The Games We Play - Chapter 36: Chapter 36

The Colts have gone all out.
Normally, the indoor turf of the Stables is sacred football ground—reserved for early morning practices, film reviews, and the occasional near-death sprint drill. But today?
Today, it belongs to the kids.
The massive facility is alive with energy—shrieks of laughter, the sound of tiny sneakers slapping against artificial grass, and the constant hum of activity at every station.
Its domed ceiling arches high above like the roof of an arena. Rows of industrial lights hang from the beams, casting the entire space in a clean, bright glow that reflects off the white walls and the pristine green turf below.
The Colts' signature blue, white, and silver are everywhere.
Banners with the team logo—a powerful white stallion rearing up against a silver background—drape from the rafters, and smaller signs line the sidelines, proudly declaring phrases like Giving Back with the Colts and Together We Win.
A massive white inflatable stallion stands near the entrance, the team mascot brought to life in the form of a cheerful greeter for everyone who enters.
The turf itself is pristine, divided into activity zones by cones, folding tables, and portable barriers. The 50-yard line serves as the heart of the event, where the Colts' management team has set up a sleek registration table for families to check in.
Instead of blocking sleds and tackling dummies, the field is lined with booths and activity stations, each manned by Colts players, coaches, and volunteers. There's a mini scrimmage happening in one corner, with kids darting across the field in oversized jerseys, footballs wobbling through the air as quarterbacks-in-training try their best to hit their targets.
Behind it stand a few rows of bleachers where parents and spectators can sit, their conversations blending with the lively hum of the event.
The media presence is unmistakable. The university's media team hovers near the main action, cameras and microphones capturing candid moments of players interacting with kids.
Several local news outlets are there too, their professional cameras aimed at the charity event's highlights. I spot one of the reporters talking animatedly to the Colts' PR manager, her cameraman filming a group of players posing for photos with a group of kids in Colts jerseys.
The kids are the real stars, though.
They are everywhere—some in wheelchairs or with crutches, others in Colts jerseys that hang a little too big on their small frames. Their faces light up with pure joy as they toss footballs, climb inflatable slides, or line up for autographs from their favorite players.
A catching station is set up near the sideline, where I see Rome crouched down next to a little boy, teaching him how to position his hands to make the perfect catch. He tosses the football up in a soft spiral, and the kid fumbles it the first time, but Rome just grins, ruffling his hair before showing him again.
The obstacle course station is absolute chaos—a mix of kids and college athletes sprinting through cones, diving under hurdles, and tackling foam pads with reckless abandon.
And then there's our station.
Scarlett and I have been posted up at the face-painting gazebo—which, apparently, is the most high-demand spot of the day.
I dip my brush into the pastel pink paint, swirling it gently before bringing it up to the little girl's cheek.
McKenna sits perfectly still, her big brown eyes wide with excitement as I add the final details to her unicorn.
"Almost done, sweetie," I hum, tilting her chin slightly to get the angle just right.
Scarlett stands across the gazebo, elbow-deep in murky, paint-splattered water, washing out a few palettes in a big plastic bucket. She's wearing Clay's oversized jersey, hanging off one shoulder and tucked into the waistband of her dark-washed jeans, her blonde hair cascading down her back in golden waves.
For as long as I have known Scarlett, she hasn't been the most comfortable around kids, and I have no fucking clue why—she's great with me, and I have the mindset of a six-year-old at times. It's not like she's bad with them—she's great.
Scar always jokes that kids are sticky and loud and she's too hot for motherhood. But the way she says it—it always sounds like there's a bruise under the laugh. There's always this sad look in her eye when she's around them, and I can see her forcing herself not to get too close.
That girl can set boundaries like a motherfucker.
"What's your favorite color, McKenna?" I ask softly, grabbing a fresh brush for the finishing touches.
"Trueblue!" she exclaims instantly, kicking her little feet excitedly.
I grin. "Excellent choice. Let's make this Trueblue unicorn magical, then."
She gasps dramatically, clasping her hands together like I've just announced she won the lottery. "A magic unicorn?"
"The most magical unicorn," I promise, dipping my brush into a mix of blue and white. I swirl them together, blending them into a dreamy mane across her cheek.
She lets out a quiet hum of excitement, watching my every move with rapt attention.
"I'm gonna play football when I'm older," she declares proudly, her voice loud enough to turn a few heads nearby.
"Is that so?" I ask, carefully outlining the stallion's mane in silver. "What position are you thinking?"
"Tight end," she says immediately, her words spilling out with determination. "Like Clay Jackson. He's my favorite. And he's really, really cute. I'm gonna marry him."
McKenna has Down syndrome, and while I don't know her well, I can already tell she's the kind of kid who wears her excitement on her sleeve. Every new brushstroke brings a fresh gasp, her joy so open and pure that I find myself grinning just watching her.
I bite my lip to keep from laughing, my eyes flicking over to Scarlett, who is at the other end of the table rinsing brushes in a plastic tub of water. She pauses, clearly listening, and raises an eyebrow at me when I give her a pointed smirk.
"Well, I think Clay's one heck of a lucky guy if you're planning to marry him," I tell McKenna, grabbing a sponge to dab some shimmery silver paint around the unicorn's horn, then dusting a thin layer of fine glitter over the top.
Finally, I sit back, admiring my masterpiece.
"There," I declare, setting my brush down. "The most beautiful unicorn in all the land."
McKenna gasps, her entire body wiggling with excitement.
I grin, wiping my hands on my jeans. "Wanna see it, sweetie?"
She nods furiously, and I grab my phone, switching to the front-facing camera so she can admire her unicorn in all its glittery glory.
The moment she sees herself, she gasps like I just handed her the moon.
"It's so pretty!" she squeals, bouncing in her seat.
I chuckle, my heart full and warm. "A pretty unicorn for the prettiest girl."
McKenna nods so hard her pigtails bounce. Then, suddenly, she freezes, her hands flying to her mouth. Her brown eyes widen with urgency.
"I have to show Clay Jackson!"
Scarlett snorts loudly, and I glance at her over my shoulder, smirking.
McKenna hops off the chair, her sneakers smacking against the turf as she takes off running. Her little legs pump hard, Velcro straps still undone, but she doesn't care.
I sit back in the chair, grinning softly as I watch her take off toward Clay, who's standing nearby, chatting with a group of parents, his arms crossed over his chest, his Colts jersey stretched tight across his broad frame.
She stops right in front of Clay, completely dwarfed by the sheer size of him, and clasps her hands adorably behind her back. She hesitates for a second before reaching out and tugging on his jersey.
Clay turns to look for someone at a regular height, and I let out a small chuckle when his gaze nose-dives.
He crouches down immediately, his broad shoulders blocking part of the scene, but it's clear he's fully focused on McKenna. Her arms wave excitedly as she points to her cheek, and Clay's posture shifts—the kind of easy warmth he radiates unmistakable even from a distance.
Scarlett's standing at my side now, her eyes on the pair just like mine, as she mindlessly dries a paint palette with a cloth.
Clay nods along seriously as McKenna chatters, pointing enthusiastically at her cheek like it holds the secret to the universe. His lips twitch, eyes bright with amusement, but he never once makes her feel like she's anything less than the most important person in the room—or, well, the field.
And then he does it—he gasps.
Like a full, dramatic, over-the-top gasp. Hand to his chest, eyes blown wide, mouth parted in awe.
And holy shit.
They soften.
Not in the way they softened for McKenna, all warmth and playful exaggeration, but in a way that makes even my stomach turn over.
There's something deep in the way Clay Jackson looks at Scarlett Raleigh. Like she's an answer to a question he's been asking his whole life. Like she's the only thing in this building that's ever made sense.
Scarlett, for her part, just stares back.
Unmoving.
It's subtle—the way her fingers tighten around the rag in her hands. The way her chest rises just a little sharper with her next breath. The way her throat bobs as she swallows down whatever the hell it is she's feeling.
But I see it.
I smirk to myself, tilting my head as I watch them. "Looks like you've got some competition."
Scar scoffs, finally blinking herself back into focus. "If you can take him, he's all yours."
Then she spins on her heel, stalking back toward the bucket, acting like she isn't running away.
And Clay keeps staring.
His gaze lingers on her, a soft smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. It's almost tender—the way he watches her, like he's memorizing every detail, every line of her silhouette. His eyes are bright, a warmth there that makes my chest ache just a little.
God, if only she could see it.
Eventually, Clay blinks, refocusing on McKenna, who is still enthusiastically describing her unicorn.
But the way his eyes keep flickering back toward Scarlett? Yeah, that says more than words ever could.
Before I can open my mouth to tease her about it, there's a loud, familiar voice cutting through the buzz of the field, and a figure swaggering up to the gazebo with all the grace of a golden retriever on a mission.
Rome.
"Well, well," he says, stopping in front of the table. "What does a guy have to do to get some face paint around here?"
I smirk, grabbing a clean brush. "Ask nicely. You got it in you, Booker?"
"Only for you, Cam," he admits with a wink, leaning an elbow on the table. "Please."
"Good boy." I grin up at him as something flashes in his eyes before he's grinning.
Rome's eyes flicker over to Scar, who's setting up the brushes to dry. "What's up, sexy mama?"
"Rome, don't you have something better to do? Like, I don't know, literally anything else?" Scar sneers, glaring at him over her shoulder.
"Oh, come on, Scar," he says, placing a hand over his heart. "You know I can't resist you."
I glance at the grin pulling on Scarlett's face as she rolls her eyes, then turn back to Rome, chuckling. "Okay, Rome. Here's the book—choose from that."
"Don't need it." He closes the cover. "I want something straight from my heart. I've been thinking about it real hard."
I scoff. "Shit, hope you didn't hurt yourself."
"Cute, Cammie." Rome deadpans, making my grin grow. "What I want can't be captured in a picture. On this cheek—"
He turns his face and taps his cheek, his cheekbone looking like it's carved from marble.
"I want a love heart, and inside it, 'Rome and Cam forever.'" Rome answers before turning his head. "And on this cheek—"
Another slicing cheekbone and an even more prominent jawline. That shit could cut glass.
"Rome and Scar Maybe One Time," he finishes, giving Scarlett a cheeky grin.
Scarlett doesn't even blink. "Sure you don't want 'KING ASSHAT' on your forehead too? Feel like it would really round it out."
"Ouch," Rome says, placing a hand over his chest dramatically. "That hurt. But I respect it, Barbie."
"Oh, you cheeky shit." Scarlett chuckles—a real laugh—and I slowly realize that Rome's gotten to her.
Not just today, but in general. She likes him. Genuinely.
"You love it." He grins before turning back to me. "So, Cam. What d'you say? Can you make my dream come true?"
I laugh, shaking my head as I gesture toward the chair. "Sit down before I change my mind, Booker."
☆☆☆☆
The late afternoon sun filters through the massive windows of the indoor turf, casting everything in a warm, golden glow. The energy from earlier has started to settle, the volume of excited kids dimming as families begin to trickle out—faces painted, bellies full of free snacks, and hearts lighter than when they arrived.
At the face-painting station—or what's left of it—Scar and I are actually packing up, wiping down palettes, tossing used paper towels, and sealing the paint jars that somehow ended up more on the guys than the kids.
Meanwhile, the football players?
Yeah, they're sitting around, yapping shit, offering zero real help.
Rome is sprawled in one of the folding chairs, arms behind his head like he's put in a full shift at the mines. Clay leans against the table, arms folded, eyes solely on Scarlett. Elroy—all six-foot-seven, three hundred pounds of him—is perched at the edge of the gazebo, spinning a paintbrush between his fingers like he's contemplating eating it.
The other two—sophomore linebacker Ryan and kicker Isaac—are engaged in a very serious game of flicking crumpled napkins into a plastic cup.
"Y'know," Rome drawls, watching me work, not lifting a single damn finger to help, "this is actually a very delicate ecosystem we've got here. Y'all clean. We supervise. Balance."
I pause mid-wipe, fixing him with a deadpan stare. "Oh yeah? You keeping the predators away, or some shit?"
"Exactly." He grins, completely unbothered. "You wouldn't last five minutes out here without us."
Scarlett snorts as she dumps a handful of dirty brushes into the soapy bucket. "I think we'd be just fine."
"Doubtful," Clay mutters, not even looking up.
"Oh? And what exactly would we be missing out on?" I ask, raising a brow.
Clay gestures vaguely. "Supervision. Comic relief. Moral support."
"And oral support," Rome adds, and we all pause, everyone turning to face him with blank stares.
Rome blinks. "I mean—what—who said that?"
I roll my eyes and toss a used paper towel at his face. He dodges dramatically, like I just threw a live grenade.
And then—I feel it.
That familiar, bone-deep pull.
My laughter fades as my eyes drift across the field, through the thinning clusters of families and volunteers—straight to him.
Wes.
And God help me—he's already looking back.
Of course he is.
He's crouched beside a little boy with cerebral palsy, the kid's small frame braced upright against a specialized cart, his face lit up with unrestrained laughter at whatever Wes just said. His parents stand nearby, phones out, expressions soft with something like awe.
And Wes—God, Wes.
His baseball cap is backward, his Colts jersey slightly damp with sweat, his forearms golden and sun-kissed beneath the sleeves as he props an elbow on his knee.
But it's the look on his face that gets me.
So damn soft.
He ruffles the kid's hair, grinning, then flexes his arm like he's showing off his strength.
The kid giggles wildly, gripping the cart for balance as he mimics the pose.
Wes immediately hypes him up, clapping, nodding, making the boy feel like the strongest kid in the world.
And just like that—I'm gone.
So totally fucking gone for this man.
Because I love him. I'm in love with him.
Not just in a crushy, butterflies-in-the-stomach kind of way.
Not the fleeting kind of affection I'd felt for other guys in the past, where I was always waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the cracks to start showing, for the guy to take me to his home he still shares with his parents, where his mother still washes his bed sheets for him.
No, this is different.
This is everything.
This is all-consuming. This is permanent. This is etched-into-my-bones, imprinted-on-my-soul, branded-into-my-fucking-skin love.
Because it's not just affection.
It's knowing.
Knowing that there is no version of my life—past, present, or future—that doesn't have him in it.
Because I don't just love Wes.
I trust him.
And God, that's what gets me.
The fact that I look at him and I don't feel like I have to run. I don't feel like I have to hold my breath, or make myself smaller, or mold myself into something more digestible. I don't feel like I'm waiting for the moment he wakes up and realizes I'm not worth the effort.
Because I know Wes.
And I know—I know—he'd never do that to me.
The urge to tell him right now, to scream it across the entire fucking facility, rips through me like wildfire.
It claws at my throat, at my chest, at my very fucking soul.
But I won't.
Not yet.
Not because I don't want to.
But because I want it to be perfect.
Wes deserves that.
I deserve that.
So instead, I just... watch him.
Watch the way he gently adjusts the little boy's grip on the cart, his fingers light but firm. Watch the way he grins and nods as the kid launches into some excited story—probably about football, probably about wanting to be just like Wes one day.
And the way Wes listens—really listens—his whole body turned toward him, his eyes soft and bright and so, so full of genuine care...
Yeah.
I'm so fucking gone.
I try to pull my eyes away, to focus on packing up, but it's impossible.
Because Wes is still there.
Still crouched down, still listening intently to the little boy in front of him, still looking like the absolute best version of a human being to ever exist.
The kid is beaming up at him, hands gripping the cart tightly as he chatters away, his excitement bubbling over in quick, eager bursts.
Wes nods along, hanging onto every word like this is the most important conversation of his life.
And my heart—God, my stupid, traitorous heart—twists painfully.
Because, seriously, how the fuck is he real?
But then—movement.
Just off to the side, the little boy's older sister steps forward, shifting her weight onto one hip as she brushes her long blonde hair over her shoulder.
She's pretty—really pretty—and judging by the way she tilts her head and flashes Wes a bright, easy smile, she knows it. She says something to him, body angling toward his, her hand reaching out to rest on his arm—casual, effortless, like she's done it a hundred times before.
And Wes?
Wes grins.
Not in the way he grins at me, not in the way that makes my stomach drop out from under me, but still. A grin. Right at her. And I feel it like a physical thing, a quick, unexpected sting to the chest, like someone yanked a rubber band and snapped it hard against my ribcage.
It's ridiculous. I know it's fucking ridiculous.
I have no reason to be jealous, no reason to care. It's Wes. He's mine.
And yet—I hate it.
The feeling is immediate, sharp, and way too strong to swallow down, and I don't even realize I've stiffened until Scarlett nudges me lightly with her elbow.
"You good?" she murmurs, her attention still on drying off a paint palette.
I blink, forcing myself to shake it off.
I am not jealous. I am not jealous. I am—oh my god, I am so fucking jealous.
Jesus Christ. So this is what Wes feels like when he sees me with Hudson? This is what he meant when he said he wanted to commit felonies over it?
Determined to ignore it, I grab a pile of paintbrushes and shove them into the bucket of murky water with a little more force than necessary.
"All right, gentlemen," I announce, turning toward the guys who are still sitting around like they didn't just watch us do all the damn work. "Time to start actually helping instead of just looking pretty."
Clay huffs out a laugh. Rome groans dramatically.
But at least they start moving.
And I don't look at Wes again.
Not even once.
Not even when I can feel his eyes on me, not even when I know—I just know—that he's still grinning. Because of course he is.
By the time we finish packing up most of the supplies, the sun has started to dip lower in the sky, casting long golden streaks across the indoor turf. The once-lively facility is quieter now, the waves of kids slowly thinning as parents round them up, signaling the tail end of the event.
It's been a long, exhausting day, but in the best way. The kind where my feet hurt, my arms ache, but my heart feels full.
And then—Rome drops the damn box.
There's a split second where everything just hangs in the air, like the universe itself is pausing just to make this moment even more dramatic.
Then—disaster.
The bottom of the cardboard rips clean open, exploding all over the turf, paint bottles bouncing, brushes rolling, and a particularly large tub of glitter bursting open on impact.
Rome lets out a loud, horrified yelp, his legs and sneakers now absolutely covered in half the rainbow.
Scarlett shrieks, hands flying to her head. "Rome!"
"That ain't my fault, Barbie!" Rome immediately shouts, stepping back like he's dodging an explosion.
Clay is already dying, doubled over as he claps a hand on Rome's shoulder. "Damn, man. Hate to see it."
"Shut the fuck up, Jackson," Rome groans, swiping uselessly at the neon pink streak now smearing down his shin.
I shake my head, grinning to myself as I wipe down one of the last trestle tables, bending over slightly to scrub a particularly stubborn spot of dried paint.
And then I feel it.
That stare.
The weight of it, the heat of it, burning straight through the material of my jeans and into my ass.
I already know who it is before I even look.
And then—an arm wraps around my waist, tugging me back into a very familiar, very firm chest.
Wes.
His arm tightens around my waist, his chest pressed flush to my back, and then—his lips.
Soft, warm, needy as they brush against the curve of my shoulder, lingering like he can't bear to pull away. And then he's shoving his face into my neck and inhaling me deeply.
Like he's been deprived all day. Like he's making up for lost time.
Like he physically cannot go another second without touching me.
And God help me, it's so fucking hot.
"You done ignoring me, baby?" he murmurs, his deep drawl low and thick, barely above a whisper, sending a shiver straight down my spine.
I turn in his hold slowly, taking my time, not giving him the satisfaction just yet.
Because I'm still a little mad.
Not mad mad. Not really. But jealous-mad. The kind of ridiculous, irrational, petty jealousy that I've never really felt before—not until him.
Not until I saw that girl looking at him like he hung the damn moon. And not until he smiled back.
So, no. He doesn't just get to kiss my shoulder and melt me immediately.
I tilt my chin up, meeting his gaze with an innocent blink. "Ignoring you?"
Wes exhales a quiet laugh through his nose, blue eyes dark and lidded as he studies my face, searching.
He knows exactly what I'm doing.
He just doesn't care.
"I missed you," he murmurs, squeezing my waist, his voice thick with it—with want, with need. "Missed you all goddamn day."
His fingers dig into my waist, firm, like he needs me closer. Like he's afraid I'll slip away if he doesn't hold on tight enough.
And I should give in.
I should.
Because fuck, I missed him too.
But I don't.
Not yet.
Instead, I drag my hands up his chest, slow and teasing, feeling the way his muscles tense under my touch, the way his breath shudders as my nails scrape lightly over the collar of his jersey.
I tilt my head, blinking up at him. All innocence.
"Yeah?" I hum, pretending to think. "Didn't seem like you missed me that much when you were grinning at that girl earlier."
Wes' eyes darken, his grip on my waist tightening.
"Shit, you jealous?" he mutters, shaking his head like he's physically pained. "You're gonna kill me, baby. You know that?"
I grin, but before I can pull away, his hands drop lower.
Palms hot and heavy, he grabs my ass, pulling me flush against him, and fuck.
He's already hard. Just from this. From me teasing him. From me holding out. From me not giving in immediately.
Wes squeezes my ass in both big hands.
"That girl?" he breathes, his voice lower now, rougher. "You mean the one whose name I don't even know? The one I smiled at because she was standing next to her little brother? The one who—"
He leans in, his nose brushing mine, his lips just barely touching—not kissing me, just there.
"—I couldn't even look at properly because I was too busy looking for you?"
Almost.
But instead, I pull back slightly, smirking. "Shame. She was pretty."
Wes groans—actually groans—his head tipping back like he's on the verge of losing it.
"Baby," he growls, his hands squeezing, gripping, like he wants to pin me to something.
I just laugh, twisting out of his hold.
"You're such a little shit," he chuckles, running a hand through his hair, visibly restraining himself.
And then he's pulling me back into him, one hand gripping the side of my jaw as he dives down to claim my lips.
His mouth is already on mine before I can even think about a response—not that I have one, because holy fucking shit.
Wes kisses me like he's been starved for days, like I've been keeping him from something he desperately needs, and fuck, maybe I have. His hands are still firm on my ass, gripping, squeezing, pressing me into him like he can't get me close enough.
I moan into his mouth, my fingers threading into his hair, pulling, and Wes groans, deep and needy, like he's seconds away from just throwing me over his shoulder and marching straight out of here.
And I'd let him.
I would.
But then—
There's a slow whistle from behind Wes.
"Jesus Christ, y'all know there are still kids around, right?"
I smile against Wes' lips, pulling back just enough to glance over my shoulder.
Isaac and Ryan.
Standing at the entrance of the gazebo, both grinning like absolute fucking menaces, arms full of boxes they'd clearly come back for.
Wes doesn't even flinch. Doesn't loosen his grip on my ass, doesn't step back, doesn't even look at them.
Ryan whistles low, shaking his head. "At least wait until the kids are outta the building before you start defiling public property."
I grin, biting my lip, shrugging.
"Can't help it," I hum, smoothing my hands down Wes' chest, feeling the way his muscles flex beneath my touch. "Your boy's a little needy."
Ryan barks out a laugh. Isaac just smirks, bending to grab a box. "Horny bastard."
Wes finally acknowledges them, exhaling a slow, lazy sigh, entirely unbothered.
"Y'all got somethin' better to do?" he drawls, his grip still firm on me, his lips still pink and swollen. "Or do you just like watchin'?"
I choke out a laugh.
Ryan and Isaac chuckle, shaking their heads as they head off in the direction of the storage closet with the boxes. I grin, dropping my head to Wes' chest as I slide my hands up his chest and then wrap my arms behind his neck.
Wes hums, satisfied, his hands smoothing over my hips, his thumbs slipping just under the hem of my hoodie. Warm and slow and teasing.
"Y'know," he murmurs, voice all low and syrupy, "you laughin' at me doesn't change the fact that you're just as bad, baby."
I lift my head, grinning as I arch a brow. "Oh? And how's that?"
His grip tightens—just slightly, just enough to make my breath hitch.
"'Cause you like it," he says, lips brushing my cheek—not quite kissing, but close enough to make me ache for it. "Like knowin' I can't take my hands off you. Like knowin' you make me crazy."
I hum, tilting my head, pretending to think. "Hmm. Maybe. But I dunno, baby. Seems like you're the only one losing your damn mind here."
Wes laughs, low and rough, and suddenly, I'm being lifted—my toes leaving the ground for a split second before he sets me down on the edge of the trestle table behind me.
His hips press between my thighs, hands tight on my waist, and fuck.
His voice drops even lower. "That right?"
I exhale softly, shaking my head with a small smile as I let my fingers slip into the damp curls at the nape of his neck.
His shoulders relax just slightly, but the tension is still there, simmering beneath the surface, coiled tight and ready to snap.
I need to calm him down.
So, I do what I do best. I yap.
"You were really amazing today, you know," I murmur, my fingers scraping gently against his scalp, stroking through his hair in slow, soothing motions.
His breath catches, but he doesn't say anything, just tilts his head into my touch, eyes flicking up to mine.
I smile, soft and small. "Watching you out there with those kids... God, Wes. I don't think you even realize how incredible you are."
A muscle in his jaw twitches.
His hands slide a little higher on my waist, his thumbs stroking faint circles into my ribs. He's listening.
"You made them feel like they mattered," I continue, my voice quiet but steady. "Like they belonged. And you didn't even have to try. It's just... who you are."
He blinks at me, slow and careful, like he's committing every word to memory.
"Cam..."
"You're more than just their quarterback, you know?" I whisper, letting my hands slide up, cupping his jaw, feeling the faint scratch of stubble against my palms. "You're a leader. A role model. And the way you treated that little boy today? You made his whole world, Wes."
His grip on me tightens, his fingers flexing against my skin like he's trying to ground himself.
I watch the way his throat bobs as he swallows, how his lips part slightly, how his breathing shudders just the tiniest bit.
And then, his voice drops—low, quiet, almost reverent.
"You have no idea what it does to me," he murmurs. "Hearing you say that."
His forehead presses against mine, his nose brushing against the side of mine, and his hands slide back down to my hips, squeezing—firm and possessive.
"I've heard a lot of shit about myself over the years," he continues, his voice rough, thick, full of something heavy. "Praise from coaches, scouts, analysts, reporters. But none of it's ever mattered to me."
He pulls back just enough—just enough to look me in the eye, his expression serious, raw, like he's baring something he's never given to anyone else.
"But you?" His hands flex, his gaze dark and unwavering. "Baby, I'd spend my whole damn life trying to impress you."
My breath catches.
Because fuck.
Fuck.
I think I might die.
Wes sighs, his hands sliding down to grip my hips, his thumbs pressing into my skin like he's trying to ground himself.
"We've been around people too much," he mutters, his voice low, gruff, laced with something I can't quite place. "Feels like we haven't had a second alone in ages."
I snort, tilting my head up at him. "Wesley, we're literally alone together every night."
"Not the same. I want you all to myself for a whole night." He pauses, letting the words hang between us, then smirks. "No friends. No pizza on the sofa. No studying. Just you and me."
I lick my lips, my stomach twisting in the most delicious way at the way he's looking at me.
"And what exactly do you have in mind, Mr. Reed?" I ask, tilting my chin up in a challenge.
His smirk deepens, his fingers slipping under the hem of my sweatshirt, tracing warm, lazy circles against my skin. "Dinner, a movie, somethin' where I get to spoil you."
The words hit me, and I blink, realization dawning slowly.
I gasp in horror. "Oh my God. A date."
"Shit, was the idea that bad—"
"No, baby. Sorry." I put a hand to his chest. "Not at all. It's just—I realized we've never been on a date."
"Oh fuck," Wes' smirk drops. "Now how the hell did I let that happen?"
"We both did," I say, my tone half-serious, half-laughing. "Wes, we're in a relationship, and we skipped the most basic step!"
"Well, damn," he says, his grin finally breaking through again. "Guess we gotta fix it, huh?"
I nod quickly, my heart fluttering at the thought. "Definitely."
"Well then, how 'bout tomorrow night? You, me, dinner, dessert, somethin' special," he murmurs, his drawl slow, deliberate, dripping with promise. "I'm gonna spoil my girl real good."
"You better, Golden Boy," I murmur, my eyes dropping to his lips as Wes leans into me again with a small grin.
Before Wes can kiss me again, a familiar voice cuts through the moment.
Scarlett raises an eyebrow. "Y'all done here?"
I glance over Wes' shoulder, finding Scarlett and Clay standing a few feet away, Clay's arms wrapped securely around her waist.
He nods toward the exit. "We're headin' to Burger Theory. Few of the guys are comin' too. You in?"
"Yeah, yeah, we're in," I say, laughing as Wes sighs dramatically, clearly annoyed that our moment got interrupted.
He shakes his head, then moves his hands to my waist, gripping firmly as he lifts me down from the table.
The second my feet hit the ground, his arm loops around my shoulders, pulling me into his side like he has no intention of letting me go anytime soon.
And honestly?
I wouldn't have it any other way.