that night wasn’t about family drama, it was about how I made her feel—like someone actually saw her.

Maybe that’s why I hated myself for it. For seeing her like that and still walking away, acting like it hadn’t meant anything.

And now, watching her across the ice, I recognized it all over again. The tight way she held her shoulders. The polite smile that didn’t reach her eyes. The steel she tried to show, but underneath, the same sadness.

Through the glass, I caught sight of the girl who had once kissed me like she needed me to hold her up. Now she stood thirty feet away, stiff and distant, like I was just another stranger.

Coach’s whistle cut through the air, sharp and final, the sound bouncing off the rafters. Practice was over. A couple of guys groaned as they slowed to a stop and coasted toward the bench, sticks dragging, and helmets coming off.

Nobody looked relieved, though—least of all Gavin.

He was the last one off the ice again—same as yesterday, same as the day before.

Earlier this week, he blamed his ribs, but now his hand kept going to his knee.

A quick wince before he covered it. Always guarding that left leg.

Careful, but not careful enough to sell it.

And when he thought no one was looking, he skated fine. No limp, no hesitation, nothing.

And now we were paying attention. Every single one of us.

Rowdy pulled off his mask and leaned against the boards with a heavy breath. “Guy’s got a lower-body injury, right? Then why did he look fine during the power play scrimmage?”

“Because he was fine,” Owen muttered beside me, voice low. “He only started limping when Coach looked his way.”

A few guys nodded, cutting glances toward Gavin. He was crouched by the tunnel, pretending to retie a skate that didn’t need it.

The tension was spreading.

“Anyone get a straight answer from him yet?” someone asked.

“He told me it was a sprain,” Levi said. “Yesterday, it was a pulled muscle. Now it’s a bruised knee. Either the kid’s made of glass or he’s full of shit. ”

“More like scared of something,” Owen muttered. “You saw how weird he got when Wren showed up. He couldn’t even look at her.”

I followed their stares. Wren was still near the assistant AD, voice low, face unreadable. Gavin, on the other hand, looked like he couldn’t get out of his gear fast enough. Practically shaking as he rushed to the tunnel.

I pulled off my gloves, jaw tight. Something was wrong. The guys were restless, losing trust. I couldn’t just stand there and wait for it to explode.

As captain, it fell on me to handle it.

The locker room was quieter than usual after practice. Normally, there’d be music blasting, guys chirping each other, laughter echoing off the walls. Today, it felt like everyone was holding their breath.

Gavin sat on the far end of the bench, hunched over as he worked at his laces with shaky fingers. His hair stuck to his forehead, and he hadn’t said a word since we left the ice. Not even the usual half-assed “good practice.”

I waited until the room thinned out. Rowdy had already bolted for food, and Owen trailed Levi out the door mid-conversation about protein shakes. Then I crossed the room.

Gavin flinched when he saw me coming. Not a good sign.

“You got a minute?” I asked, keeping my voice low.

“Yeah,” he said quickly. Too quickly. “Yeah, of course.”

I dropped onto the bench across from him, leaning forward on my knees. I let the silence hang until he started shifting.

“Guys are starting to talk,” I said. “About your injury. ”

His eyes darted down. He shrugged. “It’s nothing serious. Just sore.”

“Is that the same line you’re feeding Coach?”

He swallowed hard and picked at the tape around his shin guards. “I didn’t want to sit out. Thought it would get better on its own.”

“It’s been over a week.”

“I know.”

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 .