The Games We Play - Chapter 15: Chapter 15

It happens on a seemingly calm, quiet, normal Friday night.
The kind of night where the world feels just a little softer, like everything's wrapped in a cozy blanket.
My room smells like heaven—warm vanilla and sweet pear from the shower gel still clinging to my skin, blending with the faint notes of the lavender-sandalwood candle flickering on my dresser.
I'm freshly showered, every inch of me scrubbed, waxed, and moisturized until I feel like a walking cloud. My favorite fluffy pink bow headband holds back my damp, freshly washed hair, and there are cooling eye masks under my eyes, making me feel like the epitome of a self-care queen.
The sheets are fresh, white, and crisp—the kind that feels cool against your skin when you slide into bed.
My comforter is perfectly fluffed, and my baby pink striped pillowcases practically gleam in the soft, golden glow of my nightstand lamp. A small stack of books sits neatly on the bedside table, alongside a glass of water, a cute little dish for my jewelry, and my favorite lip balm.
There's something about nights like this—when the house is quiet, my skin smells like a bakery dream, and the candlelight flickers against the walls—that makes me feel perfectly at peace.
And then that peace is wholly shattered.
Because despite all my efforts to create the perfect, cozy, calm vibe, I—like so many before me—fall victim to the dreaded "u up?" text.
Although, in Wes's defense, at least he spells out the whole word. I'll give him that.
It happens just as I'm halfway through a chapter of my favorite book series—a collection of steamy, sordid tales about a group of cowboy brothers who fall for headstrong, take-no-shit women. It's part romance, part family drama, and entirely addictive. Right now, I'm in the thick of it: the second brother, the broody one, is about to make his move on the feisty horse trainer, and there's serious tension.
Then my phone buzzes, cutting through the soft music playing in the background.
With a sigh, I set my book aside and glance at the screen.
My lips twitch despite myself, sinking back into my soft pillows and pulling my thighs up to my chest.
I laugh softly, already picturing it. Elroy Biggs, left tackle and an absolute unit of a man, has a reputation for being able to sleep anywhere, anytime, and for snoring loud enough to shake the team bus. He's like a giant human bear, but somehow more lovable.
And apparently, also a menace when you're stuck on a multi-day away game.
My phone buzzes again.
That shouldn't make me smile.
It really shouldn't. But it does.
He's too cheesy, too charming, and somehow, it all just works for him. Wes is never ashamed to say what he's thinking—no hesitation, no second-guessing. He throws it out there like it's the most natural thing in the world, and before I can roll my eyes too hard, I'm grinning at my phone.
I bite my lip, my thumbs hesitating over the keyboard. I can't exactly be mad at him, because as much as I hate to admit it, I've been doing the same.
It's not that I miss him—I'm just horny and he's four hours away in Lynchburg, VA.
Vibrators are great in theory, but lately? They've been doing nothing for me. I blame Wes entirely. If he's going to ruin my ability to enjoy my very expensive toys, the least he could do is reimburse me.
I sigh, tossing my phone down onto the bed. My fingers drum lightly against the comforter as an idea starts to take shape. It's a naughty little thought, swirling through my brain like temptation wrapped in silk.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I give in.
I peel off the fluffy pink bow headband, tossing it onto the nightstand, and carefully lift the cooling eye masks from my face. The room smells like warm vanilla and pears, and the glow of the candle flickering on my dresser makes everything feel soft and intimate.
I glance down at myself, suddenly aware of what I'm wearing. My tight white baby tee clings to my chest, and—great, no bra—the dark peaks of my nipples are poking visibly through the thin fabric. Below that, a lacy blue g-string hugs my hips. a damn lucky coincidence.
I pick up my phone again, angling it so the screen captures everything. Lips slightly parted, body curved just enough to show off the best angles—large tits, the full curve of my ass, legs stretched out over the fresh white sheets.
The lace catches the soft light just right, drawing attention to the tiniest sliver of fabric, and the tightness of the tee leaves very little to the imagination. The outline of my nipples is clear—very clear.
I snap the photo, take a second to review it, and then press send before I can chicken out.
I snorted, my fingers already flying over the keyboard.
He really does not beat around the bush.
A picture sends through and my breathing hitches, eyeballs rocketing so far out of my skull, and my throat instantly going so dry I have to force a swallow.
The picture is taken from Wes's perspective, the harsh flash of his phone illuminating rumpled white hotel sheets lifted up.
He's shirtless, his golden skin glowing under the light, the hard ridges of his abs flexed like he's mid-workout. His broad chest tapers into a narrow waist, and there's the faintest sheen of sweat catching on his pecs, highlighting the grooves of muscle.
Then there's the sweatpants.
They're grey, loose but sitting dangerously low on his hips, the V-line cut so deep it practically drags my eyes down. Veins bulging, a faint trail of golden-blonde hair disappears below the waistband, which has been pulled slightly away from his skin—not by his hand, but by the sheer size of the bulge beneath it.
Holy fuck indeed, Reed.
His cock is massive, visibly hard even through the thick fabric, the length of it straining against the material so much that it's beginning to lift the waistband away from his body. The shape of him is so clear, so impossible to ignore, that I suddenly forget how to breathe.
God, I've never wanted anything more.
A laugh bubbles out of me before I can stop it, soft and breathless as my lips sink into my teeth.
My gaze drifts back to the picture on my screen, and heat curls low in my belly. Wes looks so good—that golden skin, those sharp abs, the way his sweatpants cling to him like they'd been designed with this moment in mind.
My nipples harden against my baby tee, and without thinking, my hand drifts up to rub them gently through the fabric, the sensation sparking a faint shiver.
I can't stop picturing him in that bathroom—maybe in the shower, water pouring over his body as he tries to muffle his groans. His fist, big and strong, working his cock hard and fast, his head thrown back because of me.
The thought has my free hand sliding down, skimming over my stomach and slipping beneath the waistband of my panties. My fingers brush against the damp lace, my thighs twitching as I imagine Wes groaning my name and—
The picture vanishes, replaced by a bright, bold MOM CALLING... and a picture of her smiling face.
And I'm launching it across the room before I can blink, "Shit!"
I'm throwing myself upright in the middle of my bed.
I'm in shock. Like, full, medical-grade, someone-get-the-defibrillator kind of shock.
I'm just staring at the phone where it sits on my white rug, the jingle bouncing off the walls of my room, while I'm in complete silence and my chest is slightly heaving.
The call ends, and for a blissful moment, I think I've been saved. But then it starts buzzing again because my mother will never wait until I call back.
She'll bombard me until I respond—or send my Uncle Kenny to my door because she fears I've died in my apartment.
She's done it before and will do it again.
I hurry off the bed, grabbing my pink floral robe and knotting it so tight around my waist I'm practically cutting off circulation. Then I pick up my phone, straighten up, and plaster on the world's least convincing smile.
I lift it to my face.
"Hi, Mom!"
My mom's face fills the screen, all warm hazel eyes and the kind of tan you only get if you grew up in Florida or were born lucky. For Mom, that was both.
Her dark brown pixie cut, caramel highlights catching the light, looks freshly trimmed, and of course, her smile could probably end a war. Everyone says we look alike, but I don't see it. She's like sunshine and freshly baked cookies. I'm... not.
"Cammie," she says, tilting her head slightly. "Why are you so out of breath? What's going on?"
"I'm fine," I blurt out, gripping the phone tighter. "Just, y'know... laundry."
She squints at me. "At eleven o'clock at night?"
I shrug. "Spilled marinara on my clothes while making dinner."
That wasn't entirely false.
There was marinara sauce earlier. Just, you know, hours ago.
"Well, I'm gonna sew you and Scarlett some aprons. Saw the cutest patterns at Hobby Lobby the other day." Mom hums while I take a seat on the edge of my bed, bringing one thigh up onto the mattress while my other foot hangs down to the floor.
I open my mouth to respond, but before I can, I hear a low murmur on the other side of the call and the soft click of a door closing. I make out the words, "Who's that?"
Mom looks up. "Oh, it's Cammie."
The camera tilts wildly as she adjusts the phone, and then my dad steps into view behind her.
He's so tall he barely fits in the frame, his round, solid frame practically dwarfing my mom's petite height. He's bald, with bright blue eyes that somehow make him look both kind and like he could bench press a couch. The height difference between them is ridiculous, and I can't help but grin at how them it is.
"Oh, our beautiful daughter has remembered us," Dad says, squeezing into the frame with an exaggerated grin.
"Hi, Dad," I say, rolling my eyes but unable to stop the smile creeping onto my face.
"Hey, pumpkin," he replies, his voice warm and soothing, like the world's most comforting blanket. "How's it going?"
"Good," I say, nodding. "Getting back into it. Classes are kicking my ass, but I'm surviving."
Dad's grin softens, and there's this kind of quiet pride in his eyes that always gets to me. "You get that from me. You're tough. Just keep at it."
Mom chimes in immediately, her hazel eyes narrowing. "Tough doesn't mean overworked, Don. You better not be burning yourself out, Cammie. You need balance. I keep telling your father that, but does he listen?"
Dad raises an eyebrow, looking amused. "Balance, huh? You mean like when you signed us up for hot yoga at six in the morning last weekend?"
Mom smacks his arm playfully. "You're lucky I'm trying to keep you alive! Both of us are getting too fat, and you know it. You need to be in shape for when Cammie gives us lots and lots of grandbabies."
"Mom!" I groan, my face heating up as I glare at the screen. "Stop."
Mom waves me off like I'm being dramatic. "I'm just saying. You'll thank me one day when we're still spry enough to babysit."
I fight the urge to bury my face in my hands.
This is how it always goes.
Dad's the calm, goofy teddy bear of the family, and Mom's five feet of pure energy with zero brakes. She's an elementary school art teacher who gets involved in everything, from running bake sales to planning neighborhood block parties.
Right now, her latest obsession is forcing Dad, a cop, into an early retirement so they can exercise and eat healthy together.
Meanwhile, Dad just laughs it all off, probably because he knows better than to argue with her.
"That won't be for a long time, Mom," I say, trying to steer the conversation back to safe territory. "I'm focusing on myself right now."
"Oh, of course, sweetie," Mom says, but there's that tone in her voice that tells me she's about to push. "You just let us know when the right guy comes along. I'll be ready to give my very unbiased opinion."
"You don't have an unbiased opinion," I deadpan, crossing my arms. "You ask for their birth chart and give it to Meadow for analysis."
Mom grins, unrepentant. "Well, Meadow was bang on the money about Connor, wasn't she? Tennis boy. Said it wouldn't work out because his Venus was in retrograde or something."
"Please stop talking to her about me," I say, groaning. "Please stop talking to her in general."
"Meadow's lovely!" Mom protests.
Meadow is the thirty-six-year-old free spirit that lives across the road from us. She doesn't believe in shoes and is always asking to cleanse my aura because it's quote-unquote "scaring her."
Like I don't already know that shit.
Sometimes I'm genuinely petrified to go home and find that they've united as a throuple with Meadow or that they've been inducted into some cult.
"Fine, fine," Mom waves me off like I'm the unreasonable one. "But speaking of the neighbors, you'll be happy to know I'm stepping up as interim neighborhood watch secretary."
"Why?" I ask, immediately suspicious.
"Because Steve is just useless," she says, drawing his name out with dramatic disdain. "Let three suspicious cars park in the neighborhood without putting it in the logbook!"
"The logbook?" I repeat, raising an eyebrow.
"Yes, Cammie, the logbook," she says, huffing like this is obvious. "It's what we use to report any potential criminal activity to the authorities. Very official."
Dad laughs, shaking his head. "One of those 'suspicious' cars was a mom driving her daughter around to sell Girl Scout cookies."
Mom narrows her eyes at him, leaning closer to the camera. "And it was clearly a front."
I scoff, leaning back against my pillows. "Thank you for keeping those dangerous Thin Mints off the streets, Mom. Society owes you one."
"You're welcome," she replies primly, unbothered by my sarcasm.
Dad grins, his blue eyes already sparkling with laughter. "Tell her the whole story, Kirbs. Cam—your mom didn't just scare them off—she threatened to dob them in to the FBI. Claimed she knew people in high places."
I stare at her, my jaw dropping. "Mom, no. You did not."
"I absolutely did," she says, looking far too pleased with herself. "And guess what? They left. That woman floored it out of here so fast, I barely got her license plate number for the logbook."
"Oh my God," I mutter, burying my face in my hands. "You're going to get arrested. They're going to put you in jail for harassing Girl Scouts."
"And I'll go with my head held high!" Mom declares dramatically. "A martyr for Saguaro Springs!"
Dad's shoulders shake as he wheezes, barely able to get the words out. "She even told them she'd 'escalate this to Homeland Security if necessary.'"
I double over, clutching my stomach as laughter bursts out of me. "Stop. Please stop. I can't."
"Someone has to keep this neighborhood safe," Mom says, lifting her chin defiantly. "And if that someone has to be me, so be it."
Dad's laughter settles into a warm smile as he leans closer to the screen. "So, pumpkin... how are you really doing?"
I hesitate for a second, but the way his blue eyes soften makes it impossible to brush him off.
"I'm good," I say honestly, nodding. "Really."
Mom, of course, can't let a moment pass without adding her two cents. "Did I tell you Donna's daughter dropped out of college last week?"
"No," I say, already bracing for whatever's coming next.
"Well, she did. And I think we all know where that cushy college fund has been going," Mom says and taps the side of her nose.
I snort, covering my mouth. "Mom, stop."
"What your mom is trying to say," Dad interjects, rolling his eyes fondly, "is that you should make sure you're taking good care of yourself."
"Exactly," Mom says, snapping her fingers. "You're in charge of you, Cammie. Don't be like Jennifer."
Dad nods firmly. "Because, you know, if you're not eating right, I'm driving over there, and I'll cook for you myself."
"That's not even a threat," Mom cuts in, grinning. "Cammie loves your cooking, Don. You'd just spoil her even more."
"She deserves it," Dad says, puffing out his chest. "Pumpkin, I'll make you enchiladas, steak, ribs—whatever you want."
"Dad, stop," I laugh. "You'll make me homesick—"
The front door suddenly slams—hard enough that I jump.
I frown, glancing toward my closed bedroom door.
"What was that?" Mom gasps, her hazel eyes widening as she clutches the phone tighter.
"The front door," I say, already getting up from the bed.
"Oh my God, Cammie, you're getting robbed," she says in a rush, her face practically pressed against the screen. "This is exactly why I told you to take those self-defense classes!"
I roll my eyes, tugging my robe tighter around me. "Mom, it's probably just Scarlett."
Mom leans closer, her expression dead serious. "Or it's not. You don't know. I watch Dateline, Cammie. These things happen all the time."
I snort, shaking my head as I slip my phone into my hand. "Why are you like this?"
"Because I know things," she declares, pointing a finger at the camera. "You laugh, but I'm just saying—always be prepared."
"Sure, Mom," I say, grinning despite myself. "Thanks for the tip—I'm gonna go check on her."
"Alright." Dad, still sitting beside her, chuckles softly. "Tell Scarlett we said hi, pumpkin. Give her a big hug and kiss from us."
"Will do," I promise, leaning toward the camera. "Love you guys."
"Love you, Cammie," Mom says, her expression softening into her usual warmth.
"Stay safe, pumpkin," Dad adds, giving me a small wave.
I end the call, tucking the phone into my pocket as I make my way toward the door, rolling my eyes at Mom's Dateline paranoia.
I step into the living room, the dim glow of the kitchen pendants casting long shadows across the space. Scarlett is already there, standing in front of the sofa, throwing her tote bag onto the cushions. She runs a hand through her blonde hair, the frustration in the motion making it clear something's wrong.
Her posture says it all—shoulders tense, back stiff, head slightly downturned. Scarlett is a lot of things—outgoing, quick-witted, confident—but subdued isn't one of them.
"Hey," I say carefully, walking closer.
She turns to face me, her honey-brown eyes darker than usual, her face tight. For a moment, it feels like she's someone else, someone I don't recognize.
"I thought you were staying at Logan's tonight," I say, tilting my head slightly.
"Not anymore," she replies, her voice flat. "The asshole cheated."
I blink, and put a hand to my mouth as I gasp half-heartedly, "...Oh no."
I need to work on my shocked and worried face. It's been becoming increasingly harder to come off as sincere.
That earns me a dark chuckle, one that doesn't quite reach her eyes. "Love the effort, Cam."
"What happened?" I ask, stepping closer, keeping my voice gentle.
She lets out a breath, shaking her head like she's still trying to process it herself. "I had a class this afternoon. My partner completely fucked up the assays we had to do—messed up all the samples. Then I got blamed for it."
Her voice tightens, her hands clenching into fists.
"We had to stay late to redo everything from scratch. Total fucking nightmare. Then I got the most sexist Uber driver on the way to Logan's. You know, the kind who makes you wonder if pepper spray is enough."
My stomach tightens, but I stay quiet, letting her get it all out.
"When I finally got to Logan's, he didn't even answer the damn door," she continues, her tone sharp. "Used the spare key he gave me, walked in, and there he was. Balls deep in some freshman."
"Scar," I say softly, my chest tightening for her.
"Oh, it gets better," she says, her laugh hollow and sharp. "He asked me to join. Like it was some kind of fucking joke."
My mouth falls open. "That motherfucker!"
"And when I told him to go to hell, he blamed me," she says, her voice rising. "Said it was my fault. I didn't touch him enough. Didn't fuck him enough. Like I'm some kind of emotional support blow-up doll."
"What did you do?"
Her hands fly up in frustration, her laugh edged with anger. "Stormed out, of course. Found the freshman girl standing outside his apartment like a lost puppy with a dead phone. Let her hop in my Uber. Dropped her off at Jameson Hall."
"Girls supporting girls—love to see it," I say, and she shrugs.
"Did you know they're renovating Prescott?" she asks, her tone oddly casual, as if we weren't mid-breakdown. "About fucking time, right? Those toilets never—"
I blink at her. "Scarlett."
Her eyes flick to mine, and for a second, the rawness is back—the anger, the betrayal, the hurt. I've never seen her like this, so perturbed, so... vulnerable.
"Are you okay?" I ask softly.
She takes a beat, then shrugs, her lips twisting into something that vaguely resembles a smirk. "Yeah. Just really ruined my Friday night."
Aaaaand she's back.
The Scarlett I know all too well.
The walls are back up, solid and impenetrable. Her tone is light, almost flippant, like she didn't just tell me something that would've wrecked anyone else.
I let out a breath, watching her with a mix of exasperation and admiration.
"That's it?" I ask, blinking at her. "Just ruined your Friday night?"
Scar scoffs, running a hand through her hair again. "You wouldn't understand."
"Try me," I say, crossing my arms.
"Now's not the time, honey," she mutters, dropping onto the sofa and rubbing her temples.
"You're right," I say, nodding solemnly as I step closer.
Her honey-brown eyes flick to mine, confused.
"Now's not the time. Now's the time for revenge!" I announce, hopping onto the sofa next to her, the cushions bouncing beneath us.
I tuck my feet up by my butt, grinning at her like a kid on Christmas morning.
"Okay, what should we do first? Slash the tires on his Audi? Plant fake meth in his gym bag and call the cops? Jude knows a guy."
Scar raises an eyebrow, but I barrel on, the ideas coming faster now.
"Or! We could make posters to shame his ass all over campus. Like, 'Men belong in cages,' with a picture of him mid—"
"Cam," she says flatly.
"Or fill his Audi with cat litter!" I poke her shoulder. "Fun fact—same guy. I'll text Jude right now."
Scar snorts, finally cracking a real laugh, and leans back against the cushions. "I'm fine," she says, shaking her head.
I narrow my eyes, suspicious. "Fine is the biggest lie in the English language."
She smirks, a flicker of her usual self shining through. "I'm really fine, Cam. I'm just... happy it's over."
I blink, processing that for a moment before shrugging. "Okay. But I'm still texting Jude and having his guy on standby. Just in case."
That earns another laugh, her shoulders shaking as she tilts her head back against the couch.
"You know," I say, grinning as I nudge her side, "for someone who eats from both sides of the buffet, you could literally have anyone. And you chose that?"
Scar lets out a long-suffering sigh. "Here we go."
"A white man," I continue dramatically, "who studies business? I'm starting to wonder if you're even bisexual or just pathetic-men-sexual."
Scar laughs, harder this time, her honey-brown eyes crinkling at the corners. "Just because I've dated more men recently doesn't make me any less bisexual. It just makes me fucking stupid."
My heart spills over, full to the brim with love for my best friend.
Before I can think twice, I grab Scar's face between my hands, her beautiful cheeks squishing under my palms. Her big lips pout as she frowns up at me, her honey-brown eyes wide and startled from the sudden movement.
"Hey," I say firmly, staring right into her soul. "Do not talk about my best friend like that."
"Cam," she starts, her voice muffled and slightly garbled from how I'm squishing her cheeks.
"You are beautiful. You are amazing. You are not stupid," I continue, my tone brooking no argument.
Then, leaning forward, I kiss her forehead, holding her there for a moment longer.
"And I love you," I say softly, meaning every word. "That's all that matters, okay?"
Scar blinks, still squished in my hands. "If I agree, will you let me go?"
I nod.
"Okay—I love you too," she says, but her words come out warbled because of her squished cheeks.
Satisfied with her answer, I release her cheeks, and she rubs at her face like I've manhandled her.
I sit back down beside her, grinning. "Good. Now, do I have permission to death glare Logan anytime I see him on campus?"
"You may," she says, nodding solemnly.
"Excellent..." I reply, but the smile fades from my face as I watch her out of the corner of my eye.
She's quiet now, too quiet, and the way her eyes unfocus tells me her mind is miles away.
I chew on my bottom lip, worry bubbling up in my stomach.I hate how tall her walls are—how they seem impossible to break through. I've spent the last two years trying to get her to take them down, brick by stubborn brick. But those bricks are made of pure lead and held together with industrial-strength Gorilla Glue.
She doesn't talk much about her life before Charlotte. But whatever it is has clearly scarred her so fucking much and it makes my heart hurt to know there isn't anyone in this world she trusts—and now Logan's gone and made it worse like he always does.
Her walls were there from day one. I don't know everything, but I know enough. She grew up alone—parents gone early, no siblings, no extended family that mattered. Just a great-aunt who paid for everything and loved nothing.
Scarlett built her life with cold hands and sharper edges, because soft things never lasted long in her world.
Scar sits there, lost in her thoughts, her hands limp in her lap. And I can't take it.
I launch myself at her, wrapping my arms around her head and neck, pressing her face into my chest as I tackle her back into the sofa cushions.
I begin to kiss her head repeatedly.
"Cam, the fuck—!" she starts, but I cut her off.
"I'm here!" I yell, pecking at her blonde hair. "I'll always be here! Don't bottle it up, Scar! Let it out!"
She starts laughing beneath me, the sound spilling out despite herself. "Cameron! Get off me!"
"Never!" I shout dramatically, tightening my hold and planting another kiss on her hairline. "You're stuck with me forever!"