Page 27 of The Players We Hate (Rixton U #2)

Wren

The light from my laptop was the only thing on in the room. It cast long shadows across the table, catching on the cold cup of tea I’d made hours ago and never touched. The dorm was quiet except for the steady tap of keys and the low groan of the heating pipes in the walls.

I should be asleep. It was after three.

But sleep wouldn’t come. Not with the pieces scattered the way they were, the truth sitting just out of reach.

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. Nothing unusual, 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.

What did I do now?

If I brought this forward, it wouldn’t just destroy my father’s career. It would unravel something bigger—tangled up in university funding, political favors, and federal oversight I barely understood.

And if I didn’t? Then I was no better than him.

The cursor blinked on the laptop screen, unchanging, as if mocking how shaken I was. Two letters glared back at me. W.P.

I sank into the chair, frozen, the screen throwing a cold light across my face.

My fingers hovered above the keys, useless, while a dull ringing filled my ears.

One second, the file was there, clear as day.

The next, the portal shut me out, dumping me back at the sign-in prompt as if it had never existed. But the knot in my gut told me it had.

I blinked hard, trying to bring the screen into focus, but the words blurred, twisting into shapes I couldn’t make sense of. I shoved a hand through my hair, staring at the screen that felt aimed right at me.

They knew I’d been there.

I didn’t know who “they” were. Compliance? The PAC’s IT team? Someone on my father’s staff?

Or the man pulling all the strings.

The initials seared into my mind like a brand. I could almost hear his voice echoing in my head, as clear as if he were standing behind me.

“Politics is the art of momentum, Wren. It’s not about the truth. It’s about controlling the narrative. ”

It was one thing to suspect. Another to see it spelled out line by line.

The money started with the PAC. I already knew that.

But seeing it move—pushed through a so-called student enrichment fund—made my stomach turn.

On paper, it looked like support for students.

In reality, it was just a pass-through. Money in, money out.

Gavin’s name was on the checks, but I doubted he was the only one.

The fund was a cover. The sponsor was fake. The payout matched the NIL numbers exactly.

And my father—the governor, my own blood—had signed off on it.

The floor seemed to tilt under me. I shoved the desk chair back, the wheels protesting across the hardwood. What the hell was he doing?

The dorm was too still without Alisa’s chatter. The quiet pressed in. I started pacing, bare feet dragging against the floor with every step.

I didn’t have every piece, but the trail was clear enough. I’d grown up around it—policy briefings, strategy meetings, and dinner table politics. I knew the pattern.

Create a shell fund. Feed it donor money. Push it through a nonprofit stamped with the university’s name. Rebrand it as NIL support. Pay players. Pull them at the right time. Shift the odds. Build favors. Build power.

And the players tied to these deals? They weren’t random. They connected to donors and districts that mattered.

This wasn’t about sports or money. It was about control.

If I was right, and my father was using NIL deals to manipulate outcomes and gain leverage with the board, he wasn’t just compromising the university. He was compromising everything.

The thought knocked the air from my lungs. I staggered back, gripping the counter to steady myself. My reflection in the dark window above stared back pale, hollow-eyed. Haunted.

This couldn’t be happening.

My chest tightened, and before I knew it, I was moving fast, nearly tripping over the rug as I rushed into the bathroom.

The light overhead was harsh when it flicked on.

I twisted the faucet and splashed cold water on my face, the shock biting at my skin.

Drops clung to my lashes and slid down my neck.

I gripped the sink, knuckles white against the porcelain, and forced myself to look up.

The reflection staring back at me didn’t look fine. She looked rattled and barely holding it together.

I tried to think. Who could I tell? How can I get proof? But every option twisted into a dead end.

If I told Talon, he’d blow it wide open and take himself down with it. If I went to compliance, they’d bury it before the ink dried. If I confronted my father—

No. Not yet.

I needed more. Names. Transfers. Proof that would turn smoke into fire. If I moved too soon, this wouldn’t just get shut down.

It would bury me.

I stumbled out of the bathroom and dropped onto my bed, pulling my notebook into my lap and flipping to a clean page.

My pen moved quickly, my hand barely keeping up.

Payout amounts. Shell sponsors. Brighter Futures Initiative.

I underlined it three times, then circled the W.P.

signature until the ink pressed through the paper.

But there were still gaps. Too many. Gavin’s name was the only one I had.

How far did this go? Who else was tangled in it? Was Gavin the only one paid to fake injuries, or just the only one who couldn’t keep it up?

And the question that hit hardest—if I stayed quiet, what did that make me?

I snapped the notebook shut and stared out the window.

With both hands pressed to my chest, I tried to calm my breathing. I had to be careful. One wrong move and this wouldn’t just end my father’s career. It could take everything down with it.

I forced myself back to the laptop. The cursor blinked on the screen.

Access denied.

I tried my login again, slower this time, careful with each key. Then again. My fingers trembled before the red message appeared, indicating I’d been locked out.

Panic clawed up my throat, but I moved before it could swallow me.

I printed every screenshot I managed to save.

Each page rattled out louder than it should, like the printer knew what it was spitting out was dangerous.

I gathered the stack with shaking hands, slid it into a manila folder, and crossed the room.

Instinct took over. I crouched by my dresser, pulled the bottom drawer out until it clattered against the floor, and shoved the folder into the space beneath.

A hiding spot I had not thought about since I was a kid, tucking away poems and letters I never sent.

Strange how secrets still fit in the same place.

I pushed the drawer back in and smoothed my palms over the front like that could erase what I just did.

It did not feel safe there. But leaving them out felt worse.

My pulse hammered, racing in my ears. I crossed to the window, needing air, needing to know the world outside was the same. The streetlight illuminated the sidewalk. Branches shifted in the wind.

I rested my palm against the sill. My reflection in the glass stared back, wide-eyed, lips parted as if I might scream if I let myself—but I didn’t.

Instead, I thought of Talon and what it would mean to tell him. The way his voice stayed even while doubt lingered in his eyes, wanting to believe me but not sure he could.

For a moment, I almost reached for my phone and called him. Almost leaned on him the way I wanted to.

But I didn’t. Not yet. Not until I knew more. Not until I could shield him from what it would mean if I was right.

I shut off the light and let the room go dark. The silence pressed in, heavy. I crawled into bed, blanket pulled to my chin, my body sinking into the mattress.

“There’s no going back now,” I whispered into the dark.

I closed my eyes, stuck with the truth I couldn’t unsee.