The Games We Play - Chapter 26: Chapter 26

Waking up in Wes' bed is always dangerous.
Dangerous because it's so damn cozy, I can convince myself to stay here forever.
Dangerous because it smells like him—fresh, clean laundry with a hint of his cologne—and I've started associating that smell with safety.
And, well, dangerous because it's his bed. And he's in it. Naked.
The sunlight filters in through the blinds, striping his broad, bare back in golden lines as he lies sprawled on his stomach beside me, one arm draped lazily across my waist and one large palm cupping the entire swell of my naked breast.
Because even in his sleep, he literally can't stop touching me.
His face is smushed into the pillow, and his blond hair is a complete mess, curling at the ends where it sticks out against the pillow.
He's too much. Always too much.
And yet, I find myself curled into his side like it's my favorite place in the world.
Because it is.
Last night plays on a loop in my head, a mix of laughter and heat. We spent the evening at his place after yet another exhausting day of college chaos for me and hours of drills at practice for him.
I stopped by his place after a day that would've tested the patience of a saint.
Deadlines, professors, group projects from hell—it was a lot. I was so damn close to having a Britney-level breakdown when Wes texted: Come over, baby.
And like a total sucker, I did. Because even when I know I shouldn't, I always do.
We started on the couch.
Me with my feet in his lap while we shared a box of takeout and pretended to watch whatever NFL game he had on. But then his hand started inching higher up my leg, and the next thing I knew, we were stumbling into his bedroom, tangled in each other like we couldn't get close enough.
Wes is a goddamn menace, and I'll gladly die on that hill. He's infuriating, cocky, and absolutely addicted to testing my self-control. He kisses me like he knows exactly what buttons to push, and he holds me like it's the only thing in the world he wants to do.
It pisses me off how good he is at making me forget myself.
And now here I am, a complete puddle in his bed, fully wrapped in his golden boy energy.
Halloween night wasn't a fluke.
The jealous sex in the backseat of his truck wasn't a fluke.
The past two months haven't been a fluke either.
It's been there this whole time. Ever since that night I asked him to whip it out on that damn porch.
I'm falling for Wes. So damn hard and so damn fast.
And even though I'm here, in his bed, with his arms wrapped around me, I can't help but convince myself I'm falling alone.
Everything is a game for Wesley Reed.
The thought sends a pang of something sharp and cold through my chest, and I squeeze my eyes shut against it.
Maybe I'm overthinking. Or maybe I'm just being smart—cautious. Because how can someone like him want someone like me, for real? Beyond this, I mean. Beyond the games, the teasing, the sex that feels so damn good it borders on dangerous.
How can someone like him want someone like me, when I don't even fully trust myself to believe it?
I blow out a soft breath and wiggle a little in his hold, trying to ease the ache in my chest.
Wes just groans and tightens his arm around me. His thumb moves absently against the curve of my breast, sending a shiver through me that pulls me right back to the present moment.
I glance at his face, pressed into the pillow, peaceful and far too beautiful for someone who was up until two in the morning proving just how much of a menace he is. His lashes are ridiculously long, his jaw slightly rough with the beginnings of stubble.
And his lips—soft, full, and just barely parted—are the kind that could ruin a girl for anyone else.
I pull my bottom lip between my teeth and tear my gaze away from him. Because this is dangerous territory.
This is the part where I start imagining what it would be like to wake up beside him every morning.
What it would be like to be his.
Nope. Not doing this. Not today Satan.
I reach over to the nightstand for my phone, my fingers brushing against the cool metal of the device before curling around it.
When I lift it and tap the screen, I freeze.
8:03 a.m.
"Oh, fuck," I mutter, my heart lurching as panic hits me like a sledgehammer.
I'm so late.
His arms are tight around me, but I manage to get them off and scramble to sit up, already bringing up the Uber app and ordering a ride at the speed of light.
My overnight bag is sitting on his desk chair, and I quickly stand up from his bed, ignoring the rush to my head, and hurry over.
Wes inhales sharply, flipping onto his back and draping an arm over his eyes.
"Huh—what's the time?" he asks groggily, and I cannot get over how adorable he sounds just as he wakes up.
"Just after 8," I mumble, zipping open my duffle bag and beginning to pull out the clothes I packed last night.
Wes pulls away his arm and frowns up at me. "Where are you going?"
"Work," I answer, bending over and shimmying a pair of white lacy panties up my legs. "It's just for a few hours."
"Oh right, your uncle's law firm," he nods with a slight hum, blinking softly as he watches me from his bed.
"That's the one."
I hold his gaze as I slip my arms through the straps of the matching white lacy bra and clip it behind my back. He looks every bit gorgeous in his bed, dark navy sheets lying incredibly low on his hips, just covering the growing bulge beneath.
The sun streaking in makes his hair look all the more golden, on top of his head and the faint happy trail on his lower stomach.
Fuck—he's not going to make it easy for me to leave, is he?
I pull a button-up blouse from my bag, shaking it out as I straighten. Long sleeve, tight, pale blue and white pinstripe. It's not pressed at all, but like hell I have the time to ask Wes if he owns an iron.
I slip it on and start buttoning it up. I can feel Wes' eyes boring into me.
"That what you wear to work?" he asks suddenly, his voice rasping through the room, lazy and teasing.
I glance over my shoulder at him, already rolling my eyes. "Uh, yeah. It's a law firm, Wes. This is what people wear to those."
"And I'm just saying..." He trails off, gesturing lazily at my blouse, his smirk growing wider. "If you walk in there looking like that—tight little blouse, all professional and shit—your uncle's business is gonna double. Triple even. Divorced dads are gonna be lining up around the block just to 'consult' with you. Moms too."
I gape at him, absolutely scandalized, but the laugh bursts out of me before I can stop it. "Oh my god, you're an idiot."
"I'm just stating facts here," he shrugs, leaning back on his elbows like he doesn't have a care in the world. "Hell, if I was one of those guys, I'd be filing papers just to get five minutes of your time."
"Unbelievable," I mutter, tugging the hem of my blouse down sharply and turning back to my bag to grab my pants.
"Unbelievable," Wes echoes, grinning like he's won, "but not wrong."
I roll my eyes, buttoning the blouse up to mid-chest before bending down to grab my trousers. They're tailored, low-waist, and a deep black. As I step into them, Wes shifts on the bed, his grin faltering as his eyes drop.
"You're staring," I say without looking at him, tugging the trousers up over my hips and fastening them.
"Can't help it," Wes replies, his grin audible. "It's like a damn private performance."
"Hope you're excited for the part where I pull a rabbit out of a hat," I deadpan, pulling out my slingback kitten heels and dropping them onto the ground.
"No need," Wes says, his gaze still heavy on me. "You already got me hypnotized."
"You're really trying hard to get me to stay, huh?" I scoff, resting one hand on the back of the desk chair and kicking up my feet to adjust the back straps of my heels.
"Is it workin'?" he asks, his grin making a comeback as he tilts his head, studying me like I'm his favorite thing in the world.
"Nope." I smirk at him, zipping up my bag and running my hands through my long brown curls. "Nice try, though."
"You sure about that?"
I pause, halfway through zipping up my bag, and glance at him over my shoulder. "I—"
Wes stretches back against the pillows, and it's fucking obscene.
His arms extend above his head, every line of muscle shifting and flexing in slow, lazy motion.
His biceps curl thick and taut, veins running along the length of his forearms like a damn road map to sin.
His chest tightens, pecs flexing in that devastating way they do, and my eyes trace the faint patch of golden hair just under his arms before trailing lower.
And fuck me, the abs. I can count every single one, the ridges rippling as he shifts. The navy sheets slip lower on his hips, barely covering that perfect V-cut that leads down to his cock bulge, which is definitely bigger than before.
Oh, he really enjoyed his private little performance, didn't he?
I swallow, my throat suddenly dry as my eyes linger just a fraction too long before quickly turning back to my bag.
"Positive."
I zip up my bag and grab my leather tote from where it's sitting nearby on the floor, the weight of my laptop and sketchbook inside pulling slightly against my shoulder.
Slinging it over one arm, I head back toward the bed to grab my phone from the nightstand.
But as I reach for it, Wes catches my wrist, his hand warm and strong, stopping me mid-motion.
"Seriously, Cam," he says, his voice softer now, lower. His blue eyes, still heavy with sleep but sharp as hell, lock onto mine. "You look good. Real fuckin' good."
His words hit me right in the chest, settling somewhere deep in my gut and spreading outward. It's not the first time Wes has complimented me, not by a long shot. But the way he says it, like it's not just a line or some passing thought—it makes my stomach flip.
I hesitate, the ghost of a smile tugging at my lips despite my better judgment.
"Thank you," I say quietly, and then quickly add, "Bye, Wes."
His fingers linger on my wrist for a beat longer before he releases me, dropping back onto the mattress with a lazy, satisfied grin.
"Bye, baby," he murmurs, his voice full of that infuriating, cocky charm that makes me want to both punch him in the goddamn throat and kiss him at the same time.
I close Wes' bedroom door softly behind me, the familiar scent of his cologne and clean laundry lingering in the air even as I make my way across the apartment. It's quiet, almost eerily so, with just the faint hum of the fridge and the soft creak of the floorboards beneath my heels.
The place looks like it always does—effortlessly clean, lived-in, and a little too perfect for a college guy.
Wes isn't the type to let dishes pile up or laundry go untouched for weeks.
Rome only eats Rice Krispies.
And Clay folds his gym clothes like he's running boot camp, and probably irons his fucking socks.
And yet, as I pass the couch where Wes and I have tangled together too many times to count, I feel my chest tighten.
It's the small things—the throw blanket I steal whenever we watch movies, the faint dent in the cushion where I always sit, the hoodie draped over the back of the armrest—that make it feel too comfortable and—
Late. I am so late.
I reach the front door and twist the knob, stepping out onto the brick porch. The morning air is cool, the kind that bites just enough to wake you up fully.
I run down the porch steps, straightening my blouse with one hand while holding two bags with the other.
"Um—hi!"
"Jesus!" I yelped, my heel slipping slightly on the edge of a step. My arm shot out to steady myself on the railing as a blonde girl materialized out of nowhere, standing at the base of the stairs.
She looked up at me, bright and chipper, like she hadn't just shaved three years off my life. She was in workout clothes—leggings that looked painted on and a sports bra—and holding a true-blue Colts-branded beanie in her hand.
"Sorry!" she says with a laugh, clearly unbothered by the fact that she nearly killed me via heart attack. "I didn't mean to scare you. I was just—uh—I'm here to return this!"
She holds up the beanie like it's a trophy.
"Wes let me borrow it on the bus after the game the other week. My ears were freezing!"
The words hit me like a bucket of ice water, and for a moment, all I can do is blink at her.
Of course, he did.
"Oh," I manage, my voice tight but polite. "He's, uh...he's inside."
The girl beams. "Perfect! I was in the neighborhood for a Pilates class and thought I'd swing by."
I force a small smile, gesturing toward the door. "The doorbell's broken, so you'll have to knock. Loudly."
"Got it," she chirps, already bounding up the stairs like a damn gazelle. She pauses at the top step, turning back to me. "Thanks!"
I couldn't take my eyes off her as she reached the door, the beanie clenched in an excited fist. Why was she so...sparkly? And why did Wes give her his knit cap?
Before I could spiral further, my Uber pulled up at the curb, honking lightly. The sound startled me out of my trance, and I flipped around to the road.
The driver, a middle-aged man, winds down the window and leans on the steering wheel to see me.
He beams, "Toot toot! All aboard for Cameron."
Oh dear lord.
I hurry toward the car, clutching my bag as I climbed into the backseat.
"Top of the morning!" the driver greets in the worst accent I've ever heard. "Nah—I'm just kidding. I'm not Irish. My cousin's wife is, though."
"That's...that's nice." I smile tensely, buckling my seatbelt as my gaze flicked back toward the house.
The blonde girl was still waiting at the door, her figure framed in the morning sunlight. The car started moving before I could form a coherent thought.
By the time we turned the corner, the house and the girl were out of sight.
And Wes.
And I'm left listening to my Uber driver's trip to Ireland eleven years ago.
☆☆☆☆
The thing about caffeine is that if I have too much, I transform into a literal psych ward escapee.
But like, a high-functioning one.
Give me the tiniest shred of male validation and I'm convinced I could solve world hunger and bring about world peace in the same day.
But the moment something pisses me off? I'm burning it all to the ground.
And right now, thanks to Wes and his stupid beanie-giving antics, I'm veering dangerously close to the latter.
He's also late to our session because Wesley Reed is nothing if not an overachiever.
I let out an irritated huff, pulling my jacket tighter against the cold as I make my way across the quad.
I've come too far to sit in a library study room like an idiot, waiting on a guy who clearly couldn't give two fucks about sticking to a time schedule, let alone a girl.
So I packed up my stuff and headed straight across campus with all the spirit of a pure crackhead.
I grip my phone tighter and glance up as I approach The Stables, following the hedge-lined path.
What the hell am I even going to say when I see him?
Should I just come right out and say, 'Hey, you dumb fuck, I've fallen for you,' or what?
Or should I ask him who the cheerleader was and why he's sending her home with little souvenirs?
Or, the question I've been meaning to ask for months, 'How the hell did you know my goddamn name before I even told you?'
I can actually feel my stress headache rolling back in like heavy rain clouds, and I'm so in my head, I almost don't notice when I step off the sidewalk and into the parking lot near the football facilities.
Almost.
Because the second I do, the low rumble of an engine pulls me out of my thoughts, and I glance up—
Just in time to see a sleek black Mercedes barreling toward me.
The driver notices me just in time, coming to a sudden stop just before me.
My heart slams against my ribs as I stumble back, gripping my bag strap like it might keep me tethered to the earth.
Jesus Christ.
For a second, everything's still.
Then, the driver's side door opens, and a man in a crisp black suit steps out, his expression a careful mix of concern and irritation.
"Are you alright, miss?" he asks, adjusting his tie as he strides toward me.
"Uh..." I blink, still trying to process the fact that I almost got flattened. "Yeah. I'm fine. Sorry—I wasn't paying attention."
"No harm done," he says, his tone polite but clipped, like he's already over this interaction.
He gives me a quick once-over, probably checking to make sure I'm not about to sue him, before turning back toward the car.
That's when I see her.
The back window of the Mercedes rolls down, and there she is—her.
The girl from the country club.
Her dark hair is sleek and shiny, her cream blouse perfectly pressed, and her gaze as sharp as the wing of her eyeliner.
For a moment, she just looks at me, her expression unreadable. Then, she leans forward slightly, resting her elbow on the window frame.
"Is everything okay?" she asks, her voice smooth, like honey laced with something sharper.
Her eyes flick over me—my scuffed boots, my tote bag, my slightly wrinkled blouse—and I feel the weight of her assessment like a spotlight.
The driver glances back toward her and nods. "All fine, ma'am. Just a student not watching where she was going."
Student. Like I'm a clumsy teenager instead of a fully functioning adult.
"Yeah, sorry," I say quickly, swallowing my irritation as I adjust the strap of my bag. "Totally my fault."
She hums lightly, her lips curving into a polite smile that feels more condescending than anything. "Be careful next time. It'd be a shame to ruin such a cute fit."
Her tone is sugar-sweet, but the glint in her eyes is pure steel as she takes in my white tank, brown leather bomber, and baggy dark-washed jeans.
Before I can think of a response that won't make me sound completely unhinged, the players' entrance to the football facility creaks open, and a figure steps out, followed by another.
The moment Wes steps out, I feel it.
His presence cuts through the crisp morning air like a live wire, charging everything around him. He's walking alongside an older man in a tailored suit, the soft clink of the man's dress shoes echoing against the concrete.
Wes in his Colts gear—gray sweats hanging low on his hips, a Colts branded trueblue hoodie unzipped over a fitted white T-shirt that clings to his chest. His golden hair is slightly damp, and even from this distance, I can see the tension in his shoulders.
His stride is quick and deliberate, the door swinging shut behind him, but when his eyes land on me standing just a few feet away by the parking lot, he freezes.
For a split second, I see something familiar in his expression—a softness, a recognition. But it's gone just as quickly, replaced by a hard clench of his jaw and a tightness around his mouth.
"Cam," he says, his voice low and sharp.
I blink, gripping the strap of my bag a little tighter as the older man at his side follows his gaze to me.
The pair stop just before me, just beside the curb and the awaiting Mercedes-Benz.
"And who might this be, Wesley?" the man asks, his tone light but curious, his eyes narrowing slightly as he takes me in.
It doesn't take a genius to figure out who he is. Calvin Reed.
He looks like an older, sharper version of Wes. Same piercing blue eyes, same chiseled jawline, but colder. Calculating. Like he could negotiate the devil into a corner and leave him with the check.
I don't miss the faint, almost imperceptible tick of Wes' jaw at his father's question. He stands tall beside him, his broad shoulders squared, his posture stiff. The easy confidence Wes always carries like a second skin has been replaced by something tight and rigid—something guarded.
I open my mouth to introduce myself, but Wes cuts me off before I can even get a word out.
"She's my tutor," he says curtly, barely glancing at me as he speaks. "I'm late for our session."
Tutor.
The word feels like a fucking punch to the gut.
"Well now," Calvin drawls, his Southern accent smooth as molasses. "I reckon I owe you an apology, Miss..." He trails off, his tone expectant, waiting for me to fill in the blank.
"Cameron," I manage, my voice steady even though my stomach is twisting itself into knots. "Cameron Cole."
"Miss Cole," he repeats, the words rolling off his tongue with a practiced charm as he gives me a small nod. "A pleasure. Didn't mean to steal him away from you—I'll take full responsibility for that. My visit was a bit of a surprise, even for him."
Wes stiffens beside him, his jaw clenching so tight I think he might crack a molar. His blue eyes flick toward me for a brief second before darting back to the ground, like he'd rather be anywhere else right now.
"Had some business to discuss with Coach Fletcher. Thought I'd drop by for a quick chat before taking my boy out for lunch." He flashes me a charming smile, the kind that probably makes deals close and doors open. "Didn't realize I'd be interrupting something important."
"It's fine," I say quickly, forcing a polite smile that probably looks more like a grimace. "It was just revision."
"Revision?" Calvin hums thoughtfully, his gaze flicking between Wes and me like he's sizing me up. "Didn't realize Wesley was in need of a tutor. But it seems he's picked the best of the bunch."
Wes exhales sharply through his nose, cutting a glance toward his father.
"Alright, we're done here," he says flatly, the tension in his voice unmistakable. "Let's go."
But Calvin isn't quite done yet.
He doesn't move, instead tilting his head slightly as he regards me with that same polished charm. "So, Miss Cole, what are you studying?"
"Interior design—minoring in art history," I say quickly, ignoring the growing tension radiating off Wes.
His body is so rigid, I think he might actually snap in half.
"Interior design," Calvin repeats, nodding slowly like he's filing the information away for later. "Not an easy field. Takes real creativity. You must be good."
I blink, caught off guard by the unexpected compliment. "I like to think so."
Calvin hums, his gaze lingering on me just a beat too long. "Good. Creativity's rare these days, and even harder to nurture. Wesley's lucky to have someone like you around."
My chest tightens, unsure whether I should say "thank you" or laugh at this whole fucking thing.
Instead, I glance at Wes, whose face has hardened into something cold and unreadable.
"Alright," Wes snaps, his voice cutting through the moment like a whip. "She's got stuff to do, and you two yapping is keeping me from mine. Let's go."
I blink, startled by the abruptness, and Calvin raises an eyebrow, clearly unbothered by his son's tone. He flashes me another smile, this one tinged with something sharper, something that doesn't quite reach his eyes.
"Well, I won't keep you then." He claps Wes on the shoulder, the motion deliberate and heavy, like a warning disguised as affection. "Let's not keep Delilah waiting, Wes."
Delilah.
My gaze flickers back to the car, the backseat window now up and shaded black, but I can feel her eyes on me.
Wes nods. "Give me a sec—I'll meet you in the car."
Calvin turns back to me, tipping his head in a polite nod. "Miss Cole, it's been a pleasure. Best of luck with your studies."
"Thanks," I mumble, barely able to force the word out.
With that, Calvin strides toward the sleek black Mercedes parked a few feet away, his posture as commanding as ever.
The driver is already waiting for him at the front passenger door, and Calvin slips in—but not before casting one last glance over the roof of the car toward us.
Wes doesn't move until the car door shuts with a muted thud, and even then, it's like his body is working against him. His shoulders sag, his jaw unclenches, and the hand he has clenched at his side twitches before falling limp.
The tension melts out of him, but what's left behind is worse.
He looks... in pain.
Not the usual cocky, unbothered Wes I've come to know, but someone worn down.
Like Calvin's presence alone drained something vital out of him. His blue eyes flick to mine for the briefest second, and there's something in them I don't recognize. Not anger, not frustration, but something softer. Sadder.
And then he blinks, and it's gone.
"Shit—I'm so sorry. I didn't know—I'll explain later," he mutters, his voice low and rough. His hands drop to his sides as he takes a small step forward. "Not here. Not now."
"Explain what?" My voice is sharper than I intend, but I can't help it. My chest is tight, my head spinning, and I feel like I've been dragged into the middle of something I have no business being in.
"Just—" Wes says, his tone softer now. His hands twitch, like he wants to reach for me but can't. "—later. I promise."
The word 'promise' twists something in my gut because it feels like a lie. He's still not looking at me, not fully, and I feel like I'm on the outside of something huge, something he's locked away from me.
I cross my arms, trying to shield myself from the sharp ache blooming in my chest. "You don't have to explain, Wes. It's fine. Really."
My tone is flat, biting, and I hate myself for how bitter it sounds. But I can't help it.
"Baby, please..." He takes another step forward, and this time, his hand does reach for me. His fingers graze my forearm, light and hesitant, and when I glance up at him, his expression nearly breaks me.
He looks like he's in physical pain, like the words he wants to say are lodged somewhere deep in his throat and he can't get them out.
But I can't deal with this right now. Not after the cheerleader that morning. Not after seeing him brush me off like I was nothing in front of his father.
I shake his hand off and take a step back, my heart hammering in my chest.
"Don't." My voice is quiet but firm, and I see the way his face crumples at the word. "I'll see you later, Wes."
Before he can say anything else—before I can see the heartbreak on his face and let it break me too—I turn on my heel and walk away. My steps are quick, almost frantic, as I head back across the parking lot toward campus.
I don't look back—not at Wes, not at the Mercedes, not at the girl in the backseat who I know is watching the entire thing with that same calm, knowing expression.
She's not Calvin's wife.
I know that because I Googled the hell out of him weeks ago, and his fifth wife, Alexis, is a 27-year-old Russian model who looks nothing like the brunette sitting in that car.
Like the brunette from the country club when Wes lied and said he'd forgotten something at the table.
I knew he'd gone back for her—for Delilah—I just didn't want to admit it to myself.
And now all that denying, all that validating and making excuses, it's all coming back to bite me in the ass.
It's just me and the feminine urge to burn down the whole damn world.
Wonderful.