The Games We Play - Chapter 14: Chapter 14

It's been almost two weeks since Wes and I agreed on this situationship, and if I could describe it in two words, it would be: mental illness.
Literally.
Because what else could the amount of sex we're having possibly be other than pure insanity and medically concerning?
Wes has the stamina of a thoroughbred racehorse, and I am... not okay.
This friends-with-benefits thing is starting to feel less like a casual arrangement and more like a full-time job with no paid overtime.
It's not that I'm complaining—far fucking from it—but where the hell is he getting the energy from? Because I need some too.
Between football practices, classes, and his unrelenting obsession with getting me naked at every possible opportunity, I'm convinced the man is fueled by sheer willpower, horniness, and protein powder.
It's a miracle we're still squeezing in actual tutoring sessions.
But usually, they last about twenty minutes before the tension boils over, and I'm bent over my desk with Wes growling something ridiculously Southern and filthy in my ear. It's unprofessional as hell, but it's also the hottest thing I've ever experienced.
The notes he's supposed to be taking? Half-done.The textbook we're supposed to be consulting? Barely touched.
My integrity as a tutor? Hanging on by a damn thread.
Like I can fucking talk though.
Either I'm showing up on his doorstep in the middle of the day like some sort of sex-crazed fiend, or he's showing up at mine at ridiculous hours, sweaty from practice and ready for some deep tissue recovery.
We're doing it everywhere. My bed, his bed, the couch, the shower.
That one time in the back bench of his truck after he insisted we grab milkshakes at 2 AM. There was also an incident in the library stacks on the fifth floor that I refuse to think about because I'm pretty sure it's still a crime, even if it was technically after hours.
Last weekend was an away game for the Colts—traveling to USC for ESPN College Football PrimeTime.
Before they left, Wes was stressed out of his mind, and I, being the excellent friend that I am, offered to help him relax.
Multiple times.
In multiple positions.
He went to LA, crushed it on the field, and then came back and proceeded to ruin me for an entire weekend.
I'm talking legs-don't-work-afterwards-level of ruined.
It's not all rainbows, sprinkles, and orgasms, though.We still bicker like crazy because he just seems to push every damn button like it's a hobby.
It always ends in one of two ways: me storming out of the room and Wes running after me to apologize, or us working out our frustrations in the most naked ways possible.
But what's more annoying is how well we get along—our friendship developing at a rate that makes me as happy as it pisses me off.
He texts me constantly—ridiculous things, like pictures of random dogs he sees on campus because he knows I love them, or updates on his day that no normal person would think to share.
I know I should be freaking out more about this whole situation. I'm practically balancing on a tightrope of sexual tension and academic responsibility.
But... I'm not.
For the first time in weeks—months—I'm actually enjoying myself. Damn, if I knew being happy felt this good, I would've tried it ages ago. I think they're really onto something.
And now I'm studying—in a golf cart on the Peninsula Club greens of all fucking places.
I shift slightly on the smooth leather bench seat as I try to focus on the assignment open on my laptop.
My professor assigned a brutal paper on mid-century modern design principles, and while I should have been excited to wax poetic about Eames chairs and Le Corbusier, it was hard to concentrate when two godlike athletes were just a few feet away swinging clubs and trash-talking each other like they're not teammates—and roommates.
Wes is up at the tee, his backward cap secured a top his golden hair, his broad shoulders pulling against the navy blue tricot polo that clung to him like it's trying to test me. His muscular legs stretch out under his black sports shorts, his calves flexing every time he adjusts his stance.
Beside him, Clay—Captain Jackson himself—stands slightly taller and broader, his khaki-green polo somehow looking classy and intimidating at the same time. His thighs, which are borderline obscene, fill out his shorts like they were sewn onto him.
Between the two of them, it's a miracle I'm not covered in drool.
"Cam, you got any pointers on my swing?" Wes calls out, turning his head just enough to flash me that cocky grin.
I flick a fleeting glance from my laptop. "Yeah. Try aiming for the hole instead of the trees this time."
Clay laughs softly, shaking his head as he sets up beside Wes. "She's not wrong."
"A pair of bullies y'all are," Wes mutters, but the corners of his mouth twitch upward anyway.
I have no idea how I ended up here.
Okay, that's a lie. I know exactly how I ended up here—because Wes Reed is a damn evil genius. "Cam, come golfing with us," he'd said, all Southern drawl and charm, as if I had nothing better to do with my day than hang out with two absurdly tall men at a country club.
He'd also asked me right after I orgasmed—I could barely remember my own name, let alone process whatever charming bullshit he was mumbling about so of course I said yes.
When I tried to back out and said I had assignments coming out my ears—which was true—Wes accused me of not being a woman of my word.
And like hell my stubborn little ass was going to let him win.
So yes—that's how I ended up here on a Wednesday afternoon, in a white tennis skirt and a baby pink sports tank, typing furiously while Wes and Clay play their little golf games. Wes is currently flexing in every direction, assuming I'm watching his every move like some lovesick cheerleader.
But with a deadline this tight, the only thing I'm interested in watching is my word count go up.
I'm mid-sentence about Saarinen's Tulip Chair when my phone buzzes with a text from Scarlett.
Her next text comes through almost immediately, and I can't help the laugh that bubbles out.
Still laughing, I barely notice Clay's shadow until he's right next to the cart. He's reaching into the back to pull out another club, looking at me with one of his classic understated smirks.
His gaze slides from me to his golf-club bag in the back. "What's got you gigglin' over there?"
I glance up at him, still grinning. "Scarlett. She says hi, by the way."
He freezes for half a second—just barely enough for me to catch it—before grabbing another club. "That's your roommate, yeah?"
"Yeah." I tilt my head, narrowing my eyes as the sides of his neck turns suspiciously pink. "You know her?"
Clay clears his throat, adjusting his cap in the most I'm totally not flustered move I've ever seen. "I've seen her runnin' at Jetton Park. That's all."
"Hmm," I say, mostly to myself, because while his tone is casual, the way he's avoiding my gaze is not. Scarlett has that effect on people.
She's gorgeous, funny, and terrifying in a real sexy way, and I suddenly have the urge to interrogate him about this new information. But before I can, Wes's voice rings out.
"Cam, you watching this?"
I look up just as he swings, the ball soaring across the green in a clean, perfect shot. He turns to me immediately, grinning like he's just hit a home run instead of a tiny ball into a slightly larger hole.
"Well?" he calls, spreading his arms.
I give him two enthusiastic thumbs up. "...Great job, champ."
Wes laughs, jogging back toward the cart, his grin wide and boyish. "Champ, huh? You're real generous today."
"You're welcome," I say, smirking. "I live to uplift."
Beside me, Clay chuckles quietly, shaking his head as he grabs his club and walks back toward the tee box.
The way he moves is so casual, like the entire world doesn't notice he's built like a Greek statue that came to life just to ruin women's lives.
My attention shifts as Wes stops next to the cart and grabs his water bottle from the cup holder.
The sun hits him perfectly, catching on the sharp line of his jaw, the muscles in his throat working as he drinks. A bead of water slips down the side of his mouth, tracing a slow, deliberate path along the curve of his neck before soaking into the collar of his navy polo.
The slight sheen of sweat on his golden skin makes him glow under the sunshine, his forearm flexing as he holds the water bottle still and the veins in his neck tensing as he gulps back the water.
Is anyone else hearing Careless Whisper?
Wes drops the bottle from his mouth, long, deft fingers screwing the lid back.
He glances my way, catching my wide-eyed stare, and his lips curl into a slow, knowing smirk.
I immediately drop my gaze to my laptop, frantically typing nonsense to look busy.
It takes me longer than I'm willing to admit to realize I'm actually writing the lyrics to Careless Whisper.
☆☆☆☆
The Peninsula Club's patio is beautiful in that effortlessly rich kind of way—polished wood tables, white umbrellas fluttering gently in the breeze off Lake Norman, and manicured hedges that practically scream, "You cannot afford this place, but thanks for stopping by."
I stretch my legs out under the table, my sneakers brushing against Wes's shin. He glances at me, his lips quirking upward in a small smile that makes my stomach flip, even though I immediately turn my attention back to my plate of fries.
Dinner is simple—grilled chicken sandwiches, Caesar salads, and pitchers of sweet tea.
Nothing overly fancy, but good enough to make me appreciate why this is Clay's go-to spot after a day on the course.
Clay sits across from me, his broad shoulders relaxed for once as he leans back in his chair, picking at a pile of waffle fries.
I expected to be bored out of my mind or stuck awkwardly third-wheeling Wes and Clay's date, but it turned out to be... fun.
Somehow, the two of them managed to coax me away from my laptop for a few minutes to try my hand at golf—and it was a fucking disaster at first.
My form was apparently so bad that even Clay shuffled over to me and hesitantly asked, "Do you mind if I..." He gestured to my body, asking for permission to put his arms around me.
I didn't waste a second—I just nodded so hard I'm surprised I didn't concuss myself.
He came up behind me, his huge hands settling over mine on the club, his arms enveloping me as he adjusted my grip.
Right as Clay started demonstrating a swing, his entire bag of clubs fell out of the cart.
Clattered.
Everywhere.
We both turned to see Wes ever-so-casually leaning back against the cart, arms and ankles folded, with a grin that said it's absolutely his fault. Clay just sighed, walked over to clean up the mess, leaving ample opportunity for Wes to swagger over and take his place behind me.
I'll never get used to the feeling of his skin on mine, the way his huge body envelops mine completely. Warm and steady, smelling like cedar, soap, and a little bit of sweat. I'm surprised I even managed to swing the club.
The rest of the afternoon was a chaotic mix of me trying—and mostly failing—to hit the ball.
Wes teased me relentlessly while Clay offered steady, patient advice that somehow made me feel l like less of an idiot.
But when I finally managed to sink a shot—after what felt like a hundred tries—I practically threw my club in the air in celebration.
"That's my girl," Wes said, scooping me into a hug that lifted me right off the ground. I laughed so hard I could barely breathe, my cheeks hurting from grinning like a fool.
By the time we wrapped up, my hair was a mess, my arms were sore, and my cheeks were still pink from a mix of sun and pure giddy happiness.
Now, sitting at the club's patio for an early dinner and watching the setting sun sparkle on the calm waters of the lake, Clay and Wes try to one-up each other with embarrassing away-game stories from their earlier seasons with the Colts.
"Y'all remember the away game at Tennessee last year?" Clay drawls, leaning back in his chair, his thick accent stretching the words out like taffy.
Wes groans, dragging a hand down his face. "Why do you love this story so much?"
"Because I love tellin' people how much of a dumbass you are," Clay says, grinning as he reaches for his sweet tea.
I lean forward, abandoning my fries. "Well then, run it, Captain."
"So, we're in Knoxville, yeah? The team's at the hotel the night before the game. Everyone's supposed to be resting—big day tomorrow, right? But this guy right here—" he gestures to Wes, who's smirking like he knows what's coming—"decides it's a good time to start throwing passes in the hotel hallway."
I snort. "You're kidding."
"Not even a little," Clay says, chuckling. "He's out there with Brad, our backup QB, trying to see if they can nail the perfect spiral."
"Brad's the one who threw it too hard," Wes cuts in, pointing a fry at Clay.
"Too damn hard," Clay shoots back, grinning wider. "Brad chunks it, misses Reed entirely, and wouldn't ya know it? That ball bounces off the ceiling, clips the wall, and smacks dead into the fire alarm."
"No," I gasp, already laughing.
"Oh, it gets better," Clay says, his accent dipping into a drawl so thick it practically sticks to the air. "The alarm goes off—lights, noise, the whole nine yards. We're talkin' a full evacuation. Hotel staff's bangin' on doors, team's pourin' out half-asleep in their boxers—absolute chaos."
"What did your coach do?" I ask, covering my mouth to stifle my laugh.
"Well," Clay says, leaning forward now, clearly relishing the memory, "Fletch comes out, and he just knows. Doesn't even have to ask. He looks at me, then at Reed, and I swear, I've never seen a man get angrier without sayin' a word."
"You should've seen his face," Wes adds, smirking. "But, in my defense, it wasn't entirely my fault."
Clay gives him a look. "Boy, you told Brad to throw it. Own up to your sins."
"Fine," Wes says, shrugging. "But hey, we won the next day 'cause of my perfectly practiced spirals, didn't we?"
"Barely," Clay says, shaking his head. "If we hadn't, you'd still be runnin' suicides at practice."
"So fuckin' worth it," Wes says, leaning back in his chair, tossing a fry into his mouth like the cocky bastard he is.
"Oh my god," I laugh out, leaning back into my chair as Clay shakes his head fondly at the memory, the biggest grin on his lips as he lifts his sweet tea to take a drink.
Wes, meanwhile, is staring at me. Always fucking staring at me—a small, soft smile on his lips while I have the biggest, probably most unattractive grin on mine.
After Clay's story, we settle into an easy lull, the kind that comes from full stomachs and the golden glow of the early evening sun. The patio isn't too crowded—just a few other tables occupied by club members in crisp polos and pastel dresses, chatting quietly over iced tea and salads.
Clay leans back in his chair, clearly a big fan of the sweet tea, while Wes stretches out beside me, long legs sprawled under the table as he finishes off the last of my fries because I can't fit anything more in.
"Don't waste food, baby," Wes drawls, his voice dripping with faux seriousness. "It's bad manners."
I roll my eyes, leaning back in my seat and letting the breeze play with the loose strands of hair falling out of my ponytail. My stomach is full, my cheeks still warm from laughing at Clay's story, and for once, I'm not stressing about my portfolio or anything else waiting for me outside of the club.
It's been a good day. A great day, actually.
I glance around the patio, letting the chatter and clinking of silverware fade into background noise, soaking in the calm.
Then Wes goes still.
At first, I don't notice.
He's still leaning back in his chair, legs stretched out like he hasn't a care in the world, but something about the set of his shoulders shifts. His jaw tightens, the easy curve of his mouth flattening into a hard line as his eyes fix on something in the distance.
I follow his gaze, glancing over my shoulder.
Three women have just stepped onto the patio, their heels clicking softly against the polished wood floor.
They move with that kind of effortless elegance that makes it clear they're not just visiting—they belong here. Sundresses flutter in the breeze, perfectly styled hair catching the fading sunlight, and even their laughter sounds polished, like they practiced it in front of a mirror.
The one leading them is impossible to miss. With dark eyes, olive skin, and cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass, she looks like she's stepped straight off a magazine cover. She's beautiful in that untouchable, intimidating way that makes you look twice.
Her gaze sweeps across the patio and lands on Wes.
Her full lips curve into a slow grin, and she lifts her hand in a wave—not the casual, friendly kind, but the kind that feels deliberate. Seductive. Her long fingers flutter in the air like she knows she's putting on a show.
I glance back at Wes.
His jaw is locked now, his expression carefully blank as his hand tightens around the edge of the table. For someone who's always so quick with a smirk or a quip, the silence feels heavy.
"You know her?" I ask, nudging his knee under the table.
Wes's head snaps toward me, his big, bright grin appearing so fast it's almost jarring.
"Nope," he says, too quick, too light.
I narrow my eyes, leaning back in my chair as I study him. "You sure? She seemed like she knew you."
"You get use to it when you're famous," Wes says, flashing a grin that practically drips charm. He reaches for the last fry on my plate, plucking it up and popping it into his mouth with boyish adorability.
I try to shake it off, but as I glance back toward the patio entrance, the brunette is still watching. Her grin hasn't faded, but her attention has shifted, like she's already moved on to something else.
The air around us feels heavier somehow, and though I can't quite put my finger on it, something about the way Wes smiled—bright and perfect—makes me think he's working way too hard to keep it all together.
His smile doesn't even come close to reaching his eyes in the way that I like.
But I decide not to push, instead turning my attention to the beautiful lake in front of us.
Dinner wraps up not long after, the three of us lingering just enough to enjoy the breeze and polish off our drinks.
The waiter brings over the little leather check holder and places it neatly in the center of the table.
I instinctively reach for the card holder on the back of my phone.
Clay waves me off with a quiet, "Don't even think about it, Cam."
Wes, not to be outdone, picks up the check and opens it to read the receipt.
"We'll split it down the middle," he beams across the table at his captain.
Clay sighs but doesn't argue, and within a few minutes, they've divvied it up evenly, covering my share between them.
"Y'all are ridiculous," I mutter, crossing my arms as I lean back in the chair.
When the waiter returns with their cards and two halved receipts, Wes snatches his back with a flourish, signing with a dramatic scribble. Clay, of course, signs his with calm precision, then hands the pen back with a polite, "Thank ya kindly."
I roll my eyes as I stand, brushing nonexistent crumbs off my skirt. "Glad we've settled who the real hero of the evening is."
"Pretty sure it's me," Wes says, grinning as he holds the chair out for me.
Clay just shakes his head, slipping his wallet back into his pocket as we make our way toward the cart waiting near the edge of the patio. Our clubs have already been loaded in the back, and a uniformed driver stands ready to take us down to the valet.
The service here is actually crazy.
Just as I'm about to climb into the cart, Wes pauses.
"Y'all go ahead," he says, his tone breezy as he hooks a thumb over his shoulder. "I forgot something at the table. I'll meet you at the truck."
Clay frowns, his brow furrowing slightly, but he doesn't say anything, just gives Wes a curt nod before climbing into the cart.
I follow, glancing over my shoulder at Wes as he turns and walks back toward the patio, his stride a little too casual to be convincing.
The ride to the valet is quiet at first, the warm air brushing against my face as the cart hums along the path. I kick my legs idly, my sneakers tapping against the black floorboard beneath.
"You enjoy yourself today?" Clay asks, his thick Southern accent breaking the silence.
I smile, leaning back. "Surprisingly, yeah. Didn't think I'd like golf, but I had fun. It was good to get out of my head."
Clay grins, glancing over at me. "Told ya you'd get the hang of it. That shot on seven was damn good, Cam."
I laugh. "Thanks, Captain. Couldn't have done it without my expert teachers."
"You mean me," he says, his grin widening.
"Sure," I tease. "You, Wes, the entire staff of the Peninsula Club—team effort. Especially that poor cart boy I almost decapitated on hole four."
Clay chuckles, shaking his head. "Boy's probably still shakin'. Reckon he thought you were gonna put him in the hospital."
"To be fair," I say, smirking, "he shouldn't have been there. Way too close to the golf hole."
He scoffs fondly, scratching the back of his neck. "He was twenty feet away, but sure."
"Semantics."
Clay shakes his head, still chuckling, as the cart rolls up to the valet area. The driver hops out, giving us a polite nod as we climb off and wait by the entrance for them to unload the clubs for us.
I lean back against a massive marble planter box, the stone cool under me as my tote bag sits at my feet. Clay stands at my side, his broad frame relaxed as he crosses his arms over his chest, his focus somewhere in the distance.
Our golf clubs are upright next to us, the shafts catching the faint glow of the overhead lights.
The sun has set, leaving only the last traces of its warmth stretching their golden fingers across the twilight sky. The air is calm now, quiet except for the occasional shuffle of a valet or the murmur of a nearby group waiting for their cars.
My eyes flutter shut as I sit there, listening to the crickets out in the gardens and the cooling air on my flushed skin. Without even realizing it, my body begins to lean one way until my head is resting against Clay's arm.
Big and muscly but also doubles as a really nice, soft pillow.
He doesn't move—flinches slightly when my head first hits him, but he eventually relaxes and even shifts a little closer. It's quiet and still, and I really could just fall asleep.
But then the sound of another golf cart nearing has my eyes flickering open, and I inhale sharply, sitting up straighter.
Wes is sitting next to the driver, giving him a pat on the shoulder before hopping off with a big grin on his face as he spots us. I stand up, slipping my tote bag onto my shoulder.
"Y'all miss me?"
"Took ya long enough," Clay drawls, his tone as even as ever, though there's a subtle edge of curiosity beneath it.
"Got caught up," Wes says breezily, his grin never faltering.
I study him for a second, noting the way his gaze darts around the club's reception area before snapping back to us.
He's trying too hard to look relaxed, and the effort is as loud as a neon sign.
The truck rolls up to the curb with a low rumble, its glossy electric-blue exterior gleaming under the valet lights. It's a Ram 1500, all sleek lines and intimidating power—exactly the kind of vehicle you'd expect a massive douche like Wes Reed to drive.
Wes steps forward and pulls open the back door with a flourish, holding out his hand like a game show host.
"Your chariot, ma'am," he says, dipping into a half-bow.
"You're so weird," I mutter, rolling my eyes but sliding my hand into his.
I let him help me step up onto the running board and climb into the front seat, the soft, buttery leather cool against my legs as I settle in. The faint scent of Wes's cologne lingers in the cab, and I'm inhaling it deeply before I even realize it.
I settle more into the seat, reaching for the seatbelt, but Wes doesn't close the door right away. Instead, he lingers, leaning against the frame with one hand still on the door, the other braced on the roof of the truck as he looks up at me.
"You have fun today, baby?" he asks, his voice quieter than usual, the playful edge softened into something warmer.
I blink at him, caught off guard by the question—and by the way he's looking at me. His blue eyes seem to search mine, like my answer is the most important thing in the world.
"Yeah, Wes," I say softly, smiling despite myself. "I did."
His grin widens at that, slow and unguarded, like he's just been handed the best news of his life. "Good," he says, his voice dipping low and warm. "'Cause I liked havin' you out there, by my side. Made the day better."
I duck my head, suddenly feeling a little too seen, but the smile on my face isn't going anywhere. "Even when I almost killed that poor cart boy?"
"Especially then," Wes says, chuckling. "Highlight of the day, honestly."
"Stop," I say, laughing.
"No can do—I love hearing your laugh," he says so casually it almost doesn't register until my cheeks start to warm.
Before I can come up with a response, Clay's voice breaks through the moment.
"Y'all done?" he grumbles, standing by the driver's side door, his broad shoulders slouched dramatically as he glares at the two of us. "I'd like to get in the truck sometime before sunrise."
Wes straightens, his grin flicking back to cocky in an instant. "Back seat's all yours, Captain."
Clay groans loudly, dragging a hand down his face as he makes his way around to the other side. "I swear, if I lose feelin' in my legs again, I'm blamin' you for every bad play I make on Friday."
"You've got plenty of room back there," Wes says, smirking as he slams my door shut.
"Plenty of room for a toddler," Clay shoots back, grumbling under his breath as he climbs into the back seat, his knees hitting the center console with an audible thunk. "Ain't right, me bein' squished like this. Damn quarterback privilege."
The cab of the truck is big—Clay is just bigger.
Wes glances at him in the rearview. "Next time bring your own damn truck."
He shifts into drive with a smooth, practiced motion, one hand resting loosely on the wheel while the other casually drums against the gearshift. The truck smoothly rolls down the tree-lined driveway of the club.
I snort, twisting in my seat to look back at him. "Want me to switch with you? You don't have to be a gentleman all the time, y'know."
"Yeah, I do," he scoffs, finally managing to stretch one leg into the middle of the cab. "I ain't lettin' you ride back here like a sack of potatoes, Cam."
Wes glances at him in the mirror, the corner of his mouth twitching up. "You're fine. Quit your whining."
"I ain't whinin'," Clay shoots back, his voice dry. "Just statin' facts. Bein' squished like this ain't good for my performance. You're messin' with my game, Reed."
Wes snorts, his grin widening. "Pretty sure that's on you, big guy."
"Yeah, keep talkin'," Clay mutters, adjusting his knees with a faint thunk.
I bite back a laugh, tucking my legs up onto the seat and leaning back with a soft giggle. Their bickering is easy, unhurried—playful in a way that says they've been doing this for years.