The Games We Play - Chapter 24: Chapter 24

The sunshine is trying its damned best to revive my dopamine receptors.
After three days of gray skies and thick, oppressive clouds, today feels like a cosmic apology.
Bright, cloudless skies stretch over UC's campus, and the November sun is doing just enough to make you think maybe I don't need a jacket today.
It's warm, but there's a bite of crisp air, the kind that reminds you the end of fall is coming whether you're ready for it or not. By the weekend, the weather's supposed to take a nosedive, temperatures dropping into the forties with a chance of rain.
North Carolina's November roulette.
For now, though, students are scattered across the quad like birds catching the sun before it disappears. Picnic tables are full, the grass is dotted with people sitting cross-legged or lying on their backs with textbooks resting on their chests.
And after a three-hour workshop that I showed up two hours early for, the last thing I wanted was to be stuck in inside the library for our tutoring session.
Alone. With Wesley Reed. For a whole hour.
After my sudden world-shattering realization.
Yeah, fuck that.
I thought Halloween night was just a fluke.
Just my drunken, tequila fueled thoughts rambling off before sleep.
But then I woke up Sunday morning, wrapped up in his arms.
His face had been buried in my neck, his arm draped over my waist, his palm warm and steady against my bare stomach. I could feel his slow, even breaths against my skin, the weight of him anchoring me in place like he never wanted to let go.
And I didn't want to leave.
I lay there, staring at the faint morning light spilling through his blinds, trying to figure out when the fuck I'd lost control of this.
Falling for Wes was never part of the plan. In fact, the plan was no men.
At fucking all.
That was my new school year resolution—no men, no relationships, nothing that could distract me from getting my portfolio to a place where it would knock Lea Beau's bedazzled socks off and earn me one of those two Lume Interior spots.
And yet here I am, falling for one of the worst guys possible.
Not because he's a bad guy—he's not.
But because he's everything I swore I wouldn't let myself want.
Wes could ruin me.
Not in the way past guys have ruined me—leaving me feeling cheap or stupid or like I was some kind of hobby. Running back to tell their girlfriends or spreading rumors that would follow me through the school halls.
Their hatred and laughter manifesting in notes passed around class. In eggs thrown on my car.
Because people can be so...cruel.
But not Wes. No fucking way.
That's exactly why he'll ruin me—because he's good. Too good.
And I don't know how to reconcile the idea that someone like him could genuinely want me for more than my body.
So—naturally— I've been freaking the fuck out.
Since Halloween, everything with Wes has felt more...intense.
Like we've crossed some invisible line neither of us is acknowledging. He's been sweeter, gentler, doing all these little things that make my chest ache in ways I don't know how to handle.
Like how he brought me my favorite coffee on Monday morning before class without me even asking. Or how he texted me on Wednesday just to tell me he was proud of me for putting in extra time at the studio.
Or how he stayed at mine last night, just lying in bed with me because I had this huge stress migraine, running his fingers up and down my spine as I drifted off.
It's all too much.
So I've been throwing myself into the only thing that makes sense anymore: sex.
Because when we fuck, when I'm on my back, my stomach, my ankles by my ears, I don't have to think.
I don't have to analyze every look he gives me, every touch that lingers a little too long. I don't have to wonder what he's thinking or feeling or if this thing between us is morphing into something I can't control.
Wes is more attentive, more aggressive, more everything.
He just never wants to stop, wants his cock to stay constantly buried inside me. I can't even count the number of condom boxes we've blown through. I buy one, then he buys one. Tit for tat.
We're either at mine or his. On the bed, in the shower, the kitchen island block, on my bedroom rug, twice on Wes' massive sectional when his roommates weren't home, and a handful of times in his truck.
When I'm under him or on on top of him, the world seems so fucking simple.
And I want simple. I crave simple.
But the second it's over, the second his hand drifts up my thigh or his lips brush against my temple, when he's holding me close and whispering sweet nothings into my ear, I'm back in the deep end, drowning in my own goddamn feelings.
If I have to sit in a tiny little private room with him for more than five minutes, I may just cry.
Which is why I decided to change it up, take advantage of the sunshine, and texted him to meet me at Brew & Blue instead.
Around people. Around distractions. Around things that won't make me hyper-aware of the fact that I'm falling for him.
Because sitting across from him in a crowded café is manageable.
Sitting across from him in a quiet, private room where his voice gets low and his hands linger too long and his cologne clouds my head like some kind of drug? I think the fuck not.
I snag a spot in the outdoor seating area of Blue&Brew, the wrought-iron table cool against my arms as I set up my laptop.
A half-empty iced coffee sits next to me, the condensation dripping onto my notebook, but I don't bother moving it. The caffeine is the only thing keeping me upright after three hours of non-stop sketching this morning.
The outdoor area is separated from the quad by a low hedge, a thin barrier between the coffee-drinking overachievers and the sunbathing procrastinators.
It's all going great—calm, peaceful, totally not overwhelming—until Rome fucking Booker swaggers past.
We spot each other at the same time.
He's got a Colts waterbottle in one hand, his phone in the other, and that cocky grin because he knows damn well how good he looks.
Fresh from practice, his black curls are damp and glistening, clinging to his forehead like he just walked out of a high-budget sports ad. There's a faint sheen on his skin, the kind that comes from running drills under the North Carolina sun, and somehow, it only makes him look better.
He's wearing a tight, gray moisture-wicking shirt that clings to every ridge and dip of muscle in his chest and arms, the fabric doing absolutely nothing to hide the fact that he's built like a Greek statue.
His practice shorts hang low on his hips, revealing a teasing glimpse of those insane V-lines that honestly should come with a warning label for people with weak hearts and knees.
There needs to be an NCAA award for best looking college football team - and Charlotte Colts would take it home every damn year.
Rome lights up with a grin the second he spots me, his dimples flash and his dark eyes sparkle as he shouts, "Cameron!"
And then he fucking scales the hedge separating the cafe from the path like some sexy parkour move and lands on the other side with all the grace of a golden retriever who thinks they're a cat.
"Jesus Christ, Rome," I mutter, staring at him as he plants himself in the chair across from me.
He grins like he's just won a prize. "Not you pretending like you didn't missed me."
"I didn't." I reply flatly, turning back to my laptop.
"Don't lie. You missed me."
"Rome—"
"You missed me."
I sigh, shaking my head as a reluctant smile tugs at my lips. Damn him.
Somehow, against all odds, I've gotten used to Rome Booker.
I've even come to—God help me—enjoy his presence.
Sure, he's loud and cocky and probably more trouble than he's worth, but he's also funny, annoyingly charming, and just...a good guy.
Rome leans back in the chair, spreading his legs wide like he owns the place. His grin is pure trouble, dimples flashing as he drapes an arm over the backrest.
"And you're just the lady I was looking for," he says, like this is some kind of meet-cute and not him interrupting my perfectly peaceful study session.
My face falls, "Oh god, why?"
He laughs, low and warm, like I'm being ridiculous. "Don't be like that, baby. I need your help."
I arch an eyebrow. "Rome, I'm not qualified for that kind of work, but Jude has some great doctors—"
"Ha-ha," he says dryly, rolling his eyes. "I'm talking about my essay."
"My rates are fifty-grand an hour."
"Perfect, my presence is sixty."
I snort, shaking my head as he grins wider. "What essay?"
Rome leans forward, bracing his forearms on the table like he's about to tell me some deep, dark secret. "It's for my Sports Business paper. Five days late. Worth like, thirty percent of my grade. I just need some off-the-books help tweaking it. Nothing major."
"Nothing. Major?" I say through gritted teeth.
He waves me off, like I'm being pedantic. "C'mon, Cam. Don't let me fail out of college. My mama would never let me hear the end of it."
I cross my arms, leaning back in my chair. "Rome. You're a senior. How have you not figured out how to write a paper by now?"
"Easy," he says, flashing another grin. "I just wait until the last second and then cry until someone helps me."
I sigh, rubbing my temples as I try not to laugh, "Dear lord."
Before I can retort, he clasps his hands together and juts out his bottom lip in a faux pout. "Please, Cam? Just this once? You'd be saving a life. Think of our future children. They'll need a home."
"Our children?"
"See? Already worrying - I knew you'd be a great mother."
"Jesus Christ," I mutter, pinching the bridge of my nose. "Fine. Show me the damn essay."
Rome grins as he's sliding his laptop out of his Colts branded sports bag and opening up the document.
The formatting is horrendous, different fonts, and for some reason there's a range of font sizes, like there will be one line where a few of the words are tiny and then another line where only one word is huge.
It's a complete mess and my stress migraine from last night slowly comes back for round two.
I'm halfway through reading Rome's essay—if you can call it that—when Wes finally arrives, plopping down in the chair across from me. Both he and Rome are clearly fresh from practice, still in their Colts gear, and radiating heat and confidence like they're center stage at a press conference.
"Sorry I'm late," Wes mutters, his voice low and gravelly as he drops his gym bag on the ground. "Got caught up in some social media bullshit with the team."
Rome, naturally, perks up at this. "Oh, shit, that's right—you manage to calm down Madison?"
"I have never met someone who could benefit from a weed joint more than that woman." He sighs heavily as he runs a hand through his hair.
I chuckle softly, his blue eyes catching mine from across the table and the corners of his lips pick up. He looks tired but sharp, his black Colts tee a size too small for his body and my self-restraint.
The blue COLTS across the chest kind of stretched in the best way possible, his biceps bulging from the tight sleeves, the sun catching the hard definition of his abs beneath the dark material.
Goddamn.
Wes pulls out his laptop as soon as he sits down, the soft click of the hinge drawing my attention for a brief second.
He's late, sure, but it's practice-worn Wes with his damp curls and faint cologne, so I let it slide.
I quickly pull up the notes I prepared for him earlier and slide them across the table, gesturing toward the sections he needs to focus on for Grady's upcoming lecture.
Pontormo and Michelangelo—distortion versus harmony, line versus form.
He settles in easily, his fingers already moving across the keyboard, the faint crease in his brow telling me he's actually focused.
I glance back down at Rome's laptop, forcing my attention back to the mess of words on his screen.
The three of us settle into a rhythm. Rome sprawls lazily in his chair, as if he owns the entire café; Wes hunches over his laptop, typing halfheartedly; and I focus on untangling the mess that is Rome's essay.
The vibe is relaxed—mostly. But every now and then, I catch the way Wes's posture stiffens when Rome leans too close to me, or the sharp click of his space bar when Rome makes me laugh. It's subtle, but it's there.
And Rome? Oh, Rome knows.
The man has a sixth sense for this kind of thing, and he's eating it up like it's his favorite dessert.
"Rome," I say, squinting at the screen, "this essay reads like it was written by a motivational speaker at dollar store TED Talk."
"Thank you," Rome says, grinning like I just handed him a trophy.
"That wasn't a compliment," I say flatly, unable to keep the laugh out of my voice. I scroll down, pointing at a particularly egregious sentence. "Look at this: 'Trust is the secret sauce that takes teams from good to great.' The hell does that even mean?"
"Ah—I think it's pretty self explanatory, Cam." Rome scoffs like I'm the stupid one, spreading his hands like it was obvious. "You need trust. It's the sauce."
"The sauce," I deadpan.
"Exactly," he says, leaning back with a satisfied grin.
Wes scoffs, trying—and failing—to cover it up with a cough.
I glare at him. "You leave him alone."
"Can't help it," Wes says, his lips twitching into a grin as he leans back in his chair. "This is pure gold."
"Focus on your own work, Golden Boy." I point at his notes, before retuning back to Rome's laptop, "Alright, this part about trust and team morale? That's good. But you need to connect it to your thesis."
Rome leaned in, nodding as he followed my finger on the screen. "Okay, so like...'When trust is established, morale improves, and high morale leads to better results'?"
"Exactly," I said, smiling. "See, now you're getting it."
Rome shifts closer, following my cursor as I highlight a paragraph. Our shoulders brush lightly, the contact brief but enough to make Wes's hit his space bar a little too aggressively.
When I glance up, his gaze is locked on us, his jaw tight as he watches the space between me and Rome like it's somehow offensive.
Rome, of course, notices.
And he smirks like he knew exactly what was going on, "Bro, you good over there?"
"Just peachy." Wes said shortly, not looking up.
Rome's grin turned sly, but his tone stayed light. "You sure? You're looking a little tense."
"Rome," I warn, giving him a look.
"What?" Rome raises his hands innocently, though his grin is anything but.
Wes mutters something under his breath and shifts in his chair, the motion jostling the table.
"Alright," I say, shaking my head as I push Rome's laptop back toward him. "Let's talk about your conclusion. Right now, it's just restating your intro and this last line: 'trust is the ultimate touchdown in life'—"
Rome grinned shamelessly. "Tight, ain't it?"
"No, it ain't," I said, covering my mouth to stifle a laugh, "Change it—make it stronger."
Wes nearly choked on his water, sitting back in his chair and looking at Rome like he'd just declared the sky was green, "I'm so fucking using that at practice tomorrow."
"The fuck you are—" Rome folds his arms as Wes chuckles, shaking his head with his eyes on his laptop, "But Cameroni and Cheese—professors eat this shit up."
"Only because it's you." I run a hand through my hair and settle back in my chair, "If you want to do well, to know you truly deserved the grades your getting, then you need to elevate your essay skills."
Rome groaned, dropping his head onto the table. "Fine. Then what should I say instead—teach me your ways Essay Yoda."
I raise an eyebrow at him.
"What? You're wise and you're short." Rome says with a cheeky grin, tapping my head before quickly pointing back at the laptop, "So—this here conclusion..."
Wes let out a quiet laugh despite himself, and I slice a glare at him, catching the faintest hint of a smile before he quickly schooled his expression.
The moment passed, and the tension settled into the background as we kept working, Rome's teasing and Wes' quiet reactions adding an unspoken layer to the usual rhythm of our dynamic.
Like I said; chill, friendly, and easy—mostly.
We worked for a little while longer, falling into a rhythm that was surprisingly productive considering the company. Rome typed furiously, occasionally asking for clarification or throwing out some ridiculous joke that made me roll my eyes.
Wes, on the other hand, had finally started focusing on his own work of writing down notes from his reading, though I caught him sneaking glances at us every now and then.
"Alright," I said eventually, sitting back and stretching my arms over my head. "I think you've got enough to get this thing done, Booker."
Rome turned to me, his grin wide and mischievous. "You know, Cole, I should take you out for dinner or something. A thank-you for saving my GPA."
I freeze for a second before dropping my arms, quickly adjusting the hem of my white off-the-shoulder sweater.
I raised an eyebrow. "Dinner?"
"Yeah," he said smoothly, leaning back in his chair. "Maybe somewhere fancy. A little wine, a little music, a little bit of candlelight. A true Rome Booker special."
Wes snorted, glancing up from his laptop. "Right. Like you know a single place with candlelight that isn't a Taco Bell."
"Hey," Rome said, feigning offense. "Don't knock the Bell, bro."
I laughed, shaking my head. "Appreciate the offer, but I'm good."
"What? Cam." Rome's face falls, "C'mon. How 'bout this weekend?"
"Got plans."
Rome perked up, his eyebrows raising. "Oh? What kind of plans?"
Even Wes leans forward to hear.
I shrugged and run hand through my hair, "Nothing big—my friends and I are going bowling. There's this new place that just opened up for adults—it's got a bar and arcade games. Should be fun."'
The wide-reciever beams, "I love bowling."
I narrowed my eyes at him. "Love that for you but you're not invited."
"Hey Reeed," Rome is instantly turning and glancing across the table, "How do you feel about bowling this weekend? Me, you, a couple of the guys? I've just heard of this place—" he leans towards me, "what's it called?"
I scoff, "I ain't telling you."
Rome nods, "Name to be googled—so, you keen?"
"You guys can't be ser—"
"Sure." Wes cuts me off, "Haven't bowled in a while—it'll be some great bondin' for the boys."
I groan and face plant into both palms, "Oh my god."
"Don't worry, Cammie." Rome puts a hand on my shoulder, "We promise not to embarrass you if we just so happen to run into you."
"You think you're so slick, huh?" I ask, splitting my fingers on my face and looking through the gaps.
"Oh baby, I know I'm slick." Rome chuckles and rests back in his seat, "But I do really love bowling."
"Oh, I'm fucking sure." I scoff, dropping my hands from my face and groan, "Ugh—fine, I guess we can book another lane."
Rome and Wes both grin at each other over the table like excited children.
"But I'm expecting y'all to be on your best behavior, alright?" I point to both of them with raised brows.
Wes nods, "Scouts honor."
"We'll be the perfect gentlemen." Rome beams with a hand to his chest as I shake my head with a small smile, already regretting opening the invitation to them.
I sigh with a slight frustrated sob, "No you won't."
Both their grins widen exponentially.
But before I could back out, a loud vroom shattered the peace.
Then followed violent horn honks.
A blue and white golf cart zoomed by on the nearby path, kicking up dust and sending empty coffee cups flying as it barrelled past. The bushes dividing our little area from the walkway rustled violently, and my sketchbook nearly slid off the table from the rush of air.
On the cart, perched like a king on his throne, was Jude, grinning like he'd just committed the heist of the century.
A few seconds later, two campus security guards came running down the path after the cart, their radios squawking as they tried to keep up.
We're all frozen—everyone in Blue&Brew and the quad. All watching the chaos zoom by.
"Is that...?" Wes asks.
"Yep," I said without hesitation.
Rome turned, squinting after the cart. "Was he—?"
"Yep," I repeated, already starting to gather my things.
Rome let out a low whistle, leaning back against the bench with a grin. "Man, he's really out here treating the campus like Mario Kart."
"The fuck was he thinking?" Wes chuckles, turning around and trying to spot where Jude and the security guards had gone.
"I'm about to find out." I grumble, shoving everything back into my leather tote and swinging the bulking thing up onto my shoulder, "Sorry to cut this short—I gotta go deal with all that shit."
Wes turned back to me, "You ain't going after him by yourself, are you?"
"Of course, I am." I say as I gesture in the direction Jude had fled, "He sure as shit ain't going to be able to get himself out of this alone. I'm real great at talking down heated security guards."
Rome raise a brow, "You know them?"
"Those two were Brian and Glenn—real sweet guys. Shouldn't be too hard." I say with a smile and a firm nod, "See y'all later."
Wes stands immediately, his chair scraping on the ground, ""I'll come with you."
"Don't." I wave a hand at him and smile when I notice his panicked expression, "Stay here, finish your reading. I'll be fine."
Wes is still standing as I turn from the table, patting Rome on his shoulder.
"Bye."
Rome waves two at me over his shoulder while chuckling, "Shit—see ya, Cam."
My gaze flickers to Wes for a fraction of a second, and I give him another affirming nod before turning and weaving my way back through the crowded outdoor area.
My phone is already dialling and I press it to my ear as I push through the cafe doors.
Scarlett picks up on the second ring, "Hey honey."
"He's done it again," I said, my voice flat.
Yes—because our dear friend Jude has this little wittle habit of forgetting about tests or exams and stealing security golf carts to get across campus as quick as possible.
"Oh shit." Scarlett sighs out, "Okay...you go find the liability and I'll meet you at the security building."
I beam, "Yay!"
☆☆☆☆
I'm already half-way through an internet medical article on the cures for athlete's foot when I reach the shoe rental desk. I hadn't planned on actually bowling, I was just going to sit there and watch everyone while I looked cute and sipped my little drinks, while the others did the whole sweaty, competitive thing.
My light pink off-the-shoulder long sleeve hugged me in all the right places, and the loose light wash jeans I'd paired it with had just the right amount of faded wash to look effortlessly cool. My brown hair is in a slicked back bun and I'm glittering in my classic gold jewellery pieces.
And now I'm going to ruin my cute outfit by shoving my feet into leather pockets of disease and sweat.
The boy behind the counter clearly didn't want to be here, asked for my size like he couldn't give two shits and then disappeared behind saloon doors into another room.
My new French tip nail slides over the screen of my phone as I delicately swipe through over-the-counter treatments and I physically gag.
But in all fairness—the bowling alley was nothing like the sticky, fluorescent-lit places I remembered from childhood.
This one was sleek and modern, with black floors that gleamed under strips of neon LED lights. The lanes stretched out in clean, glossy rows, their boundaries glowing faintly in the dim lighting. Above them, giant flat-screen monitors displayed scores in crisp graphics that felt more like a high-end arcade than a bowling alley.
The air smelled like a mix of buttery popcorn and whatever expensive air freshener the place used to keep it from smelling like feet.
A massive bar ran along the far wall, its surface illuminated from underneath with soft blue lighting. Groups of people milled around, some laughing near the arcade tucked into the corner, others lining up at the snack counter.
I'd gotten a text from Wes a few moments ago saying they were on their way and the rest of the group were down at our lanes picking out their favorite balls.
I feel a tap on my shoulder and turn to find no-one there.
Then I flip back the other-way to see Hudson standing there grinning, "Hey Cam."
Ha. Good one.
"Hey!" I greet cheerily, picking up my arms and wrapping them around his tall and broad shoulder, "You made it."
He was as adorable as ever, wearing a gray crewneck sweater that is ridiculously soft and glasses that somehow made him even cuter.
"Ah—yeah. Thanks again for inviting me." He scratches the back of his neck nervously while looking down at me. He was so damn tall too.
I slip my phone back into my small leather shoulder bag, "No problem. Jude wanted you here too."
"Too?" Hudson asks innocently, full of hope.
I pause before smiling softly and nodding "Yeah."
"Here are your shoes, lady." The young boy returns and places the shoes down on the counter.
I physically wince at the sight of them. I don't even want to to think about how many people have touched those...
Turning back to Hudson, I smile softly, "Hey—think you could give me a hand? I just got my nails done, and I don't want to snag them on the laces."
"Ah, yeah, of course Cam." Hudson nods as a slight red tickles his cheeks.
With one hand on his shoulder, I hoist myself up onto the counter as his he holds his hands near me just in case I fall. His big brown eyes flicker to mine behind his glasses and then he flushes bright red when he realizes how close we are.
He pulls way, grabbing the shoes at my side as I busy myself kicking off the white shoes on my feet. I wait patiently as Hudson unlaces the hideous shoes.
If any pictures of me are taken tonight—they will be from the ankles up strictly.
"Do you bowl, Hudson?" I ask as Liam kneels down on one knee below me.
He holds the shoes just below my foot, "Not regularly. I use to—as a kid."
As he grabs the heel of my foot, he guides my toe into the shoe and it slips on easily since he had loosened the laces so well. I try not to grimace with my foot inside—hoping my cute little pink socks is enough to protect my little tootsies.
"You must've been a cute kid." I giggle, reaching down and shaking my fingers through his brown hair.
He shrugs as he begins to tighten up the laces, "I guess. My hair was a lot lighter than this."
"No way."
"It was like blonde."
I smile brightly down at him, "Okay—you need to show me a picture. I love seeing people's baby phot—"
"Too good to put your own shoes on, are we Cam?" The voice tsks as me and Hudson jump in fright.
We both glance up, seeing Wes stands a foot away while the rest of the football guys all file in behind him, their eyes cast around the bowling alley as they all take it in.
"My nails are too pretty." I pout as I lift both hands from where they were curled around the desktop and wriggle them in the air.
Wes smirks as he runs his tongue along his bottom lip. Oh fuck.
"And I seriously don't mind." Hudson shakes his head as he swipes the other shoe up from the floor and begins to loosen the laces on that one.
I hold Wes' blue steel stare as he arches an eyebrow at me, his arms folded across his broad chest. I hate how fucking good he looks in his uniform and out of it too.
The navy Carhartt detroit jacket gives him this rugged, hands-on vibe, like he could fix anything without breaking a sweat, and the plain white tee underneath just emphasizes his broad chest and very tiny waist.
His jeans—slouchy, light-wash, and a little worn—hang perfectly on him and he had a pair of scuffed white sneakers on.
Wes looked damn good and he knew it.
Neither of us glance away from each other.
"Cam."
"Hmm?" I ask as I tear my gaze away to look down at Hudson.
His eyes flicker up to me as he points, "Your foot?"
"Oh, whoopsies." I grin sheepishly as I stretch my foot out and point my toes. Hudson's hands wraps around my ankle, holding it as he slips the shoes on. I look back up to Wes and smile, "Y'all are in lane 8, we're lane 7."
"Didn't want to loose to me, huh?" Wes smirks as he tilts his head at me.
I laugh at him, "Just put your shoes on and we'll see, Reed."
Hudson stands, brushing off his hands. "All done. You're good to go, Cameron."
"Thanks, Hud," I said warmly, giving him a small smile and I lift my hand, "Help me down?"
"S-sure, here." Hudson slides to my side, wrapping my hand in his as I shuffle to the edge of the counter.
But then Wes moved in closer, his presence immediately commanding the space, and he's grabbing my other hand.
I'm trapped between the two, perched on the counter like a damn child, their tall bodies framing either side of me.
The fuck is going on?
"Hey man," Wes said smoothly, his tone deceptively light, "why don't you go find your lane? Y'know, pick out a ball. Make sure it's not too heavy for you."
I slice a glare at the side of his face but he's got his overly friendly smile pointed at Hudson.
Hudson hesitated, glancing between me and Wes before nodding quickly. "Uh—oh yeah. Sure. I'll, uh, I'll see you down there, Cam."
"Sure..." I said wearily, watching as he turned and walked toward the lanes. He hesitated a little at the steps, glancing back over his shoulder at us before realizing we were both watching him and then quickly races down to the alley floor.
"Here we go." Wes says, wasting no time at all. His hands found my waist, his grip firm and steady as he lifted me off the counter like I weighed nothing. He slides me down in the tiny space between his big body and the counter.
"Wes!" I gasped, laughing as I grip onto his hands curled around my waist "I just needed to hold onto something steady and hard."
With his hands still on my waist, Wes presses himself into me, the lip of the counter digging into my spine. My head tilts back slightly as his drops, lips hanging inches from mine.
"I could give you something real steady and hard to hold onto." He whispers darkly and I could almost punch myself in the face for realizing I had walked into that one with my eyes so damn open.
I scoff and roll my eyes, "I knew I shouldn't have invited you."
The corners of his lips pull up as his eyes drop from my eyes to my lips.
Too much. Too much.
I can't even breathe let alone think when he's like this.
But then Rome's voice is booming across the alley, cutting through the tension.
"It's party time, y'all!" Rome announces as he walks in through the doors with the rest of his teammates.
I take the opportunity to slip out of Wes' hold, rounding his body with a quick step before he can stop me.
"Cameron!" Rome greets cheerfully as he swaggers over to us, "Look at you, all ready to get that sweet ass of yours handed to you tonight."
I fold my arms, "You're late."
"Whoa, baby, chill. The party can never be late to the party." Rome shakes his head with a cheeky little smirk, "Now what's the situation with the lanes?"
I glance towards all the lanes progressively beginning to fill up, "Football fellas in lane 8, the winners in lane 7."
"Ha ha—funny."
"Ha ha—not joking." I grin up at him.
I feel Wes come to a stop at my side, his body tucked kind of behind me and standing way to fucking close for my hormones.
He just smells so damn good.
"Y'know I love a challenge, baby girl." Rome winks at me then claps his hands and rubs them together like an insect, "Then lets get this shit started, shall we?"