The Games We Play - Chapter 16: Chapter 16

"Be careful there, Cole. I might just start thinking you're obsessed with me." Wes pauses to grin at me as he bites the top of his straw, holding his large peanut butter protein shake.
I scoff, "Calm down, Reed. I went to Tasha's for the free pizza and because they got a kitten. Your game just happened to be on."
"Yeah—but you watched me more than the cat. Admit it." Wes chuckles softly as I stab at my salad with my fork and shake my head.
"I may have looked over every now and then." I shrug casually as Wes' grin grows brighter. I point my fork, "And I didn't watch you. I watched the whole team."
Wes nods, "Mmm-hmm, says the girl who called me after the game to tell me she got turned on watching me in my uniform."
"Well, I would've call Rome, but I didn't have his phone number." I shrug as a small but evil smirk stretches across my face at the same slow rate Wes' cocky grin dies. I tilt my head, "No?"
"No." Wes shakes his head at me, and I giggle, leaning back in my chair as Wes continues to devour the huge plate—plates—of food in front of him, "You wear his jersey on Friday night?"
"Gotta represent," I say, raising a weak rallying fist, and Wes rolls his eyes, "It's not like I have other options."
"We're stopping by the Team Store after this," Wes announces, and I tilt my head back and laugh at his weird obsession with seeing his name on my back.
My giggle carries across the Watering Trough—which is just another gimmicky name for the dining hall inside the multi-million-dollar football facilities: The Charles W. Myers Athletic Complex. Although it's more affectionately referred to as The Stables or The Charlie Dub.
No one knows what the W stands for, but it's named after one of the greatest football coaches to teach at the college.
It was built three years ago, costs more than my entire existence, and could probably launch into space if it wanted to. That's not its official marketing tagline, but it should be.
It's massive—practically its own zip code—and every inch of it screams money.
The exterior is all sleek glass panels and polished concrete, while the inside feels like it's part luxury hotel, part futuristic gym. There's a recovery spa, hot and cold plunge pools, top-tier weight rooms, an indoor turf field, a basketball court, and even a state-of-the-art lounge for players with leather recliners and massive TVs.
When I was a freshman, a lot of the seniors in the same degree as me helped out with the interior designs. I made friends with a handful of them so I could sneak into their workshops to just listen.
And somehow, Wesley Reed—the Prince of the Stables—managed to sneak me into the dining hall for no other reason than to eat salads and piss me off.
I don't know why I agreed to this. I really don't.
Wait, no—I know exactly why. It's the same reason my sheets have seen more of Wes lately than I'd care to admit.
Wes leans back in his chair, arms crossed, watching me with that smug little smirk that makes me want to throw my salad at his face.
"I'm just saying, you'd look good in it. You'd suit it," Wes says, still harping on about the jersey. "Cameron Reed's got a nice ring to it, don't you think?"
"Subtle, golden boy," I deadpan, stabbing at another piece of lettuce. "Real subtle."
"Subtle's overrated," Wes replies, biting into his second steak like the golden retriever of a human he is. "Gotta get you one before Saturday. To match your VIP passes."
"Bold of you to assume I'm using them," I say, quirking an eyebrow.
Wes pauses, looking at me like I've just mortally wounded him. "Hey, we pinky-promised."
"I know we did," I say with a sigh, leaning back in my chair. "But don't act like you didn't weaponize those stupid puppy-dog eyes of yours to make it happen. It's unfair."
He grins, wide and unrepentant. "Worked like a charm though, yeah?"
"Barely—but yes, I'll be there," I say, stabbing another piece of lettuce with unnecessary force. "But you better make it worth my time, Reed. Put on a show for me."
Wes pauses mid-sip of his shake, his grin curling into something cocky and dangerous. "I always do, baby. Just for you."
"Ha—okay." I roll my eyes with a short scoff, "You guys all prepped and ready?"
"Yep," He says, setting his shake down and leaning forward slightly, his elbows braced on the table. "Alumni Spotlight means there'll be a ton of old players in the stands—big names, some of them in the NFL now. Coaches are hyped, so we've been tightening everything up this week."
Why is it so fucking hot when guys talk about sports?
It's not the words—half the time, I don't even know what they mean. Zone coverage? Tightening things up? Sure, Wes, whatever you say.
But it's the way he says it. The confidence. The pride. The passion for his team, his teammates, and, okay, maybe a little for himself.
He talks about football like it's a religion, like the field is his holy ground, and it's so annoyingly sexy that it's criminal.
Criminal because of how fucking wet it makes me.
"BYU's a strong team, but their secondary's weak. Lot of gaps in their zone coverage. If I can exploit it early, we'll keep the pressure on, force them to play catch-up," Wes says, his voice calm and confident, like he's already running plays in his head.
I cross my legs beneath the table, trying to ignore the way his forearms flex every time he shifts in his seat. I think I'm at the point now where I may just require medical intervention and aid for my mental health.
He leaning back with that easy confidence that only someone like Wes can pull off. "Alumni Spotlight games are always wild. The energy in the stadium's gonna be off the charts—fans, boosters, ex-players. Plus I got a lot riding on this game."
"NFL scouts?"
He tilts his head slightly, his dark eyes locking on mine with an intensity that makes my stomach flip. "You."
"Me?" I repeat, blinking.
He leans forward now, his voice dropping lower, smoother.
"Yeah. You. In my bed. After the game." He pauses just long enough for the words to settle, his grin curling into something wicked. "When I walk off that field, sweaty and sore, I wanna come home and celebrate the only way I want to."
Heat rushes to my cheeks, and I grip my fork like it's the only thing keeping me from spontaneously combusting. "Jesus Christ," I mutter, glaring at him through the haze of embarrassment and—goddammit—arousal.
Wes just grins, his voice all honey and smoke as he adds, "I'm serious, baby. Your body is my prize, and I don't plan on losing."
"Oh my g—you're insane." I say, laughing as my giggle spreads through the room again. He matches it but his smile doesn't reach his eyes.
It's soft—the midday sunshine making his blue eyes sparkle as he watches me.
It felt nice to laugh with him. Really.
These last couple of days has been real nice too.
Ever since Wes showed up at my door late Saturday night, still buzzed off adrenaline from their win against the Liberty Flames, things feel easy. Too easy.
Maybe it's all the orgasms I'm having that have me in such a good mood. Actually, it's definitely the orgasms.
We missed the lunch rush, but Wes charmed his way into getting the grill workers to stay open a little later. He told me they have the best cooks out of all the colleges in the country—and he's right.
I was crafting myself a salad at the salad bar when Wes had pulled me over to the grill. They cooked up some marinated chicken strips that they layered on top. The way the meat tastes and falls apart in my mouth is wild.
Wes went all out with his steaks and chimichurri sauce, roasted sweet potatoes, mac'n'cheese, mixed green salad, and a massive protein shake. I have no idea how he eats like that and looks like that. It's so fucking unfair.
I so much as glance at a piece of chocolate, and I gain two pounds.
"Ay, yo!"
The voice is loud, familiar, and I turn in my chair to glance over my shoulder.
And there's Rome grinning like he just spotted his favorite person in the world. He's heading over, weaving his way through all the empty white and blue tables. Clay is following behind at a slower pace, lifting a blue Colts shaker cup to his mouth and finishing it off.
My brows furrow slightly, confused as to why Rome is smiling at me like a coked-out clown.
"Uh, h—"
Rome cuts me off as he strides right up to me, tilts my head back with two giant hands on either side of my head, and plants a big kiss right in the middle of my head.
I hear the legs of Wes' chair scrape along the ground as he begins to climb out of his seat.
I'm finally let go as Rome steps back, but not by much, while announcing to the entire empty dining hall, "You are a goddamn godsend."
"Context?" I frown, side-glancing at Clay as he nears the table with a small grin.
Wes is slowly lowering himself back into his seat.
"Bertha," Rome explains as things click in my head. "Told her my Pomeranian chewed up the textbook, and she ate that shit up. Completely waived the fine and spent like ten minutes showing me pictures of her dogs."
Wes chuckles, "You don't have a fucking Pomeranian."
"Exactly," Rome says before he smooths a hand over the top of my head. "But your beautiful girl here came in clutch. She's like the hand of God and gave me the key to Big Bertha's swollen heart."
I flick his hand away. "God, you're so weird."
"You got my players scammin' librarians now, Cam?" Clay asks from where he looks down at me with those soft, icy blue eyes of his on the other side of Rome.
I scoff and shake my head. "I helped him out, he stopped bothering me, that's it. Didn't even think it would work."
"Well—it did, and now I'm yours." Rome beams while folding his arms.
I sigh with a small, fake sob. "Can't you be someone else's?"
"No can do, Camsung Galaxy," Rome shakes his head. "I'm indebted to you now. Whatever you need, just call on Daddy Rome."
"What I need is for you to never call yourself that again."
Both Wes and Clay let out teasing chuckles as Rome smirks down at me, more amused than embarrassed.
I genuinely think Rome has never experienced an ounce of that emotion before.
"You guys heading to class?" Wes asks as he leans back in his chair in a weirdly attractive position, elbows up on the arms, slutty little waist accentuated by the black compression tee he's wearing.
Shit. Even the slightest things he does turn me on.
I so much as smell him now, and I turn into some feral psych ward escapee.
"Clay is. I'm going home to nap now that my pretty little head can rest easy," Rome grins down at me again, and I roll my eyes with a small laugh. "You two lovebirds?"
Lovebirds? I frown and open my mouth—
"Figured I'd walk Cam to class and then go get some groceries," Wes announces, and I glance at him, having no idea that was even happening.
Rome smirks and points. "But don't you got that meeting with the social media team?"
His face falls. "Ah, shit."
"Don't piss off Maddison any more than you already have, Wes," Clay shakes his head with his own little teasing smirk, "You're already on her shitlist for hackin' the account and floodin' the Colts instagram with pics of yourself. Gonna send the poor woman to an early grave."
I frown at him and he grins back at me with a shrug, "It was April Fools."
"It's alright—we'll walk Cam to her class," Rome grins as he places both massive hands on my shoulders. "Make sure she gets there nice and safe and maybe even have a little word with her professor to go easy on our sweet little cinnamon roll."
I tilt my head back, glaring up at him upside down as he grins back down at me.
"You ready to go now?"
"Uh—" I glance at Wes, whose jaw is set tightly, and he's staring at me like he's daring me to move.
I turn my gaze to my phone, noting that I have five minutes to get across campus, and also that my salad and Diet Coke are just about done.
I had completely forgotten about my classes up until two seconds ago.
"Yeah—sure." I nod my head as I turn in my chair to glance up at both football gods behind me. "Think I can run to the ladies' room real quick?"
"Don't take too long; I'll start to miss you," Rome grins predatorily at me.
I pause for a split second, genuinely stumped on how to reply to that, but then just shake my head and sigh. That's a pretty universal reaction to anything that Rome Booker utters.
I push out of my chair and quickly cross the dining hall—and I swear I feel all three sets of eyes on my ass as I walk away. But I don't bother turning back, too busy focusing on following the signs above and on the walls.
The ladies' restroom is just as wild as the rest of the complex. It has everything except for toilets that blow-dry your ass and talk to you.
As I leave the restroom, wiping my hands on my jeans, I'm contemplating grabbing my shit and just booking it so I wouldn't have to suffer crossing the campus with not one but two football players and have to ignore everyone's unbearable stares.
That's probably why I don't notice the mountain of a man coming around the corner until I slam straight into him.
"Whoa, easy there," he says, his large hands steadying my shoulders.
"Sorry!" I blurt out, looking up—and freezing.
Harlan Fletcher. Coach Fletcher. The head coach of the Charlotte Colts.
He's exactly what you'd picture if someone said Southern football coach: a broad-shouldered, barrel-chested man with a strong jawline half-hidden under a thick, salt-and-pepper mustache.
His piercing green eyes are the kind that could strip paint off a wall when he's angry—or make you want to run laps for no reason at all.
Even in his late fifties, the man has a quiet intensity about him, the kind that could still make D1 athletes tremble in their cleats.
"Ma'am," he says politely, stepping back as his sharp eyes sweep over me.
I wonder if he remembers—Wes' truck, my tits out, the color draining from both our faces.
But there's no recognition in his expression just quiet curiosity, but that almost makes it worse.
I'm not supposed to be here, and he knows it.
"Uh...hi," I stammer, brushing imaginary lint off my jeans.
He tilts his head slightly, the lines of his face etched deep with a mix of age, wisdom, and that quiet, intimidating presence all good coaches seem to have. "You new with the staff?"
I laugh nervously, shaking my head. "No, just here...with a friend."
His gaze sharpens slightly, but his tone stays casual. "A friend, huh?"
"Yes, sir."
His mustache twitches like he's amused. "That 'friend' wouldn't happen to be Reed, would it?"
I blink, my stomach flipping. "How do you—"
"Reed's the only one bold enough to sneak someone in here," he says dryly, crossing his arms. "Our staff wouldn't have let anyone else. They've got a soft spot for him. Calls 'em 'ma'am' and remembers their birthdays."
That...actually tracks.
"Yeah, well," I mumble, shifting awkwardly under his sharp gaze. "He can be pretty convincing when he wants to be."
His eyes narrow slightly, but there's no malice in his expression. Just... curiosity.
"You a girlfriend?" he asks bluntly.
"Oh God, no." I scoff with a roll of my eyes before realizing who the fuck I'm talking to. I freeze, falter, my eyes widening on him. "Uh—I mean—I didn't—"
Coach Fletcher laughs and puts a hand up. "Just a friend then."
"Tutor, actually."
"Ah." Fletcher nods as if finally understanding something. "I knew there was something different. Boy's been more focused lately. Smarter about his choices."
I raise an eyebrow, skeptical. "You're giving me a lot of credit for helping him write a couple essays."
Coach Fletcher chuckles, a low, rumbling sound that makes me feel oddly small and strangely seen all at once. "Takes more than an essay to change a man's game. Don't sell yourself short."
I hesitate, his words settling in a place I didn't expect.
"Thanks," I say softly. "But, uh... he's not exactly an easy student."
"Never said he was," Fletcher replies, his tone lighter. "But you're handling him. That's more than most can say."
I snort before I can stop myself. "That's one way to put it."
For a moment, he just looks at me, his expression softening slightly.
Then his mustache twitches again, and he tips an imaginary hat. "Well, I'll let you get back to it. Hope to see you at more games."
I hesitate before holding out a hand. "Ah, my name's Cameron, sir. It's nice to meet you," I say, trying to ignore the way my voice wavers.
He takes my hand in his, his grip firm but warm. "Harlan Fletcher."
"I know," I say before I can stop myself. "Kind of hard not to."
His mustache twitches again, and he chuckles softly, his gaze lingering a moment longer before he turns and walks away.
As I watch him leave, I can't shake the feeling that he already knew exactly who I was before I said my name. But he's gone, and I'm still standing in the middle of the hallway like an idiot.
Wes, Clay, and Rome are standing near the entrance to the dining hall when I return, Wes holding my tote bag in one hand like it's second nature while he talks to the guys.
Clay notices me first, his quiet gaze flicking my way, and he nods his head, which makes the other two turn to look.
"Awww, you didn't need to get yourself all dolled up for me," Rome says smoothly, stepping forward. "Was starting to expect you slipped out the back door."
"It was locked," I return as the boys all grin in amusement.
Wes doesn't say anything, but the corner of his mouth twitches like he's holding back a smile.
His fingers flex briefly around the strap of my bag before I reach out to take it. Our hands brush for a split second, and something flickers in his gaze before he releases it.
"Ready?" I ask, slipping the bag onto my shoulder.
"Hell yeah—" Rome sobers quickly and raises his hands, palms out, like he's approaching a wild animal. "If that's all okay with your boy."
The grin he shoots Wes is all sharp edges, and Wes's jaw ticks, his eyes narrowing just slightly.
"She's her own person, Booker," he says coolly, but his hand curls around the strap of his backpack, white knuckles betraying the steady façade.
"All right," I mutter, grabbing the front of Rome's hoodie. "Let's go before this turns into a dick-measuring contest."
I drag him towards the door, Clay following behind as we walk the halls back to the front entrance. The walls are covered in memorabilia, a testament to the team's legacy.
Rome stumbles a step, laughing as he regains his footing. "Aye, whoa, whoa. Easy on the fit, Cameroonie."
Clay shakes his head, amused as ever.
"Try to keep him in one piece for me, will ya?" he says to me, his voice laced with dry humor.
"No promises."
Digital screens line sections of the corridor, displaying highlight reels of iconic plays.
They loop silently, the motion catching my eye every few steps—like one of Wes in a slow-motion pass that seems to freeze time, his face cool and composed as the ball spirals through the air.
"Big fan of the Colts, huh?" Rome teases, nudging me as he notices where my gaze lingers.
I scoff, rolling my eyes. "It's impossible not to be when your propaganda is shoved down my throat."
Clay shrugs. "You get used to it."
The next hallway has a trophy case running the length of it, the glass spotless and gleaming under strategically placed lighting. Bronze plaques with engraved names glint under the glow, commemorating legendary players. The Colts' signature blue and silver colors are everywhere, from the floor tiles to the trim on the ceilings.
"You ever think about how much money they throw at this place?" I ask, half to myself.
"Every day," Rome replies easily, gesturing at a wall-sized display of retired jerseys, the numbers practically glowing. "But hey, if they didn't, where else would y'all see my beautiful face in HD?"
I giggle as we pass a portrait of Rome mid-sprint, his expression intense as he holds the ball tight to his chest.
"Damn, can you believe you got that guy walking you to class?" Rome teases while pointing at the portrait.
I snort. "Oh yeah? And when's he showing up?"
"He's all in me, baby," Rome points a finger at his chest before switching it to me. "Can be all in you, too."
Clay cracks a sharp, surprised laugh on the other side, and I too can't help but laugh in disbelief—but I did walk myself right into that one with a clear head and open eyes.
"Jesus, Booker." Clay shakes his head with a big grin on his face.
"What? I gotta at least try." Rome holds both arms out in question as he stops at the top of the stairs.
"Oh no, you don't, honey." I pout, slapping him on the shoulder as I pass and continue to walk down the stairs with Clay.
We're at the lobby entrance to the complex, and this whole hall is just as drowning in the white, blue, and silver as the rest of the complex.
It has huge floor-to-ceiling glass windows overlooking the front garden, and all I can do is grit my teeth at the cloudless blue skies, knowing I'm going to look like a drowned rat by the time I get to my class.
He follows. "Didn't work?"
"Points for effort," I offer as Clay shoots me a cheeky grin and Rome appears at my side again, chuckling.
"I so fuck with you, girl." Rome shakes his head, still grinning, as Clay opens the door and we all step out.