The Games We Play - Chapter 12: Chapter 12

The smell of sweetness, spice, and charcoal fills the warm evening air.
"Liam," Tasha says, waving a fry at him like it's a gavel, "I need you to understand something very important."
Liam leans back, raising an eyebrow. "Yeah?"
She gestures to the menu, specifically the section labeled Flavors to Remember. "You're sitting in a restaurant with twenty-six wing sauces, and you're about to order plain. Again. Do you know what that says about me?"
"That you're lucky to have me?" he offers with a grin.
Tasha stares at him for a beat, then sighs dramatically, turning to the table. "Y'all, this man is trying to ruin my reputation."
"Plain wings?" Yasmine says, wrinkling her nose. "You're really out here just exposing yourself like that?"
"They're not plain," Liam says for what feels like the hundredth time. "They're classic. It's literally the name on the menu."
We all laugh at a pouting Liam as he continues to fight against accusations of being basic and white, which is literally his genetic coding. We're out having food again, and yes, I can hear my bank card crying.
But this one's worth it. It's a new wing shop, Red's Hot Cantina, and it has just opened up close to campus. Which, of course, means it's filled to the brim with Charlotte students on opening night.
The restaurant feels like a carefully curated fever dream of Southern comfort and TikTok aesthetics. Edison bulbs dangle over tables made of repurposed barn wood, while neon signs buzz phrases like Heat Freakers Welcome and Flavors Worth Crying Over.
Photos of crispy wings dripping in sauce cover the walls, interspersed with pictures of the restaurant's founder—some influencer-slash-chef who turned his clout into a chain of spots across the country. Supposedly, this is his first venture outside the big food cities like LA, Dallas, and New York.
Charlotte must be an experiment. And judging by the crowds flowing in, it's working.
The smell of smoky sweetness and spice wafts through the air, making my mouth water. I mean, I'm not a huge spice person, but I'm also not Liam.
"You really picked a man who's afraid of hot sauce?" Kiki asks, sitting across the table and arching a perfectly sculpted eyebrow at Tasha.
Tasha beams, leaning over to kiss Liam on the cheek. "The things you do for love," she says sweetly.
Liam chuckles and blows us an air kiss. "See? Love truly conquers all. Y'all could never."
"We've literally been together longer than you two," Kiki counters, extremely offended. "We set you two up!"
"And the students have become the masters," Liam responds as we all laugh, loving when Liam and Kiki get into their usual squabbles.
They've been best friends since diapers—it's a common thing with them.
I smile at the blond boy. "Well, I also like my taste buds where they are, Liam."
"Why, thank you, Cameron." He salutes me with two fingers.
"Cowards," Yasmine mutters, covering it terribly with a cough, which makes the table laugh. I roll my eyes at her but laugh because I know I would've done the exact same thing.
"Do not fear, my babies, the love of your lives is here," Jude declares as he appears at the head of the table at my side.
"Dear Lord, who invited him?" Tasha asks with a big grin as Jude places a dramatic kiss on the top of her head.
I eye the guy standing awkwardly behind him with his hands in his pockets.
Hudson.
His eyes sweep the table, doing a double take when he spots me.
He gives me a small smile, and I return it.
"So, did y'all bitches order without us?" Jude asks as he takes the empty seat at the head.
"And have to hear you complain the whole night? Fuck that, babes." Tasha rolls her eyes from where she's sitting directly across from me.
Hudson remains standing there awkwardly, completely unsure of what to do.
"Oh yeah," Jude lifts a hand behind him. "Everyone, this is Hudson. Hudson, this is everyone."
"Hey, everyone." Hudson gives a cute little wave, which is brightly responded to by the entire table.
Jude gestures to the table. "Sit, sit."
It takes me a while to figure out the only spare seat is on the leather, wall-mounted bench.
It was reserved for Scarlett—who rudely chose to go to dinner with Bitch Almighty and his mother at the Peninsula Club over me and wings.
Literally, where is the competition?
I've never met Dean Aberdeen in person before—she kind of terrifies me.
But from what I've heard from Scar, she's an absolute monster, which makes sense when she's spawned the headache that is Logan.
I blink and realize I'm still staring at Hudson, and he's still staring at me. Both of us too awkward to move.
Eventually, I sigh and move over a little more toward Kiki on my other side, letting him take his seat between me and Jude at the head.
"Hey," he says with a small smile, his voice warm and soft, and his shoulder brushes up against mine.
"Hey..." I reply, my smile a little tighter than I meant it to be.
The rest of the table is already deep in chatter, Jude already in command of the conversation as per usual. It gives Hudson and me a small little bubble to talk quietly.
He picks up the laminated menu in front of him and assesses it. "Mmmm, Hellfire Sauce..."
"You into spice?" I arch an eyebrow at him.
"Oh yeah. I'm so into it." Hudson nods as he stares at the menu with a face like someone about to enter a haunted house. It instantly makes my smile grow. "I just love when it... burns off your mouth... and makes you cry. Delicious."
I giggle lightly at him as he drops the menu and glances at me.
"How believable did I sound?"
"Oh, not at all." I laugh at him. "But don't worry, I'm going for the lower-grade level wings too. We can share a basket if you want."
He breathes a big sigh of relief. "Oh, thank the Lord. I had no clue how I was going to eat the spicy wings and still look cool with tears in my eyes."
"I think you could pull it off."
Hudson grins. "Really?"
"For sure."
Before we can talk anymore, Jude claps his hands loudly.
"Y'all know what to get? If I don't eat now, my ass is gonna go flat," he announces and waves his hand. "Oh, darling waiter!"
The waiter arrives, clearly already over his shift, and the table begins to throw orders in his direction. I feel Hudson lean against my arm, and I turn to see his gaze fixed on the menu.
"So, you think there's a side sauce on here that won't send me to an early grave?" he asks while I stare at the side of his handsome face, which is a lot closer than I expected.
"Ranch."
"Spectacular, give me 14 of them right now." He glances at me with an expression so serious it makes laughter burst out of me before I can stop it.
☆☆☆☆
The energy at the table shifts into a post-meal haze, the kind that happens when you've eaten too much but can't stop snacking on fries anyway.
Red baskets of wings, mostly decimated, still cover the table, and the conversation has mellowed into an easy rhythm.
The restaurant is quieter now, the earlier rush dying down, leaving only a few scattered tables of late-night diners. The hum of conversation mixes with the soft clink of glasses and the occasional burst of laughter.
Hudson's arm is draped along the back of the booth, not quite touching me but close enough that I'm aware of it. We're deep in conversation, trading stories about the worst part-time jobs we've had.
"It was the weirdest time of my life," Hudson explains as he slices a hand through the air. "That Great Dane had a Tempur-Pedic bed and an entire fridge stocked with organic chicken."
Apparently, his worst job was when he would dog-sit for his neighbors during high school.
"And I always hated going to the park with it. It looked like it was taking me for a walk," Hudson explains, and it makes me giggle. "Plus, it took shits the size of a soccer ball."
I pat the top of his head. "Oh, poor baby."
"Okay then, Miss Scan-and-Bag."
"What? Working in a grocery store is horrible." I defend myself with a small laugh. "Flickering fluorescent lights, ugly uniforms—"
"Steady paycheck, air-conditioned. No soccer ball shits," Hudson lists with me, sarcasm dripping from his tone. "Oh yeah—sounds horrible."
I shove him playfully. "Did you almost get into a fight with a three-hundred-pound woman because her coupon was expired? I don't think so."
"Fuck—how'd you get out of that one?" he laughs, taking one of his fries from his basket and popping it into his mouth.
"Oh, I ran screaming so fast from the register. Locked myself in the staff bathroom and made my manager Gary deal with the bullshit." I scoff while shaking my head. "I don't even know how many times I quit that job and it wouldn't take."
He shrugs. "Well, we're better people because of it."
I smile, liking that positive outlook on it, and nod.
The bell on the door rings again—something I'm going to suggest they take down when it's as busy as it is tonight—as groups move in and out of the restaurant.
I don't pay much attention to them and take another long sip of my beer.
"So, Cameron," Hudson starts, and I'm beginning to think the two beers he's had are starting to get to him because he's so casual now.He's sitting closer, he's initiating conversation more, he's comfortable.
Which is fine—I'd hate if anyone was uncomfortable around me.
But it does make me a little wary.
I smile playfully. "Hudson."
"Interior design," he questions with a tilt of his head. "Where are you planning to go with that?"
"Oh God."
"What?"
"Nothing—it's just that any time I think about anything more than two weeks away, I get a pain behind my right eye." I chuckle softly and rub my temples. "Ah—hopefully first some famous design house. Then get my license and become an independent designer."
He hums thoughtfully. "Big dreams."
"Is that silly?"
"Oh, of course not." He grins at me. "It's good to dream big. Aim for the moon and all that, right? At least you know where you want to go—that's more than a lot of people we study with can say."
"Doesn't make it any less stressful." I shrug.
He inhales sharply as he gives in. "No, it does not."
Again, he makes me giggle lightly, and I turn my face away from him. My gaze instinctively slides across the restaurant to the main counter where a group is standing below the hanging Order Here sign and staring up at the multiple flat screens above the register.
Dark stormy eyes are staring back at me. Wes.
He's with a group of other football guys—all in varying Colts-branded sports gear and clearly here for a post-practice feeding.
He's in a trueblue long-sleeve Colts shirt, black practice shorts, and another backwards cap.
They're all rowdy and loud and holding the attention of everyone in the restaurant, but Wes' gaze is on me.
His expression is sharp and unmistakable, his jaw tight and clenched like he's biting back a storm. Arms folded across his broad chest, shoulders and biceps bulging through the cotton of his shirt.
The laughter dies in my throat.
For a moment, the rest of the restaurant blurs into nothing. The noise fades, the warmth from earlier replaced by a sinking feeling I can't quite name.
I know how this looks. We're sitting incredibly close, Hudson's arm is still stretched behind me, his fingers idly tapping the booth.
There's an expression on Wes's face. It's not anger—but something softer, sadder.
But then he's tearing his gaze away, replacing it with a forced grin as he slaps his friend on the shoulder and shakes him playfully.
"...I mean, there's people who say they don't get into law for the money. But those people are also liars." Hudson chuckles, his voice floating through my ears and bringing me back to my reality. He dips his head toward me. "Cam? You good?"
"Huh?" I flick my gaze back to him. "Oh—uh—yeah."
He glances between me and the group of football guys at the counter with a slight, focused frown, like he's trying to decode what was going on.
"Sorry, just totally zoned out for a second," I laugh awkwardly, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear as Hudson nods. "The food coma is coming on too strong, too fast."
He scoffs while flicking at the empty basket. "We did demolish those wings."
"Yep." I nod, my gaze drifting back to the counter to see the guys grabbing their multiple plastic bags filled with styrofoam takeout boxes and heading for the door.
Wes is in the middle of the group, and my eyes don't stray from him the entire time he walks across the room. He doesn't look in my direction once, keeping that perfectly practiced smile of his plastered on his face the entire time as they all laugh and fill the room with their loud voices.
The bell rings, and they're outside, and I can't see them anymore.
"Seriously, Cam." Hudson says as my gaze flickers to him. "Are you okay?"
I shake myself out of my daze and take a page out of Wes's book, plastering an easy grin on my face.
I shake out my hair. "Oh, of course. Sorry—I just go somewhere in my head sometimes."
"Hey, if you're ready to leave, I'm a big fan of Irish exits." Hudson gestures to the door. "My car's around the corner, and I can—"
I put my hand on his arm. "Hudson, I'm fine right here."
"Okay," he exhales heavily with a small smile. "As I was saying, law is..."
☆☆☆☆
It's another hot, muggy, and stormy afternoon, and my hair is seriously not coping. I've had to pull it back into a messy bun to keep it off the back of my neck and am cursing the loose blue jeans I decided to wear this morning.
But my butter-yellow tank is making up for it—kind of.
I had a meeting with my professor after yet another three-hour workshop today, the two of us spending a little time going over my portfolio. Lea Beauchamp is a major power player in the design world and one of the main reasons I applied to Charlotte U.
I would always buy every single magazine she was featured in and read it over and over again. She was just so damn talented, and the different ways she perceived spaces were incredible.
And now I'm getting to learn from her, flourish under her guidance.
Plus, I think I'm her favorite student.
Once she gave me some pointers and directions for elevating my next steps, I was supposed to go home for a cold shower before getting my nails done with Scarlett later tonight.
I wasn't supposed to be in the back of an Uber, heading to a neighborhood that isn't mine, to a house that isn't mine.
But I couldn't sleep last night, I could barely focus in class today, and I have no fucking idea why.
It shouldn't bother me this much. It's just... that look he gave me back at the restaurant.
I'm probably overthinking the fuck out of this, and I tried to write him a text over and over again. But I kept getting frustrated at myself and deleting the message before typing up another one.
I just needed to talk to him face to face and get all this sorted out before our tutoring session tomorrow. I couldn't let whatever the fuck this is between us interfere with that. Those boundaries need to at least be respected when we're in that study room; otherwise, there's no point to any of this.
I run a hand over my forehead and sigh. See? This is exactly why I swore off men.
I don't need this shit.
But just like how I supposedly swore off chocolate freshman year, I'm a weak, weak woman.
The driver of the old Subaru Forester glances at me through the rearview mirror. "Long day?"
"Long life, Pete," I huff out and lean further back into the leather seat.
"Oh, I know all about that," Pete chuckles to himself as he drives closer and closer to my destination.
Eventually, he's pulling up just across the road from the white weatherboard house, and I'm tipping him for the pleasant conversation. He's retired, has a dead wife, and gets lonely, so he became an Uber driver to meet people. How could I not tip him?
I hold onto my tote bag and walk across the road and up the stone pathway to the brick porch.
The doorbell still isn't working, so I knock on the door and bite my lip anxiously.
What the hell am I supposed to say?
Hi? Howdy? Good day sir?
What you saw isn't what you think it is? Hudson's just a friend? I barely know the guy?
But then that would feel like I'm defending myself, like I'm guilty of something. When in reality, I actually haven't done anything wrong.
That look on his face though...
The door swings open, and I let out a groan.
"Oh dear Lord! Do shirts just not exist on this property?" I ask, gesturing wildly to the washboard abs and golden plains of a broad chest in front of me.
He pauses in the middle of slipping his black AirPods Max off his head as his crystal, ice-blue eyes blink at me.
It's the third one.
Captain of the Charlotte Colts: Clayton Jackson.
I've heard he's more of the silent-but-strong type. One of the best tight ends in the league currently. NFL nepo-baby. Keeps to himself and only engages with the media when he needs to. But a great leader through and through.
I also heard that he's fucking gorgeous, and they weren't wrong about that either.
Tall as fuck, huge as fuck, icy-blue eyes, and a head of dark, inky hair. Strong jaw, pouty lips, cheekbones and jawline of a runway model. The whole damn shebang.
And, of course, he's shirtless. In a pair of dark navy sports shorts and nothing else, showcasing all of his muscles and that prominent V-line dipping beneath his pants. And the veins.
Lord have mercy.
He tilts his head, big eyes wide and confused. "Um—you here to complain about our lack of clothing, or is there somethin' you need?"
God, his southern accent is thicker than Wes's. A real damn cowboy.
"Shit—sorry—your fifty abs distracted me for a second." I shake my head to wake myself up, and the corners of his lips lift with a small laugh. "Is Wes home?"
"He's probably at the fields," he answers with a shrug. "Why? You need him?"
I glance at the driveway, realizing I could've saved myself this embarrassment because his truck isn't there. Nor is the chrome-gray one. Just the big black Ram sitting pretty.
Then I pause and slowly realize how stupid this is.
Wes is clearly not fazed at all by what happened, carrying on with life like normal, and me being here is just making a big deal out of absolutely nothing.
"Umm... nope." I shake my head, clasping my hands, and take a step back from the door. "Actually—y'know what? Just pretend I was never here. You don't even need to mention it to Wes."
Clay arches a dark brow. "You sure?"
"Yep—just figured it out for myself," I say, tapping at my temple. "You, sir, have yourself a great afternoon."
His blue eyes assess me as I slowly turn and head toward the stairs.
"You're Cameron, ain't you?"
I freeze, my foot falling to the first step, and I turn to look at him over my shoulder.
How'd he figure that one out? Wes surely doesn't talk about me that much.
I stop in my tracks with a small frown. "And?"
"Nothin'." He shrugs with a small smirk. "It's just makin' sense, that's all."
I fold my arms. "The hell is that supposed to mean?"
"Sorry." He smirks, and the way it lights up his already handsome face should be illegal. "Captain-player privilege."
I groan loudly. "Oh my g—are all football players this infuriating, or is it just the ones in this house?"
"You have a good day, Cam," Clay chuckles as he begins to close the door, but I'm already marching down the stairs and onto the sidewalk. I just keep walking.
I'm pissed. I'm tired. And... I'm not entirely sure where I'm going. Home? Hell? Insane?
Love being an overachiever so probably all three.