The Games We Play - Chapter 27: Chapter 27

The sky above UC's campus is the same depressing shade of gray it's been for the past week, like the weather itself decided to match my mood and my super duper cute grey slouchy off-shoulder sweater.
I fold my arms around myself as I walk across campus, trying to get to the library before the skies open up and make my day even more amazing.
The sun hasn't made an appearance in days, but this morning, the forecast promised some warmth and blue skies. Lies. Absolute bullshit.
Normally, I wouldn't give a fuck. I've got enough on my plate without obsessing over the weather. But when you're already teetering on the edge of an existential crisis, every little thing feels like an act of war.
Wes had said we would talk "later," but later never came.
Not until last night, anyway, when he'd finally messaged me at some ungodly hour, wanting to meet up. Go for a drive. Talk.
And I...I just couldn't.
Not after the day I'd had. Not after spending hours running the last encounter with his father through my mind on an endless loop.
I'd told him "later" too.
And now, the word feels like it's hanging between us, stretching the space that's already started to grow.
But I can't think about that right now. I don't have the time, the energy, or the emotional bandwidth to untangle the goddamn mess that is Wesley Reed.
Because I'm a big girl and I've got my own big girl shit to worry about.
Submissions for our final portfolios are four weeks away. Four weeks until I hand over everything I've been working toward—the late nights, the constant self-doubt, the endless revisions—to a panel of people who will decide whether I have what it takes to make it in this industry.
And right now, the answer feels like a big, fat ass no.
Lea Beauchamp scheduled this early Friday morning meeting, just like she schedules check-ins with all her students every two weeks.
And normally, I wouldn't be so anxious about it.
Normally, I'd go into her office feeling stressed but hopeful, knowing she'd hype me up while also kicking my ass in the nicest, most Lea-like way possible.
But this is the last check-in before portfolio submissions.
The finish line is just four weeks away, and I am...not where I need to be. Not even close.
And Lea knows it.
Because she notices everything.
She noticed last time, when my renderings were fine, but not great. She noticed the time before that, when I stammered my way through a half-baked explanation of my concept for the rooftop garden project.
And I know—I know—that she's going to notice again today.
Because while my classmates have been pulling all-nighters in the studio and chugging Red Bulls like they're water, I've been...well, distracted.
By Wes.
By his father.
By the cheerleader.
By the fact that my life feels like it's spinning completely out of control and no amount of caffeine or even methamphetamines can fix at this point.
Never taken them but I doubt they'd work.
It's not the drugs. It's just my cutesy shattered dopamine receptors.
I push through the glass doors of the School of Architecture, the blast of warm air doing nothing to calm my frayed nerves. The smell of sawdust and glue lingers in the air—some freshman project, probably—and the sound of someone sanding wood echoes faintly down the hall.
Lea's office is on the second floor, tucked in the corner next to the big windows that overlook the quad. She always leaves her door open during check-ins, and sure enough, as I climb the stairs, I hear her voice—bright, animated, and distinctly Lea.
"Oh, no, mon chéri, that line is tragic. Tragic! You need something softer. More organic. Think curves, not corners."
I pause outside the door, trying to gather myself. Because even though I know Lea is kind and supportive and probably the closest thing this school has to a creative fairy godmother, she's also intimidating as hell.
Not because she's harsh—she's not. But because she believes in me.
And that's somehow scarier than if she didn't.
I take a deep breath, knocking softly on the doorframe.
Lea spins around in her chair, her face lighting up when she sees me. "Ah, there she is! My little superstar. Come in, come in!"
I smile faintly, stepping into her office and closing the door behind me. Her space is as chaotic and colorful as ever—sketches pinned to the walls, books stacked precariously on every available surface, and a half-empty mug of tea sitting dangerously close to the edge of her desk.
She waves me toward the chair across from her, shooing away the junior she was just talking to with a quick, "Go, go, fix it, and don't come back until it's fabulous."
The student scurries out, clutching a tablet like it's their lifeline, and Lea turns her full attention to me.
The warmth and personality of Lea's office usually make it feel like a safe space.
Today, it feels like a courtroom, and I'm on trial.
Lea sits across from me in her sleek, minimal desk chair, her arms folded loosely over her chest.
She's wearing big silver chunky hoops and an inky velvet wrap jacket with a faux fur lapel collar.
Everything about her screams power and elegance, like she was carved out of a block of obsidian and sprinkled with stardust. Her shaved head gleams under the soft glow of her desk lamp, and her expression is neutral, but her sharp dark eyes are locked on me in a way that feels...dissecting.
"So," she says, leaning forward with her elbows on the desk and her chin propped in her hands. "Tell me, mon amour—how are we feeling?"
I shift uncomfortably in the chair, my tote bag clutched in my lap like a life raft. "Honestly? Not great."
She nods slowly, her dark eyes piercing through me in that way only she can manage. "I appreciate the honesty. Now tell me—what's going on? You missed your last check-in, and while I understand life happens, I'm worried about how far behind you are compared to your peers."
I wince. I was hoping she wouldn't bring that up, but of course, she does. "I know. I've just...been struggling to keep up. Between classes, work, and everything else, it's been hard to find the time to really dig in."
Lea tilts her head, her expression softening just a fraction. "I get it. Life doesn't stop just because submissions are looming. But here's the thing, mon chéri—you're not just behind. You're dangerously behind."
I blink, my stomach sinking. "Dangerously?"
"Yes." She leans forward, resting her elbows on the desk. "Cameron, your individual pieces are good. Some of them are even great. But as a portfolio, they're not telling a cohesive story. They don't show who you are as a designer."
I open my mouth to respond, but she holds up a hand, stopping me. "I know you have it in you. I've seen it. But this...scattershot approach? It's not working. You need to focus. To streamline. To think about what story you want this portfolio to tell."
The words hit me like a freight train. "I thought I was focusing. I've been trying—"
"I know you've been trying," she interrupts gently. "But trying isn't the same as doing. And right now, doing means making some hard choices. You've got four weeks left, Cameron. That's not a lot of time."
I nod, swallowing hard as I glance down at the sketchbook in my lap. I'd worked so hard to rework my rooftop garden rendering, to make it better, more refined. And now, it feels like it doesn't even matter.
Lea lets out a soft sigh, leaning back in her chair. "Look, I don't want to scare you, but I need you to understand how serious this is. You're talented—there's no doubt about that. But talent only gets you so far. Hard work, discipline, focus—that's what sets the greats apart from the good."
"I know," I whisper, my voice barely audible.
"I'm rooting for you, Cameron. I wouldn't be sitting here having this conversation if I wasn't. But I can only help you so much. The rest is on you."
I nod again, feeling the weight of her words settle heavily on my shoulders. "I understand."
Lea leans back in her chair, crossing one leg over the other as she studies me with that no-nonsense expression that only Lea can pull off—equal parts stern professor and cheerleader. Her sharp dark eyes lock onto mine, and for a moment, I feel like she can see every insecurity I'm trying to hide.
"Before we get into specifics," she says, resting her elbows on the armrests of her chair, "I need you to answer one question."
I blink, caught completely off guard. "O-Okay?"
She tilts her head slightly, her pearl earrings catching the light. "Why interior design?:
The air in her office seems to shift, the usual hum of conversation outside in the hallway fading into the background.
It's not the question I was expecting, but it's one I've heard a hundred times before—from friends, from family, from well-meaning strangers who think asking someone to defend their dreams is just casual conversation.
But somehow, coming from Lea, it feels...heavier. More important.
I swallow, glancing down at my sketchbook resting in my lap. My fingers trace absent patterns over the worn leather cover as I try to form an answer that doesn't sound rehearsed.
"Well," I start, my voice shaky at first but growing steadier as I go. "I've always loved beautiful things. Not in, like, a shallow way, but in a way that...makes sense of things. Like, when you walk into a room and it just feels right. The light hits just so, and the colors are warm and inviting, and the space feels like it's giving you a hug. You don't have to think about it—it just works."
Lea nods, her expression softening slightly. "Go on."
I shift in my seat, forcing myself to meet her gaze. "Growing up, I didn't always feel...at home. I mean, physically, yeah, we had a house. But emotionally? Everything felt chaotic. Out of my control. And people—people can be messy and cruel and unpredictable. But a room? A room is different. A room doesn't judge you or hurt you. A room can be whatever you want it to be. You can shape it, create it, make it yours."
God her eyes—her gaze—it's inescapable.
Even when I try and focus on that damn squirrel humping the tree outside, all I can feel his her laser-focused gaze on me.
I pause, exhaling a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding. "I guess, for me, design is about creating spaces where people feel safe. Seen. Loved. I want to make rooms that are like a hug for people. A place where they can just...exist, you know? Relax. Breathe."
Lea doesn't say anything right away, and the silence is deafening. I fidget with the edge of my sketchbook, wondering if I've said too much or not enough.
"And Lume Covington?" she prompts gently, her tone encouraging me to keep going.
I let out a small laugh, shaking my head. "Lume is the dream, isn't it? It's the pinnacle. It's where people who love this work, who live and breathe design, go to become something. I don't just want to be good at this—I want to be great. I want to make an impact. And Lume...it's the place that could make that happen."
The words tumble out before I can stop them, raw and unfiltered in a way that almost surprises me. But as I speak, I realize how true they are. How much I want this. How much it terrifies me to even think about the possibility of not achieving it.
Lea leans forward slightly, resting her chin on her clasped hands as she studies me. For a moment, I think she might be about to tear my answer apart, but instead, she smiles. It's small, barely more than a twitch of her lips, but it's there.
"Now that," she says softly, "is the Cameron I've been waiting to hear from."
I blink, my heart skipping a beat. "What?"
"You," she says, gesturing toward me with one hand. "This passion, this fire—this is what I need to see in your work. I can tell you care. I can tell you have something to say. But caring isn't enough. You need to show me. Show the admissions team at Lume. Show the world."
Her words hang heavy in the air, and I nod slowly, even though I'm not entirely sure how to respond.
Lea exhales, leaning back in her chair again. "Look, Cameron. I wouldn't be sitting here having this conversation with you if I didn't think you could do it. But you're running out of time. Submissions are four weeks away, and your portfolio isn't where it needs to be. You're behind."
"I know," I whisper, my voice barely audible.
"I don't think you do," Lea says, her tone firm but not unkind. "Because if you did, you wouldn't have missed your last check-in. You wouldn't be sitting here now, scrambling to catch up. You're better than this. But you need to show up for yourself, mon amour. No one else can do it for you."
Her words hit like a punch to the gut, but they also light something in me—a spark of determination I didn't realize was still there. I straighten in my chair, clutching my sketchbook like it's a lifeline.
"You're right," I say, my voice stronger now. "I've been...distracted. But I can do this. I will do this."
Lea nods, a flicker of approval in her eyes. "Good. Then let's talk strategy."
☆☆☆☆
It's game day at the Iron Pasture, and the Colts are putting on a damn show.
From our balcony seats, the view is spectacular—plush leather chairs, a perfect angle of the field, and a flat screen hanging above us broadcasting every second in high definition.
The game against NC State is supposed to be a warm-up for next week's Thanksgiving showdown with Clemson, but the way the Colts are playing, you'd think it was a playoff game.
Wes, as expected, is absolutely dominating.
But I can't focus on any of it. Not him, not the game, not the excited chatter from my friends.
My brain is a chaotic tangle of unfinished designs, the sharp echo of Lea's words from earlier this morning, and the weight of everything else that's been piling up in my chest.
Four weeks until portfolio submissions.
Four weeks to get my shit together or kiss Lume Covington goodbye.
And Wes?
God, I don't even know where to begin with him.
The way he looked at me yesterday—like he wanted to explain, but couldn't.
The way he didn't text me until late last night, asking to talk, and all I could do was stare at the screen until my eyes burned. It's like there's this invisible wall between us, and every time I think I'm getting close enough to understand him, it just gets taller.
"Cam, you're playing witness to the greatest glutes in the league. Are you even watching?" Jude nudges me with his elbow, pulling me out of my spiral.
I blink, forcing my gaze to the field where the Colts are lining up at the line of scrimmage. Wes is front and center, his broad shoulders unmistakable even from this distance.
"Yeah, of course," I lie, my voice barely above the crowd.
Jude doesn't buy it. He raises a perfectly arched brow but doesn't press, instead leaning over to steal a few cheesy fries from the basket between Scarlett and me.
I glance at her from the corner of my eye as the camera cuts to Clay on the big screen. The slow-motion replay shows him sprinting down the sideline, his jawline sharp enough to cut glass and his uniform clinging to his sweat-slicked muscles like a second skin.
He looks like a goddamn Marvel superhero, and when he makes a spectacular catch for a first down, the crowd loses its collective mind.
A chant rises from the crowd:
"JACKSON! JACKSON! JACKSON!"
Scarlett, who's been lounging back in her seat like she couldn't care less, doesn't even flinch. She just takes a sip from her drink, her expression unreadable as ever.
"Goddamn, look at him." Jude groans, fanning himself dramatically as the camera zooms in on Clay for the replay. "How does one man sweat so attractively? Like, why is he glistening? Why is he shiny in the most fuckable way possible?"
"Jude." Scarlett says his name flatly, but there's the faintest twitch of her lips, like she's trying not to smile.
"What?" Jude waves his hand dismissively, his eyes glued to the screen. "You're telling me you don't think that's hot?"
Scarlett shrugs, her face the picture of indifference as she leans back in her chair, crossing her legs. "He looks... fine."
"Fine? Fine?!" Jude practically screeches, clutching his imaginary pearls. "Scarlett, the man is a literal god."
"He's just doing his job," Scarlett says with a small shrug, taking a sip of her drink like she isn't fully aware of the half-stadium chanting his name.
"Your boy is trending on Twitter," Yasmine pipes up, holding her phone up with a sly grin. "#ClaytonJackson is literally everywhere."
Scarlett doesn't even blink. "He trends every week."
"Queen of ice," Jude mutters, shaking his head. "Scarlett Raleigh, unbothered by hotness since 2002."
"Seriously though, Scar, how are you not freaking out?" Tasha leans forward, her elbows on her knees as she glances at the screen, where Clay is jogging back to the huddle, his helmet off and his hair damp with sweat. "He looks so good right now. Like, stupidly good. If I were you, I'd be on the field already with my pants off."
Liam nods, "Mine too."
"Pretty sure that's illegal babies," Scarlett deadpans, and the girls burst into laughter.
Even I can't help but grin as I sip my Coke, though I keep quiet, watching Scarlett carefully.
She's too composed, too calm, even with all the teasing. It's like she's determined not to let anything slip, no matter how much everyone around her pokes and prods.
"Fuck, and Wes?" Jude groans, throwing his head back like he's in pain. "Lord have mercy I'm bout to bust! The two of them together? It's honestly too much. Like, I need one of them to tone it down because my gay heart can't handle this."
Both Scarlett and I roll our eyes at each other.
Liam hums while sipping his extra, extra, extra large Diet Coke, "Damn—you can so tell they're ready for Clemson next week."
"Clemson better be ready," Tasha says, smirking. "The Colts are coming for blood."
Yasmine snorts. "God, you two sound like ESPN analysts."
"Someone has to be." Liam shrugs, taking another sip of his beer. "Can't just be objectifying the players all the time. It's all about a healthy balance."
"I'm not objectifying them!" Jude gasps, clutching his chest like he's been mortally wounded. "I'm appreciating beauty."
We all laugh at him, Tasha booing and throwing a fry at him, while Jude catches it and throws it in his mouth.
The energy in the stadium is electric, the crowd roaring so loud it rattles in my chest. I lean forward in my seat, my hands gripping the edge of the plush leather armrest, my heart pounding in time with the drumline of the Colts' marching band.
The Colts are on the touchdown line. Inches from scoring.
It's third and goal, and the pressure is so thick it could choke you.
Wes stands behind the center, his hands out, barking commands. His voice cuts through the noise, steady and commanding, and I can feel the confidence radiating off him even from up here. The entire team looks to him like he's some kind of damn deity—he has the looks for it.
It's hard not to be mesmerized by him. By the way his broad shoulders rise and fall with each steady breath, the navy jersey clinging to every hard line of muscle. The way his helmet tilts slightly as he reads the defense, calculating, strategizing, always three steps ahead.
The ball is snapped, and everything happens in a blur.
Wes catches it clean, his hands moving so fast they're almost a blur as he fakes the handoff to Rome in the backfield. The defense bites, rushing to the left, and for a split second, the line opens up—a tiny, fleeting gap in the chaos.
Wes sees it.
And then he's moving, his long legs powering forward as he tucks the ball and barrels toward the end zone.
"He's running it!" Yasmine shouts beside me, jumping to her feet.
The defense realizes too late. By the time they close the gap, Wes is already there, lowering his shoulder and crashing through the line like a freight train. He crosses the goal line and slams into the ground, the ball clutched tight to his chest.
The stadium explodes.
The Colts' sideline goes wild, helmets flying into the air as players rush onto the field to celebrate.
The band kicks up the fight song, the cheerleaders are screaming, and on the big screen, Wes' name flashes in bold white letters: TOUCHDOWN REED.
I don't even realize I'm on my feet until Jude grabs my arm, shaking me like a lunatic. "Did you see that?! Your boy just trucked three defenders like it was nothing!"
"He's not my boy," I mutter automatically, even as my heart twists in my chest, a traitorous smile tugging at my lips.
"Uh-huh," Jude says, smirking. "You're practically drooling, Cam."
I shove him lightly, but my eyes are already back on the field.
Wes pushes himself to his feet, his helmet tilted back just enough to show a flash of his face—sweat-slicked and grinning, his eyes shining with that pure, reckless joy that makes it impossible to look away. He's surrounded by his teammates, all of them slapping his helmet and shouting, but his gaze lifts to the stands, searching.
And for one heart-stopping moment, I think he's looking for me.
My breath catches, my fingers tightening on the armrest.
But then the moment passes. He turns, jogging back to the sideline with that same confident swagger that makes the whole stadium fall a little in love with him.
The game roars on around me, but it's like I'm underwater—every cheer, every shout, every pounding drumbeat muffled, distant.
Scarlett is saying something. I think Yasmine is laughing. Jude's hand brushes my arm as he leans over to grab more fries.
But all I can feel is the buzzing in my chest, the pressure in my head.
My thoughts are stuck in a loop, bouncing between that damn meeting with Lea and the hollow feeling that's been gnawing at me ever since I saw Wes yesterday. It's like someone's taken all the little pieces of my life and dumped them into a blender.
"I think I'm gonna head home," I say, the words tumbling out too fast, too sharp.
Scarlett stops mid-sip of her drink, her head snapping toward me. "What? Why?"
"I just—" My fingers twist the edge of my sleeve as I scramble for an excuse. "I'm not feeling great. That's all."
Jude frowns, leaning closer. "Cam, babe, you okay? You look kinda pale."
I nod quickly, too quickly. "I'm fine, really. I just need some air."
"Bullshit," Scarlett says flatly, her green eyes narrowing as she sets her drink down. "You've been off all day. What's going on?"
"Nothing," I say, my voice thin and unconvincing. "I just need to go home."
Scarlett doesn't buy it. "You sure? I'll come with—"
"No." The word slips out sharper than I intended, and Scarlett's eyebrows shoot up in surprise. I soften my tone immediately. "No, really. I'm fine. Stay. Clay's playing his ass off, and everyone's here. I don't want to ruin it for you."
"Cam, I don't care about—"
"You know who does care, though?" I cut in, a hint of a smirk curling at my lips. I gesture toward the field, where Clay is jogging back to the huddle, his uniform clinging in all the right places. "Your boy down there. He's literally glistening for you, Scar. You're gonna make him cry if you leave."
Scarlett glares at me instantly, her arms crossing tighter over her chest. "Oh, shut up, Cam."
Jude gasps dramatically, already turning to pile on. "Oh my God, yes, thank you, Cam. Scarlett, HOW do you just sit there while your boyfriend is out there looking like a whole-ass snack?"
"Not just a snack," Yasmine chimes in, "He's the buffet. The Golden Corral of boyfriends. Look at him."
"The guy's a fucking walking first down." Liam points out, "Averaging 14.8 yards per reception this season, with 8 touchdowns in just 10 games."
Jude screws his face up, "I don't know geometry!"
Scarlett groans again, throwing a fry at Jude's head. "You're all insane. Leave me alone."
"Oh my God, the deflection," Jude says, catching the fry midair. "She's deflecting because we're right."
I slide my bag off the back of my chair, slinging it over my shoulder as I stand. No one even notices, too busy piling on Scarlett, who's flipping manicured middle fingers at them like it's an art form—because with her, it kind of is.
I hurry back up the stairs and inside.
The suite itself is luxurious but overwhelming—too polished, too sharp, and entirely too full of people.
Leather chairs, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the field, and long buffet tables stacked with endless trays of mini sliders, chicken wings, and more. Two TVs on either end of the room replay the game with a slight delay, so even if you turned away from the field, you couldn't escape it.
The place is packed. VIP guests—alumni, donors, some parents of players—are spread out across the space, mingling in small groups and sipping from glasses of champagne or plastic cups of beer. Waitstaff in crisp black uniforms weave through the crowd, refilling drinks and clearing empty plates.
I ease around a man in a blazer who's laughing a little too loud about his glory days at Charlotte. Past a couple who look like they're here more for the photo ops than the game itself.
Nobody looks at me twice.
At the back of the suite, a sleek set of stairs spirals upward toward the exclusive top-tier suites, where university presidents and the big-money donors sit. I turn the other way, toward the VIP exit that leads into the stadium's interior.
The door swings shut behind me, muffling the hum of the suite.
I'm in a private hallway now, quieter but not silent. The muffled roar of the crowd still filters through, vibrating faintly in the steel bones of the stadium. The hallway smells faintly of popcorn and beer, a mix of industrial carpet and polished tile under my feet.
I exhale a little, the tension in my shoulders easing just slightly as I weave past him and toward the VIP elevators.
They're cordoned off with gold stanchions and ropes to keep general fans from wandering in, but the two security guards standing on either side barely glance at me. My badge—a black lanyard stamped with VIP GUEST in bold white lettering—gets me through without question.
The elevator dings softly as it opens, and I step inside, pressing the button for the ground floor. The elevator is lined with mirrors, the kind that make the space feel bigger than it is, and I catch a glimpse of my reflection—pale and tight-lipped, my bag slung haphazardly over one shoulder.
I look like someone who doesn't belong here.
The doors slide shut, and for a moment, it's quiet. Really quiet. No muffled cheers, no crackling loudspeakers, no voices. Just me and the faint hum of the elevator as it descends.
The pressure in my chest grows heavier, my thoughts looping back to this morning's disaster with Lea, the terrifying countdown to portfolio submissions, and the utter mess I've made of things with Wes.
My heart pounds in time with the dull elevator hum, and my breathing feels shallow, like there's not enough air.
The elevator dings again, and the doors slide open to the ground-level concourse.
Here, the chaos of the stadium rushes back in.
The concourse is bustling, a swirl of movement and noise as fans mill around, some heading back to their seats, others lining up at concession stands. A group of kids in oversized Colts jerseys runs past me, clutching foam fingers and cotton candy.
Their parents trail after them, arms weighed down with beers and nachos.
I cut through the crowd, keeping my head down as I pass the souvenir shop, the smell of buttery popcorn growing stronger. Vendors call out their specials—hot dogs, pretzels, candy—but I don't stop.
The pounding in my heads gets louder and louder and I can't think of anything to stop it.
Until I do.
I pull my phone out of my pocket as I walk, my thumb hesitating over the screen for a moment before I scroll through my contacts. The list feels endless, a parade of names that suddenly seem meaningless. But I know who I'm looking for.
I stop when I see Will Turner.
The guy in charge of the Colts' tutoring program, and one of the most relentlessly upbeat people I've ever met.
I tap his name and bring the phone to my ear, my finger pressing into my other ear to block out the noise.
It rings twice before he answers, his voice warm and familiar.
"Well, well, well! If it isn't my favorite tutor! How's my star pupil today?"
I can't help but chuckle, even as the knot in my chest tightens further. "Hey, Will. I don't know about 'star,' but I'm okay. How are you?"
"Better now that I'm talking to you," he quips, and I can hear the smile in his voice. "Please tell me you're calling to say you're coming back full time. The program misses you. I miss you."
"Not quite," I say, weaving my way through the hallway. A couple of Colts staffers pass by, clipboards in hand, and I give them a small nod as I step to the side. "Actually, it's kind of the opposite."
There's a beat of silence on the other end, followed by a sharp inhale. "The opposite? Cam, don't do this to me. You're not quitting on me, are you?"
The words taste awful in my mouth.
"I think I am."