The Games We Play - Chapter 22: Chapter 22

The hum of the studio is soothing—a blend of muted chatter, the scratch of pencils on paper, and the faint whirr of a printer in the corner. It smells like sawdust, fresh coffee, and the faint tang of glue—it's oddly comforting to me.
I sit at my drafting desk, the table on a slight incline. The natural light from the tall windows spills in, catching on the sheets of drafting paper and material swatches spread out in front of me.
My laptop sits open, a mess of AutoCAD renderings and mood boards on the screen, while my portfolio binder lies spread open.
I'm perfectly still—I don't even think I'm breathing—as I watch Lea Beauchamp flip through the binder. I don't want to spook her or break her concentration as she hums under her breath—a sound that could mean anything from this is geniusto this is a war crime.
Lea Beauchamp is everything I aspire to be and more. She's my icon, my idol, my Mr. Miyagi, my Jesus Christ.
Tall and poised, she's a total vision in her deep plum turtleneck knit tank, its chunky texture contrasting against her flawless ebony skin. Her presence screams, I'm here to slay your life, fix your lighting plan, and make you cry—but in a good way.
And I love her for it.
Her bald head gleams in the sunlight, emphasizing her sharp cheekbones and warm brown eyes. Pearl earrings are in her ears, and her hands—adorned with chunky silver rings on nearly every finger—are a work of art themselves.
"Okay," she says finally, stopping on a spread of my rooftop garden project. She taps a plum-polished nail against the rendering, her brow furrowing.
Oh god. Is the proportion off? Does the shading suck? Does she hate the color palette?
Fuck. I'm going to have to think of a whole new career.
I'm thinking WaltMart Manager. Gotta aim high plus the blue of the uniforms ain't too bad.
"This," she says, gesturing with a flourish of her hand that was probably taught at some exclusive design school in Paris, "is absolutely beautiful, mon chéri."
My soul practically leaves my body.
"It is gorgeous, Cam," she continues, her thick Louisiana accent stretching the word out until it sounds like gow-jus, dripping with approval.
She leans forward, her elbow on the table and her chin in her palm, as she gestures to the rendering.
"This rooftop garden? Inspired. These lines?" She drags her nail over the curved pathways I've agonized over for hours. "They're soft. Inviting. And that color palette?"
She pauses, gesturing toward the soft neutrals accented with bold pops of emerald and sapphire.
"It's giving money. It's giving luxury. It's giving please let me drink wine and contemplate my life under this trellis."
My lips twitch. "That's how I read the brief."
"And that is why you're so talented, mon amour," her voice softens just slightly. "But..."
Oh no.
I can already feel that itchy blue Walmart vest.
"...it feels like you're slowing down."
"Slowing down?" I croak, blinking at her like she's just accused me of a federal crime.
Lea nods slowly, resting her chin on her hand again as her sharp eyes pin me to my seat.
"Your work is still excellent, but where's that spark you had at the start of the semester? The fire?" She snaps her fingers in the air. "I don't see it as much anymore. I don't see you as much. You used to be in this studio before I was."
"Gone?" I say, sitting up straighter. "I don't think it's gone. I mean, sure, I've been busy—tutoring, classes, life stuff—but I'm still putting in the work."
Lea tilts her head, her gold earrings catching the light as she studies me. There's no judgment in her gaze, just a quiet kind of calculation that makes me shift uncomfortably in my chair.
"Mmhmm," she hums thoughtfully, tapping her nail against the edge of the table. "Busy isn't always a good thing, mon chéri."
I open my mouth to argue, but she holds up a hand, stopping me with a pointed look. "I'm not saying the work isn't good—it is. But is it you? Does it feel like you?"
That makes me pause. Because, well...does it?
Hell. Who even am I?
"I..." I trail off, glancing at the rooftop garden rendering in front of us.
Lea leans back in her chair, her expression softening. "You've got something special, Cam. You're not just good—you're memorable. And memorable designers? They push. They dig deep. They show up with work that makes people stop and stare."
Her tone stays even, but there's a warmth beneath it that makes me sit up a little taller. "That's the kind of work that gets you into Lume Covington. And it's the kind of work I know you can do."
Her words stick to me like gum on a hot sidewalk. Push harder. Dig deeper. Show up.
Which... okay, sure. Great advice. Except for the fact that my brain's been everywhere but here lately. Because, if I'm being honest, the past two weeks have been more about surviving the chaos than thriving in it.
I've been—well, okay, I've also been spending an unhealthy amount of time thinking about Wes and his stupid golden retriever face, but still.
It's like he's taken up permanent residence in my brain, renting out space I can't afford to give. Every time my phone buzzes, I half-expect it to be him.
The past two weeks have been a blur.
Two away games, two weekends spent glued to the TV at Tasha and Liam's place, screaming at every play and downing tequila shots like water. Two weekends that ended with us inevitably winding up at Sticky's, sweaty and euphoric on the dance floor, belting out the lyrics to "Mr. Brightside" because that always gets the white folks absolutely hyped.
And then, like clockwork, Sunday rolls around, and Wes is back in Charlotte, showing up at my door like it's his second home. Coffee in one hand, a bag of breakfast sandwiches in the other, and that stupid, lazy grin plastered across his face like he didn't just spend the past week getting tackled by 300-pound linemen.
He stays at mine, or we go back to his, and celebrate the only way Wes seems to know how to.
Sex. Lots of it. The kind of sex that leaves my legs feeling like jelly and my brain unable to form a single coherent thought beyond, Damn, that man has stamina.
I should probably feel guilty about how much time I've spent with him lately, especially when my portfolio deadline is practically breathing down my neck. But I don't. Not when I've been spending my Sundays in bed with Wes, tangled in warm sheets and warmer hands, his deep laugh in my ear as he teases me for wanting to nap in the late afternoon.
It's been... nice. Distracting, but nice.
Maybe too nice.
I clear my throat and give her my most convincing smile—the one I reserve for professors and people at family gatherings who ask why I'm not married yet.
"Thanks, Lea. And I, uh, I'll definitely work on my time management more," I say, nodding as if I have any idea how to do that.
Lea doesn't respond right away. She just tilts her head, her dark eyes scanning me like she can see straight into my soul.
"That's all I can ask for, ma chère," she says, her voice light but warm enough to make me feel like I'm not a total failure at life. "Just don't forget—you don't have to carry it all by yourself. If you need help, I'm here."
Something about the way she says it—the steady kindness in her tone, the way she doesn't make it feel like a lecture—hits me right in the chest.
She grins. "Just don't tell the other students."
"Got it," I laugh with a slight nod.
Lea claps her hands together once, her chunky rings catching the light. "Good! Now, let's get back to work because this next spread is giving potential, but..."
Her grin turns playful as she taps a finger on the page.
"Dear lord, stop saying 'but,'" I groan, throwing my head back dramatically.
"But," she says pointedly, ignoring my theatrics with a smug little smirk, "I want you to make me fall out of my chair. Literally. If I don't have to clutch my pearls and gasp, what's the point?"
I snort, because of course Lea is the type to clutch metaphorical pearls. "No pressure or anything."
"None at all," she says breezily, flipping to the next page with a flourish. "Now, mon chéri, show me something that screams 'I am Cameron Cole, hear me roar.'"
I roll my eyes at her cheesiness but flip the page over.
☆☆☆☆
By the time I'm sitting in the lecture hall for art history, it's clear my brain never really left the studio.
And because this day will never fucking end, Dr. Rowan is out sick, and we've been stuck with Professor Grady for the whole three hours.
He's a tall, wiry man, probably in his late sixties, with silver hair that clings stubbornly to the edges of his scalp and sharp, piercing eyes that seem to scrutinize your soul every time they land on you.
Unlike Rowan, who makes art history feel like a rich, vivid storybook, Grady delivers his lectures with all the warmth of a granite slab. He's a purist—obsessed with detail, uninterested in small talk, and completely immune to the concept of "grace periods" for deadlines.
The guy once called campus security on a student for sneaking out their phone mid-lecture.
He's strict to the point of terrifying, the kind of professor who looks like he's been teaching since the dawn of time and has no patience for modern "antics," as he puts it.
He sure as hell knows his shit, though.
"Pay attention to the brushstrokes," Grady drones as he clicks through a slideshow of Baroque masterpieces. "They aren't incidental. They lead the viewer's eye, heighten the drama, and emphasize the spiritual tension of the composition."
The projector screen fills with Caravaggio's The Calling of Saint Matthew, its deep shadows and dramatic light practically glowing in the dim room.
And I try to pay attention. I really do.
But all I can focus on is the blank space in the margins of my notebook and the soft scratch of my pen as I start sketching.
A rough outline of a kitchen takes shape. Something modern but not cold. Maybe a dark stone countertop paired with warm, light wood cabinets. Floor-to-ceiling windows for natural light.
"Note the interplay of light and shadow in The Calling of Saint Matthew," Professor Grady says, his tone sharp as he clicks to the next slide. "Caravaggio's use of chiaroscuro is deliberate here, directing the viewer's eye toward Christ's hand. Now—"
The heavy lecture hall door swings open with a loud creak, cutting him off mid-sentence.
The door isn't at the back of the room like most lecture halls. No, this one opens right onto the floor in full view of everyone—students, professor, projector screen, all of it.
Every head, mine included, swivels toward the interruption.
And there he is.
All six-foot-four of him. Tight black long sleeve and gray sweats, backpack on one shoulder, and his blonde hair tousled and still slightly damp from a shower. Fuck—he looks good.
Wes stands just inside the door, completely unfazed by the hundred pairs of eyes staring at him. His grin is broad, his golden hair tousled beneath a backward cap, and the obnoxiously casual way he carries himself makes me want to throw my laptop at him.
Grady, however, does not look amused.
"Mr. Reed," the professor says dryly, glaring at Wes over the rim of his glasses. "You seem to be lost. Intro to Art History meets tomorrow."
"I know," Wes says, that grin of his widening as he keeps walking, boots echoing loudly against the polished wooden floor. "I'm not here for class."
Grady's brow twitches, and I can practically see his blood pressure rising. "Then why, pray tell, are you disrupting mine?"
Wes stops right in front of him, his voice smooth as silk. "I just need to borrow Cameron Cole for a little while. Urgent business."
The entire room collectively turns toward me.
I want to sink into the floor.
"Miss Cole," Grady says with a resigned sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Please go before this circus distracts the class any further."
Heat floods my face as I stand up from my chair, shuffling out of the aisle and then down the few steps to the lecture floor, feeling everyone's heavy gazes on me.
I smooth a hand down the sides of my tight black flared yoga pants. I had gone for comfort—planning to remain in the studio all damn day—and paired my pants with a navy scoop-neck long sleeve and a pair of platform Tasman Uggs. It worked for me.
And from the way Wes is looking at me, it's working for him too.
Wes breathes out with a small smile as I near him. "Hi."
I just glare up at him, which makes his grin grow.
Wes steps to the side, his body turning to let me pass. His hand finds the small of my back—warm and steady—as we step out into the hallway together.
The old building feels timeless, with its high ceilings, creaking wooden floors, and wide windows that line one side of the hallway. The midday light pours in through the glass panes, streaking the space with golden warmth and illuminating the soft dust motes hanging in the air.
"What's up?" I ask, folding my arms across my chest as I turn to face him.
Wes grins down at me, completely unaffected by my irritation.
"I missed you," he says, like it's the most obvious thing in the world.
"You literally saw me this morning." I roll my eyes at him, heat creeping up my neck as images of this morning flash through my brain.
Waking up in his bed, on my stomach, my face half-squished into the pillow, the comforter soft and warm around me. My arm stretching out instinctively, searching for Wes's familiar warmth, only to find the bed empty.
Then the feeling of pressure on my legs, on the backs of my thighs, the feeling of his hands on my ass cheeks as he spreads them wide. I looked over my shoulder, seeing him burrowed under the pale blue sheets, and then he's diving in between my thighs and giving me a proper good morning like he does.
Wes smirks, and there's something devilishly knowing in the tilt of his lips. It's the kind of smirk that tells me he's remembering the same thing I am, his eyes holding onto mine for a second too long.
But then he pulls out his phone, breaking the moment.
"I also wanted to show you this," he says, holding the screen up to me.
On it, in bold, unmistakable text, is a grade: A-.
"No way..." I blink at it, my jaw dropping. "No fucking way. Grady gave you an A-minus?"
"Damn straight he did." Wes grins, cocky as hell and blinding white.
"Oh my god. Congrats!"
I don't even think before I'm launching myself at him, throwing my arms around his neck.
He catches me easily, his hands bracing my back as he lifts me off the ground and spins us both in a giddy circle. Our laughter bounces off the hallway walls, carefree and light, and for a moment, everything feels so perfectly good.
"Wes!" I exclaim between laughs as he sets me back on my feet, his hands sliding down to my waist but not letting go. "That's huge! Grady never gives out anything higher than a B-minus."
"Yeah, well," Wes shrugs, his grin so cocky it should be illegal, "he does now. He does for the Golden Boy."
I can't stop grinning, too happy for him to even pretend to be annoyed. "Hell yeah, he does! But seriously—Wes, you worked your ass off on that essay. I'm so proud of you."
Wes blinks, his grin softening slightly as the words hit him. "Yeah?" he asks, his voice quieter now, more vulnerable. "You really think it's a big deal?"
It's like this guy has never received praise in his life—when his Wikipedia page literally calls him The Golden Boy of Charlotte U.
I mean, he won the Heisman last year, for fuck's sake.
And yet he's here, looking like no one's told him "good job" before in his life.
"Wesley Reed," I say, exasperated but grinning as I tighten my hands on his shoulders, "of course I do! Not only did you get an amazing grade from Grady—the asshole who doesn't even know what an A-minus is—but you did it in a subject you've never studied before. It's insane! I'm so, so, so proud of you."
Before he can respond, I pull him in again, wrapping my arms around his shoulders and squeezing him tightly.
"Seriously, Wes," I say softly into his ear, "you crushed it."
For a moment, he just hugs me back, his arms wrapping securely around me. But then I feel the shift—the way his hold tightens, his hands sliding over my back as he pulls me closer, almost crushing me to his chest.
His head tucks into the curve of my neck, and he inhales deeply, like he's memorizing the scent of me, the feel of me pressed against him.
"Thank you, baby," he murmurs, his voice low and muffled against my neck. "You have no fuckin' idea what that means to me."
My fingers still in his hair, and for a second, I feel my chest tighten. His hold on me is solid—grounding—and the way he's tucked into my neck, breathing me in, it's... a lot.
Like, a whole fucking lot.
I laugh, my hands sliding up to the nape of his neck as I play lightly with the soft hair there. "You're acting like I handed you the Heisman or something."
Wes exhales sharply—half a scoff, half a laugh—but he doesn't pull back.
"You're my Heisman," he mutters, the tiniest hint of humor breaking through his serious tone.
"Smooth, Golden Boy," I chuckle, patting his back like I'm burping a baby. "But I'd rather take my praise in the form of something pink and alcoholic."
Wes huffs a low laugh against my shoulder and finally leans back, though his hands stay planted firmly on my waist. "We could make that happen. How are we celebrating?"
I tilt my head, giving him a look. "Keep it in your pants, Reed."
"I'm serious." His grin softens into something warmer, something... real. "What are you doin' tonight?"
"Tonight?" I ask, tapping my chin as I think. "Ahhh—oh shit, no. Jude roped me into trivia night at some downtown bar."
Wes raises an eyebrow, his smile faltering just a little. "A bar quiz?"
"Yeah. He's on a mission to win so he can flirt with the bartender who, unfortunately for Jude, is very, very straight." I smirk, then quickly add, "And taken. What about tomorrow?"
His expression clears immediately, and he leans back a little further, giving me a faint smile. "Thursday's Colts trick-or-treating. For the players' families, boosters' kids, you know. Big PR thing."
"Oh," I say, nodding as the picture comes together in my head. "You handing out candy?"
"The kids love it," Wes says lightly.
I blink up at him. "Friday?"
"In Columbia."
"Right—the SC Gamecocks."
"Gonna hand them their bird-roasted asses," he says casually, but his gaze is steady on mine, like he's waiting for something. "How's Saturday? You doing anything after the game?"
"Halloween party," I say, brushing it off like it's no big deal. "What else would I be doing? It's a Halloweekend, Golden Boy. Gotta let loose while I still can."
His jaw tightens ever so slightly, but his face stays casual, a small, easy grin tugging at his lips. "Which one?"
I shrug. "Probably one of the many on Sycamore Row. You know that street goes crazy for Halloween. Everyone's going to be there."
Wes exhales through his nose, like he's keeping something to himself.
"And what's your costume this year?" he asks, his voice light but with just enough curiosity to make me side-eye him.
"Her Royal Highness Mia Thermopolis from The Princess Diaries," I announce, lifting my chin like the royalty I clearly am.
Wes stares at me blankly. "Mia who?"
I gasp, clutching at his arm like he's just admitted to some kind of heinous crime. "You've never seen The Princess Diaries? Wes! How is that even possible?"
He shrugs, biting back a grin. "Sorry, baby, I guess I missed that one. Too busy playing ball and stealing hearts."
"Oh, I am so introducing you to the glorious world of Anne Hathaway," I say, patting his shoulder but shaking my head. "But another time—we're all going as iconic film females. Tasha's going as Elle Woods, Jude's doing some kind of Cher homage from Clueless—but sluttier—and Scarlett's going as The Bride from Kill Bill—"
"Okay, I respect that one," Wes says, nodding. "Kill Bill's a classic."
"Of course you know that one."
I shrug. "Yeah, it's kind of tradition at this point. Jude loves a good theme, and honestly, it's fun to let loose before everything gets too crazy with midterms. I've had a pep talk with my liver, and we're good to go."
Wes shakes his head, chuckling. "Well, just don't get too wild, Princess Mia."
I raise an eyebrow, tilting my head. "Why? Worried about me?"
"Always," he says, grinning, but there's something softer beneath the joke.
I blink at him, my heart doing that annoying stutter-step thing it's been doing around him lately. I let out a laugh to cover it. "Focus on your game first, Golden Boy. Then you can worry about me."
"Okay, okay," Wes says, his grin returning. "But for real, you seem to outdo yourself at every party, and while I'd love to see you in handcuffs, you're too soft for prison."
I laugh, rolling my eyes. "I am so the prison type! I'm real crafty—I can make a shiv out of anything."
"I'm sure you can." He observes me with humor dancing in his eyes.
"I'll be fine," I say, waving him off. "Scarlett's the ultimate mommy, Jude brings me more drinks, and Liam and Tasha are on deck to threaten me into an Uber if I even look at a karaoke machine."
Wes huffs a laugh, his gaze dropping to my face as I rattle off our foolproof survival guide. "Just be careful, yeah?"
I blink at him, caught off guard by the sudden sincerity. "You're actually worried, aren't you?"
Wes tilts his head, watching me closely, the teasing glint in his eye dimming just slightly. "And what kind of friend would I be if I wasn't at least a little worried?"
The word "friend" is pointed, heavy, making the air between us feel momentarily too tight.
I blink up at him, my smile faltering for just a split second. There's something in his tone, something in the way his blue eyes are so focused on me—soft and serious, like he's trying to say something without actually saying it.
But instead of lingering on it, I just laugh, brushing it off. "Oh, don't worry about me, Golden Boy. I'll be a good girl."
Wes raises an eyebrow, his grip on my waist tightening just enough to make my skin buzz. "Promise?"
"Promise." I nod solemnly, placing a hand over my chest like I'm swearing an oath. But then my grin turns wicked as I add, "And if not, you can punish me however you see fit when you get back."
His entire body stiffens, his jaw tightening as his eyes darken, flickering down to my lips before dragging back up to my eyes. His grip on my waist flexes, and I swear I can feel the heat radiating off of him.
His hand slides from my waist to my lower back as he pulls me closer.
I laugh, pressing a hand to his chest to keep some space between us as I shake my head.
"C'mere," he murmurs, his voice low and rough, his chin pushing forward as he searches for my lips with his.
I turn my face, giggling. "Uh-uh, not happening. I'm missing valuable class time, Reed. I have to go remind Grady who his favorite student is."
Wes lets out a breathy chuckle, his other hand coming up to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. "You're definitely his favorite."
"Damn right I am," I quip, stepping out of his hold despite the protest in his eyes.
I take a step toward the lecture hall door, throwing a playful little wave over my shoulder as I go.
"Don't miss me too much, Golden Boy."
He grins, leaning back against the wall, his arms crossing over his chest as he watches me walk away. "Too late, Cole."
I push the door open and slip back into the lecture hall, the hum of Grady's voice droning on as I make my way to my seat. Before I sit, I glance back toward the door, catching one last glimpse of Wes through the small window, his gaze still fixed on me.
He notices me looking and smirks, giving me a subtle wink before pushing off the wall and heading down the hallway.
I shake my head, biting back a smile as I settle back into my seat, pulling out my notebook like I haven't just lost ten minutes of class to whatever that was.