The Games We Play - Chapter 3: Chapter 3

Three Months Later...
END OF AUGUST
Another day, another dollar, another long-ass line at Blue & Brew.
The coffee here is like the ambrosia of the gods, so I totally get why it's so popular, but that doesn't make me any less pissed to wait in line.
The shop is an iconic landmark on campus. Sure, there are like three Starbucks, a Dunkin', and a few others around, but nothing beats a classic.
It's been here pretty much since the early days of the university and sure looks it too.
It's on the ground floor corner of Sutton House—one of the oldest buildings on campus. It's got brick walls covered with Charlotte U memorabilia and alumni photos, big white windows overlooking the grassy quad outside, and the elixir to cure all my pains and aches.
Early morning classes are both a blessing and a curse. A blessing because I don't have to run around in the classic Carolina thunderstorms that roll in almost every afternoon.
And a curse because... well, because it's fucking early.
A tap on my shoulder has me turning around, and I'm instantly grinning.
"Don't you look beautiful today!" I beam at Jude, who adjusts his sunglasses, clearly unbothered by the throes of glares he's receiving from the students behind him after pushing in line.
He instantly plants a whole palm against my face. "Too loud."
I screw up my face and push his hand away.
"And this is why I left Sticky's at a reasonable time last night," I say with a smug grin, adjusting my large brown leather tote on my shoulder. "What time did you and whatever poor soul crawl out of there?"
"Midnight?" Jude huffs. "Three. Six. I don't fucking know."
I laugh at him and his massive designer glasses, stepping forward as the line keeps moving.
"It's called having fun, Cam. You should really try it sometime," Jude says matter-of-factly, and I glance over my shoulder at him with an amused grin.
"Oh yeah?"
"Yeah." He juts out his chin. "Last night was supposed to be one last big huzzah so you didn't go into the new school year a complete prude, and you left at ten o'clock. Whatever happened to my bat-shit-crazy-nightly-crash-out Cameron?"
I swat away his hand from where it's smoothing down my hair like I'm a pet.
"Hey, I left at 10:20," I point at him. "And that Cam is still in here. She's just taking a little nap while focused-professional-adulting-Cam takes over."
"Boo! You whore."
"And, for the record, I've had a great summer."
He snorts. "Really? What'd you do? Swatch paint samples? Organize your pillows by thread count?"
"I'll have you know," I say, straightening up, "I worked on three full mock-ups for my portfolio, rearranged my mom's entire living room, and helped my dad build an outdoor bar. Very productive."
"Sounds thrilling," he says deadpan, and we move forward in the line.
The summer has been steady and uncomplicated. I've gone home, spent time with my parents, and buried myself in projects for my interior design major. Mom let me redecorate half the house, while Dad put me to work measuring and sketching designs for their new patio bar.
It wasn't glamorous, but it was grounding, and after last semester—after everything—I'd needed that.
By the time we reach the cash register, Jude is gripping onto me like I'm the one thing keeping him upright, and his forehead is resting on my shoulder. I order for both of us and pay, earning a big sloppy cheek kiss, before we move to the side and wait for our drinks.
Jude manages to find a stool and slumps unceremoniously on top. "So, all summer, you didn't do anything—"
My lips part slightly in offense.
"But did you do anyone?" Jude asks as my jaw snaps shut. "Or are we still mourning Connor?"
I wince at the name, though I don't let it show. "No mourning here. We've moved on."
"Fantastic!" Jude's high-pitched shrill echoes over the humming coffee machines and chatter. "Because I have just the guy for you!"
"No." I shake my head. "No, no, no, no, no."
"Aw! Come on, Cammy!"
A voice calls out from behind the counter, "Two iced coffees for Cameron?"
I'm instantly moving away from Jude and swiping up the coffees with a quick, thankful smile to the young barista. I'm out the door with Jude hot on my heels. The sunshine is already scorching me through my jeans and scoop-neck white tank.
"I swear! It's a good one this time!" Jude catches up to me as I hand him his iced Americano while still walking across the quad. "His name is Hudson, he's a junior, and—"
"And I don't care!" I exclaim, taking a sip of my own coffee. "Your matchmaking career died with the orgasm I was supposed to get from Connor."
"Okay, so I'll admit I drew the short straw there."
I scoff. "Literally."
"But in my defense, it was false advertising! I mean, he was tall, and did you see the size of his tennis shoes? Hello?" Jude holds up both hands apart—a size 12 shoe length apart. "And you liked him, didn't you?"
"Yeah. He was funny and nice," I shrug, coming to a complete stop to turn and face him. "But I cannot be in a relationship with someone where he's the only one who gets off when we fuck."
He offers with a grin, "What about introducing toys?"
"What about no." I snap, continuing to walk, but he's at my side in seconds. The little gay diva is quick, I'll give him that.
"Oh, but he's so cute! So fucking cute!" Jude balls his hand up into a fist. "And he's smart. He's pre-law with his sights on Harvard! And—hey! If you want, I can do an innocent drive-by for you so you don't have to wait to know!"
He's unusually persistent this morning, and it only just clicks in my mind that I'm dealing with the one and only Jude Carmichael here.
I come to a sudden halt again, my heels making that cartoon screeching sound of car tires braking on tarmac. I slowly turn to him, his smile widening only out of nervousness.
My jaw is set. "What have you done?"
"Nothing," he chuckles nervously. "I've only told him your name and pretty much everything about you and that you want to go on a date next Tuesday at—"
Un-fucking-believable.
"Oh my god! Jude!" I groan as I start walking again. "I told you. No men!"
"I know you said that, but I thought it was a phase. Like your curtain bangs in freshman year." He sprints up to my side again and holds onto my arm. "Come on, Cammy. I love you! Let me do this for you one last time!"
"I know you love me, Jude, but I can't." I shake my head and sigh softly. "Even though Connor was a disappointment, he was exactly what I needed. This is the year they hand out one internship to my entire class. And I need that internship more than I need a man."
Jude pauses.
Then he pouts and asks condescendingly, "Do you really?"
"Yes!" I groan, rolling my eyes as I stop to face him again. "Why are you even following me? Aren't your classes over in Walker Square?"
Jude scoffs as he stops too. "Like I'm actually going to pay attention in any class this week? Professor Mendez won't care if I'm late, and if he does, I'll just ask for some extra credit assignments."
My eyes narrow at his suggestive tone. "You worry me."
"Oh my god, well now you sound just like my therapist!" Jude flicks a hand out on my forearm, and I huff out my frustration. He nods. "Look, honey, I'm all for the 4B movement. But I'm also all for the Cam-Mental-Sanity movement. Just... don't push yourself too hard, okay?"
I nod. "Thanks, Ju."
He beams. "Besides, there's nothing better for mental saneness like a good ol' cummin'."
"Your therapist tell you that too?"
"Actually, yes."
☆ ☆ ☆ ☆
Jude's right.
Like hell I'm going to pay attention to any class during syllabus week.
My first class is a paper for Art History, my selected minor. And while Professor Ryland is certainly passionate about Mesopotamian Art, it's not enough to keep me focused. Being a third-year paper, everyone in that dusty lecture hall pretty much knows the drill.
I'm also mid-argument with Scarlett on my phone, who is wishing for my sweet, sweet death after I accidentally broke her smoothie machine this morning.
Don't ask me how I did it—I have no fucking clue myself.
By the time I've lulled her into an amnesty agreement with the promise of doing dinner dishes for the next fortnight, Ryland is wrapping up the class and wishing us all a great semester.
I pack my things back into my tote and head out into the hot, muggy sunshine.
My next class is for my major: Interior Design. It's a three-hour workshop all the way on the other side of campus at the School of Architecture, and I knew I should've brought my goddamn sunblock.
My skin is already so damned tanned from the days I spent in the backyard helping Dad, but it's the freckles across my nose that I'm most insecure about. And they always grow so much darker under the blazing sun.
Tasha is waiting for me just outside the doors and begins fanning me with her folder when I near her. She's an Architecture Major, so we often have classes in the same building and walk there together.
And it's because of that fact that we became friends.
We got locked in the female bathroom together for a few hours in freshman year. Trauma-bonded for life.
"So, do you think it's too late to break up with him?" Tasha bites her nail as we follow behind hordes of sweaty students on their way to their next classes.
I glance up at her from her phone where she's showing me pictures of her new apartment.
She just moved into it with her boyfriend Liam, who may just be the luckiest bitch on Earth for securing a goddess like Tasha.
"You've been together for two years, Tash."
"So? That was before I knew he was a fan of cringy toilet décor." Tasha screws her face up while swiping through her phone. She shoves the screen toward me. "See?"
I suck my bottom lip into my mouth to stop from smiling at the picture of the back of her bathroom door with a big poster of a cat on a toilet with the words "Are You Pooping?" in bold font.
"Don't you fucking laugh, Cameron." She pulls her phone away and groans.
The giggle escapes me. "What? It's cute!"
"Ugh, then you move in with him." Tasha runs a hand through her black coils.
I put a hand on her shoulder while still laughing. "If you hate it, just ask him. Liam is, like, obsessed with you to the point he'd lick your foot if you asked him."
"No, he has this really intense fear of feet. Flinches every time he takes off his socks."
"Understandable."
She's silent for a moment as we keep walking. We round the corner and walk around the outside of a large grassy quad, making it imperative to walk in the shade of the surrounding buildings.
It's a slight reprieve from the sun but not much from the muggy heat.
Tasha sighs. "I guess I can put up with it if I just close my eyes whenever I take a shit."
"That's the spirit!" I cheer sarcastically.
We both laugh together and continue on our way around the quad instead of just going straight across. It makes me glance toward the quad, where students are braving the burn and sunbathing on the grass.
My gaze lazily rolls over them, as well as the students crossing the quad to get to their next class faster.
And then there he is.
Oh fuck. Fuck fuck fuckity fuck.
He's casually walking across the grass. His dark gray athletic compression top clings to his broad chest and slutty waist, and his black sports shorts sit perfectly on his hips and thick thighs. He's got a backpack on one shoulder, a CU Colts-branded water bottle in one hand, and a goddamn backward cap atop his golden hair.
His eyes are on the ground, but there's a faint smile on his face as a guy, dressed in similar sportswear, yaps animatedly next to him.
"Shit, you good?" Tasha asks when I accidentally stumble over my own feet and knock into her. "Cam?"
But I don't look at her—I can't.
Because in that exact moment, as if feeling my stare on him, Wesley Reed glances up and his gaze locks on me.
My heart drops out of my fucking ass.
From this far away, I can't quite make out his expression, but I can tell when he switches gears and suddenly starts walking faster in my direction.
Nope.
I instantly turn around while Tasha is mid-sentence.
"And then the moving guy goes—Hey!" Tasha shouts, her body following me as she comes to a stop. But I keep moving as I hear her yell from behind, "What the fuck, Cam?!"
I grip onto the strap of my tote bag and quickly maneuver my way through the bodies. Students are walking every which way—being the middle of the day means everyone, including professors, is out and about.
I guess it's a blessing in disguise because even though I refuse to look, I know he's right behind me. I turn the corner and, since I'm a card-carrying member of the IBS community, I know where all the female restrooms are.
I race up the steps of Davidson Hall and make a beeline for the ground-floor restroom that's conveniently close to the main doors. The row of girls at the sinks all glance at my sudden and violent intrusion.
I only smile. "Arrived early this month."
They all nod in understanding.
I awkwardly slide into a free stall, lock the door behind me, and collapse onto the closed lid of the toilet. I drop my tote bag to the ground between my legs and instantly facepalm into my hands.
Oh dear Lord, Cameron...
My heart is still pounding, and I can't stop the memory from surging forward: the soft morning light filtering through his window, his arm heavy around my waist, the smell of cedar and clean soap.
I groan quietly into my hands. Of all the people in the world to accidentally sleep with, it had to be him.
Wesley Reed. Star quarterback of the Charlotte Colts.
Wesley Reed. One of five players to finish in the top three of Heisman voting in both his freshman and sophomore years and winner of the Heisman in his junior year.
Wesley Reed. Captor of my sleep, my sanity, and all my goddamn orgasms.
Of course, I knew who Wes Reed was before that night.
Everybody at UC knows who he is. Hell, anyone who knows football knows who he is. He's basically synonymous with the sport.
I just didn't know it was Wesley Reed I was asking to whip out his penis on that porch.
I was drunk and upset, and the prospect of talking to him—let alone him hitting on me—was literally inconceivable to my tiny pea-brain. He looked like him, he talked like him, but for some reason, I was so convinced it wasn't him.
It wasn't until I woke up the next morning, hungover and nauseous, that I realized how badly I had fucked up.
It wouldn't have been such a big deal if UC didn't care about football, but UC ate, slept, and breathed football. And nobody embodies that obsession more than Wesley Reed.
He's stupidly talented, stupidly hot, and stupidly rich. His family practically owns half of Charlotte. Every article about him raves about his athleticism, his perfect smile, his perfect spiral.
And I ended up in his bed.
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to block out the memory.
But I can't. It's haunted me all summer long.
I'd woken up that morning to find him wrapped around me, his head resting on my chest, one arm slung over my waist like I was his personal body pillow. His hair was a mess, his breathing soft and steady, and for a moment, I'd just... stared at him.
My first thought: Oh, shit. What did I do?
My second thought: Oh, shit. I did Wesley Reed.
The night before was a blur of heat and skin and the kind of chemistry I didn't think was real. The man had folded me like paper origami, picked me up like I was a feather, and worshipped my body like it was a temple.
I think I passed out after we climaxed together for the fourth time, my body and soul completely spent. When I woke up, I realized he'd cleaned me up, dressed me in his T-shirt—and only his T-shirt—and pulled me into his arms like it was the most natural thing in the world.
He looked... docile and cute and sweet. So sweet it made my chest ache. And then the panic set in immediately. I couldn't be that girl. I couldn't be the poor college nobody who slept with the big, famous quarterback.
So I did the only thing I could think of: I ran.
I untangled myself, careful not to wake him. He stirred and reached for me, but I smoothly slid a pillow into his arms, which seemed to calm him.
Then I hastily slipped off the mattress and grabbed my skirt from the floor. The T-shirt was non-negotiable; I couldn't find my top nor my goddamn underwear. Sick pervert probably hid them away.
I grabbed my bag and my boots and slid out of his room.
I thought I was so sneaky, so clever, as I tiptoed barefoot through the living room toward the door.
But then I heard a throat clear from behind me, and I almost shat myself.
And of course, when I turned, it had to be Rome Booker sitting at the kitchen island.
Best wide receiver and womanizer on campus—and in the league. He was just chilling there at the small kitchen island, completely shirtless in a pair of low-riding gray sweats, munching on some cereal.
The way he was smirking at me made me want to drown his stupidly gorgeous face in his bowl.
He asked, "Rice Krispies?"
"Oh... no... thank you." I awkwardly swayed from side to side and hooked a thumb over my shoulder. "I'm just leaving."
He grinned and nodded. "Nice to meet you 'just leaving.'"
I pointed a weird finger-gun at him and responded with a dead tone, "Ha, good one."
"Wes still sleeping?" he asked, his gaze flicking to the shirt I was wearing.
I blindly reached for the door handle behind me. "Yep."
He nodded, taking another bite. "Wonderful. The asshole owes me fifty bucks."
"Love that for you..." I muttered, fumbling with the doorknob for a second before twisting it unlocked.
"And hey," he called as I slipped out. "Nice shirt."
I bolted before he could say anything else, practically diving into the Uber I'd ordered.
The driver was an old man but not too old in the brain, as he clearly understood what kind of night he was picking me up from. He then proceeded to tell me all about his one-night stands through college—one of which he swears was Dolly Parton.
By the time I got back to my dorm, I was done. I swore to myself I'd forget, move on, and never think about Wesley Reed again.
And I tried. Holy fuck, did I try.
But for the entire summer, I couldn't think of anything but him.
And even when I touched myself, I didn't cum unless I thought about him.
He'd ruined me—not just for other men, but for myself.
I let out another groan as I pull my hands away from my face and glance up at the fluorescent light above me until it's implanted on the back of my eyeballs.
I don't know how long I stay in that restroom, but eventually the foot traffic slows, and I inch myself back out into the main hall. I look left to right, and thankfully, there's no sign of him.
The entire way to my class, I'm paranoid as fuck—looking over my shoulder, peering around corners before I take them, shitting myself every time I see a tanned, blonde guy (which, in North Carolina, is pretty damn common).
But eventually, I make it to my class and sneak in through the back, taking a seat at one of the bench tables in the back of the workroom, and I realize that wasn't so hard.
If I can just cross campus like I'm a wanted fugitive every day, I'll make it through the semester with maybe an ounce of my sanity left.
Easy.
Let's fuckin go y'all