Hate the Game - Winter Renshaw Page 0,44

voice. “That’s how I met Talon’s father actually. He was an architect and we met at this conference in Pacific Heights.”

“I’m very familiar with his work,” I say. “Talon actually took us to the Gold-Harris exhibit a couple of weekends ago. Amazing, amazing work.”

As I geek out with his mother, Talon sits back in silence, his stare weighty and obvious.

“Talon.” Mark takes a seat next to him, slapping his knee. “How’s the new training schedule? Still hitting the gym every day?”

Talon’s chest rises and falls and his lips flatten. “You ask me that every single time you see me.”

“Oh, come on. Someone’s gotta stay on top of you.” Mark sniffs, like he’s teasing. Talon gives him a thousand-yard stare. “I only ask because I care.”

I try to pay attention to what Camilla’s saying—something about this “painted lady” she was hired to renovate in San Francisco when she was fresh out of design school—but I’m distracted by the tense energy I’m picking up on from Talon, a vibe that only seemed noticeable the instant Mark sat down.

I take a sip of the white sangria, saccharine sweet with just enough of a kick to it, and nod along to what she’s saying until the sliding door behind her opens and a teenage girl with wavy blonde hair down to her lower back steps out, cell phone in hand.

“Hadley,” Camilla says. “How was practice?” She turns to me. “Hadley’s on the competitive dance squad at her school. Last year they went to state. Fingers crossed we take home the big trophy this year.”

I’m beginning to sense a pattern with these people—the emphasis on winning and accolades and bragging rights. And knowing what I know about Talon, it makes perfect sense.

Hadley takes a seat in a chair at the far end of the table, nose buried in her phone. She’s here but she isn’t. She’s simply making an appearance.

“Hadley, have you met your brother’s girlfriend?” Camilla asks. “Come say hi to Irie.”

The blonde glances up from her phone for half of a second before returning her attention to her screen and staying planted.

“Teenagers,” Mark says with a huff. Funny he seems adamant about staying on top of Talon’s workout schedule yet he doesn’t give a damn about his daughter’s disrespect.

“Where’s Kelsey?” Camilla asks. “I should go find her. Lucille should be bringing dinner out any minute. Would you all excuse me for a moment?”

With that, Camilla disappears into the house, her overflowing wine glass in hand, and Mark pushes himself to a standing, heading to the outdoor bar to refill his crystal tumbler with cognac he pours from a leather-wrapped bottle.

“I want to see your room,” I say. “I want to see where teenage Talon got his start.”

“It’s boring.”

“I doubt that.”

“And it looks nothing like it did when I was younger. I think it’s on Mom’s fifth iteration …”

“Come on …”

He flashes an amused smirk and heads in. I follow. It seems like we’re walking forever when we finally reach a curved staircase in the back of the house. We make our way to the top, hand in hand, before he leads me down a dark hallway, stopping at the last door on the right.

“All right. This is it,” he says. “This is my childhood bedroom.”

He swings the door open, and we’re met with a small gush of air that smells like a mix between organic cleaning spray and the salty spray of the Pacific ocean.

The walls are covered in navy wallpaper with the tiniest hint of a pattern, and the furniture is polished white oak. It’s equal parts coastal and castle—a difficult blend if I do say so myself—but somehow it works.

A king-sized bed is centered against one wall, anchored with oversized nightstands and gold-toned lamps, and a row of windows along the far wall showcases the stunning ocean view.

“Can’t imagine what it must have been like growing up with views like this,” I say, heading to the windows. “Falling asleep at night to the sound of real ocean waves.”

“I was never really home all that much,” he says. “Between school and training and games, I was only really here to sleep and by then, I’d be so exhausted I’d fall asleep with my cleats on half the time.”

“Well that’s a shame,” I say. He’s standing beside me now, his body heat subtle but his presence heavy.

“Yeah,” he says.

“Your stepdad,” I begin to say.

“What about him?”

“Is he always so … gruff? If I didn’t know any better, I’d think he’s annoyed that I’m