The Games We Play - Chapter 39: Chapter 39
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The Iron Pasture is literally drowning in TrueBlue.
Not just splashes of it here and there—fucking flooded. Jerseys, face paint, flags, someone in a full-body TrueBlue morph suit and a handful of terrifying white silicone horse masks. And that's just the UC student section. The rest of the crowd—those with mortgages and jobs to return to come Monday—are just as if not more chaotic.
Floodlights cast everything in sharp white and blue beams, the band is playing what I swear is Travis' Scott's Fein, and Victory—the giant white stallion mascot—is doing backflip after backflip down the sideline at such a speech that it's even making me dizzy.
Every seat has a butt in it, every voice is raised, and the sound rolls like thunder from the lower bowl up to where we are in the VIP section. We're back in the same open-air balcony seats amongst the same VIPs—alumni, donors, staff—all with too much money and not enough hair.
Everyone all bearing witness to what tabloids are saying is the biggest home playoff game in years.
The weather had shown up today too—barely any wind, cloudless skies and a crisp winter coolness that's not match for the heat generated by the crowd. The suite is behind us and up the stone steps, separated by glass walls, where—for some godforsaken reason—some people prefer to watch the game on the screens.
Out here is so much better. Okay, yeah it smells like sweat and concession fries—but not even a bag of premium cocaine could give this amount of energy. And after having spent two years being trampled in the student section and loosing the feeling of my butt from crappy plastic flip-chairs—I'm taking full advantage of the plush leather seats.
We're all here, all lined up. Scarlett, Jude, Yasmine, Kiki, Tasha and Liam—gorgeous little duckies all in a row. I'm between Scarlett and Jude, clutching both of their hands for dear life every single fucking time the Georgia Bulldogs make a play.
We're on the defence at the moment—after a crucial fumble from sophomore linebacker Josh Garrison. And I know that's going to play on his mind for the next month because that was literally me when I showed up for my doctor's appointment but was informed it was actually the following week.
It still haunts me.
Just like the huge LED scoreboard: Bulldog 7, Colts 9.
It's still early in the first quarter but Georgia had come out swinging, marching down the field with relentless efficiency. They had their first touch-down with in minutes—clearly spooking both the Colts and their fans.
And hence why both Scarlett and Jude have little crescent moons imbedded in the skin of their hands. Whoopsies.
The crowd erupts as the Colts' offense finally jog onto the field for their first drive.
Scarlett cheers, letting go of my hand briefly to clap them on with everyone else, "Let's go!"
"Here we go—here we fucking go!" Liam claps, rising to his feet at the other end of our aisle—he literally got down on his knees and prayed after that first Bulldog touchdown and that mans only God is money and his girlfriend.
We were all in Colts jerseys too—Scar in Clay's and me in Wes'.
Hers paired with a belted mini skirt and black leather knee-high boots. Her bleach-blonde hair is in full blow-out waves—which makes TrueBlue look so damn good on her. Mine hangs off one shoulder, tucked up under my bra and loose light-washed jeans hang low on my hips. My hair's slicked back into a bun because I ain't missing a single thing and gold hoops are on my ears.
Scarlett returns her hand to mine.
"They're fine," She said, more to herself than me, "It's still early."
"They better be fine," I mumble, fiddling with the rings on her fingers, "The Bulldogs sure as shit didn't show up here just to roll over and get their bellies rubbed."
"Clearly not," Scar agrees, "But like hell the boys are gonna let this slip. They'll comeback."
Her words were confident, but there was a subtle edge to her tone, a flicker of something sharper beneath her casual demeanor. She was just as worried as I was but pretending to be cool.
"Clay's playing damn great," I said, glancing down at the field where the offense was huddling up. "But fuck—the Bulldogs are no joke."
"Neither are the Colts," Scarlett squeezes my hand a little more, "Relax honey, yeah? They've got this."
I groan, leaning back into the chair, "Telling me to relax is like throwing gasoline on to a roaring fire."
Scarlett rolls her eyes with a small chuckle just as the crowd erupts, breaking out conversation as we turn back to the field. The huddle breaks and Wes jogs back to line of scrimmage, his blue helmet catching the glare of the stadium lights.
I could barely hear myself think over the noise, but I couldn't take my eyes off him.
Scarlett leaned in closer, her voice cutting through the chaos. "Don't worry—just trust your man."
My man.
My stomach flips.
Wes is already out there, lined up behind the center, barking out commands as the offense prepared to snap the ball. Even from here, I could see the familiar determination in his stance, the way he held himself like he had the entire game under control.
The ball snaps, and the play unfolds in a blur of blue and white.
Wes drops back, scanning the field and manages to launch it just before the Bulldog's defence smash into him. He goes down—but the ball keeps flying.
All the way into Rome's hands. The crowd rises from their seats as Rome sprints down the wide open sideline with the Bulldogs hot on his heels.
"Go, go, go!" I shouted, half-rising from my seat as he crossed the 50-yard line.
"Booker's gonna take it!" Liam yells from further down the aisle, already out of his chair as Tasha jumps up and down on his other side.
But just as Rome reached the Bulldogs' 30-yard line, a Georgia safety comes from cross-field, wrapping him up and driving him to the turf. The crowd groaned in unison, deflating as the play came to a halt.
"Damn it," Scarlett muttered, sitting back and crossing her arms. "He had that—say goodbye to your balls Booker."
"I'm not even going to ask," I huffed, though my pulse was pounding. "At least they made ground."
Scarlett nodded, but her focus stayed glued to the field. The energy in the VIP lounge was shifting, the nervous excitement giving way to restless murmurs as the game pressed on.
And then, as if on cue, a voice I'd been hoping not to hear tonight—or ever fucking again—cuts through the noise like nails on a chalkboard.
"Well, well, well," Logan drawled, his smirk as smug as the suit he was wearing, as him and his buddies stop on the stairs at the end of the aisle, "Look whose up in the VIP suite."
Right where Scar and I are sitting.
"Looking good, Scar." Logan does a once over of his ex-girlfriend.
Scarlett didn't even flinch. She straightened in her seat, lifting her chin a slow, deliberate smile.
"Logan," she said, her tone light but razor-sharp. "What a surprise. I thought you'd be too busy suckling Mommy's tit to make it to the game."
His grin faltered for a split second.
"No?" Scarlett smirks, "I mean—you did it until you were nine and y'know what they say about old habits.
His friends behind him all gape at Scarlett's words, turning around to hide grins or poorly cover their laughs with coughs.
His jaw tightened, the forced smile barely holding its ground.
"Thought our break up would've matured you a little. Kinda sad to see." He pouts down at her, "Thought the team captain would've fucked the bitch out of you."
I throw my hands up, "Whoa!"
"Who the fuck are you're talking to?" Jude screams as he gets out of the chair on the other side of me.
Logan lifts a a defensive hand wrapped around a beer bottle, "Ladies, ladies, it's just a joke."
"Wow, we got ourselves a comedian!" I cut a glance up at him from where I sit, being on the end, and Logan's jaw flexes his jaw as his eyes flicker to me.
Jude moves his a pointed finger around, "Oh, bitch, let me tell you something. You're gonna wish I found that shit funny, because right now, I'm 'bout two seconds away from rearranging your ugly motherfucking face—and trust me, I'll do it better than God did the first damn time!"
Logan blinked, visibly thrown off, and his friends behind him all looked like they wanted to be anywhere but here.
But he overs it with a scoff, "You got the alphabet mafia protecting you now?"
"OOOOOOOH BITCH!" Jude whistles as he throws his purse off his shoulder, "Someone hold my purse, I'm bouta to rock this pasty motherfucker—"
Jude's already out of his seat with his arm cocked back, only to get caught by Yasmine whose instantly wrapping him up and holding him back. People in the aisles around us are all looking over and I know security is on their way.
"Logan just fuck off." Scarlett, huffs, turning her attention back to the field like she's already down with him and the conversation.
"Gladly, baby." Logan smirks as he slowly steps down the stairs, ""Enjoy the game. Colts are off to a fucking bad start though—would hate to see your little boyfriend choke under pressure."
Scarlett didn't flinch, her gaze steady as she watched him walk away, his friends already further down and looking for their seats, "But don't you have that thing for watching men choke, Logan?"
He froze for half a beat, his smirk flickering before he turned and stalked off to follow his friends.
I slowly look down at Scarlett who's got her fingers pressed together in a prayer, resting her nose against the seam of her hands and her eyes on the focus.
Gently, I turn to her and put a hand on her shoulder, "You good?"
"Of course." Scarlett scoffs but I can tell she's most definitely not good.
"Ooh—put me in a ring with that motherfucker and I swear only one of us is coming out." Jude grumbles menacingly with clenched fists as he lowers himself back down into his chair, "And it sure as shit ain't gonna be me."
Scarlett didn't respond to Jude's grumbling, her hands clenched in her lap like she was holding herself steady through sheer force of will.
Around us, the others settled back into their seats, though the air still felt charged, like an invisible current of tension was humming between us.
"Scar, seriously," Kiki said softly, leaning forward from her spot beside Yasmine. "Are you okay?"
She musters up a smile and glances down the aisle, "I'm just fine, honey."
Tasha shot a look at me, her lips pressed together in concern, while Yasmine rubbed a comforting hand over Kiki's shoulder. Jude, however, wasn't done yet.
"I swear to God, if I ever see him in public, it's on sight," Jude muttered, pulling a compact mirror out of his bag to check his burnt-red lipgloss is still in place.
"Jude," Scarlett said, finally dropping her hands and turning to him, her expression softening just slightly. "Thanks, but...just leave it. Really."
He gave her a long, skeptical look, then clicked his compact shut with a dramatic sigh. "Fine, but if you change your mind, I'll be in the parking lot practicing my wind-up."
That drew a small, reluctant smile from Scarlett, though it didn't reach her eyes. Jude returned it, reaching over me to grab one of her clenched fists and give it a small shake.
The game carried on below, the Colts fighting to regain ground after their slow start. But my attention kept drifting back to Scarlett, to the faint lines of tension in her posture, the way her jaw stayed clenched just a little too tightly.
Without a word, I leaned closer and wrapped an arm around her and rest my cheek on her shoulder. She turns to me with a small smile and I return it.
I tilt my head, "Let's cheer on our boys, yeah?"
"Yeah." Scarlett nods before we're turning back to the field.
☆☆☆☆
Colts 27, Bulldogs 24.
The final whistle blew, and The Iron Pasture erupted in a deafening roar.
Our boys fucking did it. National Champs here we come.
We're already down by the sideline with the rest of the crowd. The players were streaming onto the field, helmets raised in triumph.
It's chaos. Pure fucking chaos.
The band struck up the fight song, their brass section blaring triumphantly as fans screamed themselves hoarse. Players hugged each other, coaches shouted directions, and cameras swarmed the field like moths to a flame.
The second they waved us through, we were swept into it—me, Scarlett, Jude, the whole damn crew. Liam was crying into Tasha's arms. Kiki and Yasmine were busy fluffing Jude's curls while he reapplied his lip gloss, and then they're off searching for hunky Bulldog boys in need of consoling.
We were in the thick of it—bodies pressing in from every direction, confetti fluttering like snow, coaches and camera crews and students all moving like they were caught in a current. I lost Scarlett almost instantly. But I wasn't worried. I knew she was off finding Clay—probably already in his arms, refusing to let go.
I try to look for my own Colts player, my eyes flickering from face to face as I continue further and further into the chaos.
I kept pushing forward, scanning faces, ducking under limbs and flags and boom mics, searching for one specific player in that sea of sweaty glory.
People cheer and scream right in front of my face—some guy with a face of blue paint full on bellows inches from my face and I can only give him a tense smile before continuing on my way.
And then—arms. Big ones. Wrapping around my middle and hauling me off the ground.
"COLTS ALL FUCKIN' DAY, BAY-BEE!" Rome's voice bellowed right in my ear.
I squealed, legs kicking out as he spun us like a human tornado, my grip on his forearms the only thing keeping me upright.
"ROME!" I laughed, dizzy as he set me down on the turf.
"Surprise baby!" Rome beams as I'm instantly throwing my arms around his shoulders.
"You did it!" I cheer excitedly as he hugs me back, "That final catch? Fucking unreal!"
"I know," he said smugly, brushing invisible dust off his shoulder as we step back from each other. He cups his ear with a cocky smirk, "Don't stop there Camazon Prime, tell me more about how great I am."
I rolled my eyes, laughing as I shoved him lightly. "How the fuck did they fit this many people in the stadium with that damn ego of yours?"
"Ego?" Rome gasped, clutching his chest like I'd wounded him. "Baby, that's just me. And besides..." He leaned in closer, dropping his voice to a teasing murmur. "You know you like it. C'mon, admit it."
"I'm good thanks." I grin cheekily up at him as he rolls his eyes, chuckling with a shake of his head.
Then—something. Out of the corner of my eye.
Wes.
He was a few yards away, still surrounded by teammates and fans, his helmet held in one hand as the other is wrapping around his teammates and management and supporters and everyone scrambling to congratulate him on an epic battle.
His smile is bright and beautiful and his blonde hair is damp and sticking up in all places.
He's literally lowing under the stadium lights in his pads and Colts homestrip.
My smile falters at the sight of him and my heart begins to thump out of my chest. No matter how many times I see him, the sight of him still evokes such an overwhelming rush of love and desire from me.
My breath hitches as his gaze landed on me.
He almost misses me and has to do a double take.
His entire face softens, the tension in his shoulders melting as his eyes light up. A smile—his true smile—broke across his face, wide and unabashed, and I swear the noise around us dimmed for a second.
He's instantly on the move. Fast. Dodging fans, brushing past outstretched hands. A couple girls try to intercept—one even reaches for his arm—but he's locked in on me. Complete and utter tunnel vision.
"Ah shit." I hear Rome chuckle, "Go get your mans, Cammie."
I start forward, my steps moving quicker as my smile grows wider.
Wes is meeting me with in seconds, his helmet clattering to the ground, and he exhales heavily, "Baby."
His arms engulf me as he lifts me off my feet.
A laugh bursts from me as I'm throwing my arms around his shoulders. He tucks his head into my neck, inhaling me deeply as he spins us around and around.
"You did it!" I squeal as Wes gently places me down on the ground.
"Fuck yeah we did!" Wes exclaims as he pulls back slightly, his arms still around my waist, "I've only fucking dreamed off this moment."
I scoff, "You've been to the national champs before, Wes."
"I mean this, baby." He grins down at me, "Running to you on the final whistle. You in my jersey. It's fucking perfect."
"Well, since you walked into that one—You're perfect." I feed his cheesy line back to him and he chuckles softly.
He grabs my face between two gloved hands and smashes his lips on to mine. He kisses me deeply, claiming me in front of the cameras and fans and everyone in the world. His lips are warm, a little chapped, still tasting like Gatorade and adrenaline, and I melt into it like I always do.There's whistling, someone yells "Get a room!", and Rome's voice cuts through—
"Damn, let a girl breathe, QB!"
We break apart with flushed faces and zero shame.
"Where's my kiss, Cameron?" Rome calls.
I glance over my shoulder to shoot him a glare. "On the bottom of my boot, Booker."
His eyes narrow, "You just want to see me on my knees."
Both Wes and I laugh, shaking out heads at him before he's instantly distracted like a dog on crack and is instantly running off shouting someone's name.
"That fucking guy." Wes chuckles softly as his eyes trail after him.
It gives me the chance to look at Wes, really look at him. Before it felt weird that I was watching him from so far away—but this is great, him with his big gloved hands on my face, right in front of me, with me.
"I'm so so so proud, Wes." I tell him as his gaze flickers down at me, "So fucking proud. The way you played, commanded the field, every ball, it was all incredible. You deserve this win."
He grins, "You think so?"
"I know so, baby." I mumble, reaching up to brush back the damp blonde strands from his eyes, "And you deserve to go celebrate with your boys. Don't worry about me."
"I ain't going nowhere." Wes grins at me, "As far as I know, I've already got my trophy right here."
"Wes," I smooth my hands over his pads. "That's sweet, but seriously, go. This is your moment and you—"
"Reed!" We both look through the crowd to see a man in a blue Colts polo waving and arm, "Media's waiting. Let's go!"
Wes glanced back at me, his hand squeezing my waist.
"My words exactly." I urged, smiling. "Come find me later. But for now, go steal those hearts, quaterback."
His lips quirked up in a crooked smile, and he holds my face steady to kiss my lips multiple times like a damn woodpecker.
"Don't stray too far, baby." He's smiling as he hovers above my face.
"Promise." I grin, picking up my pinky promise in that stupid gimmicky way he does.
The grin that stretches across his face his blinding as he glances at my finger.
He hooks my pinky with his, brings it up to his mouth and stamps the promise with a kiss to the back of my hand. He steps away, letting go of my hand at the last moment and I giggle as I watch him contort himself to get through the throngs of people.
I took a deep breath, looking around the field. The chaos was still going strong, with fans shouting, and the team celebrating all their damn hard work. Of course, it's not over yet.
But the relief of getting this far is clear in everyone's smiling faces.
I fold my arms around myself, the jersey not doing much to keep the chilly crisp air away, and I'm quickly on the hunt for my friends.
The field was a swirling mess of noise and movement—players shouting, families crying tears of joy, and staff scrambling to capture every moment.
The marching band performs Kanye's Flashing Light's in the background, blending with the buzz of excited conversations and the occasional whoop of celebration.
I turned in a slow circle, trying to spot Scarlett or Jude in the crowd. Kiki and Yasmine were probably glued to each other somewhere, and knowing Liam, he was still gushing over every play to Tasha.
But for now, all I had was a sea of faces I didn't recognize.
The energy was infectious, but it didn't make navigating any easier. I ducked around a camera crew, dodged a couple of overly enthusiastic fans, and nearly tripped over a discarded water bottle before straightening myself out.
I pressed forward, squeezing between two players who were taking a selfie. My foot catches on the grass, and I stumbled, bumping into someone as I tried to regain my balance.
"Whoa—!"
"Oh my God, I'm so sorry—!"
We ricochet off each other and I quickly turn back to him to apologise.
Crisp navy sport coat, white dress shirt open at the collar, Colts pin on the lapel. He looked less like he belonged on a football field and more like he'd walked out of a magazine ad for old-money bourbon. He smiled when he saw me, teeth white, eyes sharp.
Calvin Reed. Wes' father.
The last time I saw him, Wes practically dragged me away before we could exchange more than ten words, introduced me like I was just another name on a class roster—his tutor, nothing more. But now, Calvin's eyes flickered with recognition, and this time, he didn't look through me.
"Well howdy there," he said, clearly amused, "Cameron, right?"
My stomach dropped.
He remembered me.
And not just remembered—recognized me immediately.
"Oh—hi," I said, trying to find my footing, both literal and emotional. "Good to see you again, Mr Reed."
He extended a hand like we were old colleagues at a conference. "Hell of a game, huh?"
"Yeah," I nodded quickly, trying to match his energy. "It was... incredible. They played their hearts out."
He smiled again, this time with just a hint too much calculation behind it. ""It's been a while since I've made it out to see him play in a while. I invited Delilah along—she was bouncing off the walls to be here. Not hard to guess who she was rooting for."
The name hit me like a flicked rubber band to the ribs.
Delilah.
He said it like I was supposed to know her. Like it was obvious. Like Wes hadn't spent the last three months dodging the question every time I asked.
"She rushed the field as soon as the whistle blew," Calvin continued. "She's out there somewhere. Probably getting trampled. I figured Wes would've already grabbed her."
I just nodded again, mouth dry.
And then—like it was nothing, like it was just some idle clarification—he added, "Anyway, it's good to run into you again. I know you've been working with him for a while now—tutoring, right?"
The word hung in the air.
Tutor. Has...has Wes not told him? I mean both my parents know by now.
Hell—literally my entire town are aware of my relationship status thanks to my mother and her generous sharing of my personal life.
But maybe Wes just doesn't have that kind of relationship with his father,
I smile softly, "Actually, Mr Reed, I'm not just his—"
"He's always been stubborn,"
He talks right over me. Smooth. Effortless. Deliberate.
Calvin continues, "Wouldn't let anyone help him with a damn thing growing up. Even when he needed it. So it's nice to see him finally letting someone in. At least academically."
My mouth snapped shut.
There it was.
He'd heard me. Knew what I was going to say. And shut it down without flinching.
He smiled again, checked his watch, and gave a brisk nod toward the crowd. "And you must be helping—his focus on football seems a lot less distracted so I'm sure we can all thank you for his performance out there."
I didn't know how to respond to that, so I didn't. I just smiled, tight and polite, the kind of smile you give when someone's trying to be nice but it still manages to come out... sideways.
"Well—I should probably go. I've gotta talk to Wes' coach and find Delilah—he's probably halfway into the media pit by now. Good seeing you."
"Ah—yeah—you too," I said, friendly. Automatic.
He was already gone.
And just like that, I was alone again, standing in the middle of a stadium that still smelled like victory—but suddenly didn't feel like one.
Not just splashes of it here and there—fucking flooded. Jerseys, face paint, flags, someone in a full-body TrueBlue morph suit and a handful of terrifying white silicone horse masks. And that's just the UC student section. The rest of the crowd—those with mortgages and jobs to return to come Monday—are just as if not more chaotic.
Floodlights cast everything in sharp white and blue beams, the band is playing what I swear is Travis' Scott's Fein, and Victory—the giant white stallion mascot—is doing backflip after backflip down the sideline at such a speech that it's even making me dizzy.
Every seat has a butt in it, every voice is raised, and the sound rolls like thunder from the lower bowl up to where we are in the VIP section. We're back in the same open-air balcony seats amongst the same VIPs—alumni, donors, staff—all with too much money and not enough hair.
Everyone all bearing witness to what tabloids are saying is the biggest home playoff game in years.
The weather had shown up today too—barely any wind, cloudless skies and a crisp winter coolness that's not match for the heat generated by the crowd. The suite is behind us and up the stone steps, separated by glass walls, where—for some godforsaken reason—some people prefer to watch the game on the screens.
Out here is so much better. Okay, yeah it smells like sweat and concession fries—but not even a bag of premium cocaine could give this amount of energy. And after having spent two years being trampled in the student section and loosing the feeling of my butt from crappy plastic flip-chairs—I'm taking full advantage of the plush leather seats.
We're all here, all lined up. Scarlett, Jude, Yasmine, Kiki, Tasha and Liam—gorgeous little duckies all in a row. I'm between Scarlett and Jude, clutching both of their hands for dear life every single fucking time the Georgia Bulldogs make a play.
We're on the defence at the moment—after a crucial fumble from sophomore linebacker Josh Garrison. And I know that's going to play on his mind for the next month because that was literally me when I showed up for my doctor's appointment but was informed it was actually the following week.
It still haunts me.
Just like the huge LED scoreboard: Bulldog 7, Colts 9.
It's still early in the first quarter but Georgia had come out swinging, marching down the field with relentless efficiency. They had their first touch-down with in minutes—clearly spooking both the Colts and their fans.
And hence why both Scarlett and Jude have little crescent moons imbedded in the skin of their hands. Whoopsies.
The crowd erupts as the Colts' offense finally jog onto the field for their first drive.
Scarlett cheers, letting go of my hand briefly to clap them on with everyone else, "Let's go!"
"Here we go—here we fucking go!" Liam claps, rising to his feet at the other end of our aisle—he literally got down on his knees and prayed after that first Bulldog touchdown and that mans only God is money and his girlfriend.
We were all in Colts jerseys too—Scar in Clay's and me in Wes'.
Hers paired with a belted mini skirt and black leather knee-high boots. Her bleach-blonde hair is in full blow-out waves—which makes TrueBlue look so damn good on her. Mine hangs off one shoulder, tucked up under my bra and loose light-washed jeans hang low on my hips. My hair's slicked back into a bun because I ain't missing a single thing and gold hoops are on my ears.
Scarlett returns her hand to mine.
"They're fine," She said, more to herself than me, "It's still early."
"They better be fine," I mumble, fiddling with the rings on her fingers, "The Bulldogs sure as shit didn't show up here just to roll over and get their bellies rubbed."
"Clearly not," Scar agrees, "But like hell the boys are gonna let this slip. They'll comeback."
Her words were confident, but there was a subtle edge to her tone, a flicker of something sharper beneath her casual demeanor. She was just as worried as I was but pretending to be cool.
"Clay's playing damn great," I said, glancing down at the field where the offense was huddling up. "But fuck—the Bulldogs are no joke."
"Neither are the Colts," Scarlett squeezes my hand a little more, "Relax honey, yeah? They've got this."
I groan, leaning back into the chair, "Telling me to relax is like throwing gasoline on to a roaring fire."
Scarlett rolls her eyes with a small chuckle just as the crowd erupts, breaking out conversation as we turn back to the field. The huddle breaks and Wes jogs back to line of scrimmage, his blue helmet catching the glare of the stadium lights.
I could barely hear myself think over the noise, but I couldn't take my eyes off him.
Scarlett leaned in closer, her voice cutting through the chaos. "Don't worry—just trust your man."
My man.
My stomach flips.
Wes is already out there, lined up behind the center, barking out commands as the offense prepared to snap the ball. Even from here, I could see the familiar determination in his stance, the way he held himself like he had the entire game under control.
The ball snaps, and the play unfolds in a blur of blue and white.
Wes drops back, scanning the field and manages to launch it just before the Bulldog's defence smash into him. He goes down—but the ball keeps flying.
All the way into Rome's hands. The crowd rises from their seats as Rome sprints down the wide open sideline with the Bulldogs hot on his heels.
"Go, go, go!" I shouted, half-rising from my seat as he crossed the 50-yard line.
"Booker's gonna take it!" Liam yells from further down the aisle, already out of his chair as Tasha jumps up and down on his other side.
But just as Rome reached the Bulldogs' 30-yard line, a Georgia safety comes from cross-field, wrapping him up and driving him to the turf. The crowd groaned in unison, deflating as the play came to a halt.
"Damn it," Scarlett muttered, sitting back and crossing her arms. "He had that—say goodbye to your balls Booker."
"I'm not even going to ask," I huffed, though my pulse was pounding. "At least they made ground."
Scarlett nodded, but her focus stayed glued to the field. The energy in the VIP lounge was shifting, the nervous excitement giving way to restless murmurs as the game pressed on.
And then, as if on cue, a voice I'd been hoping not to hear tonight—or ever fucking again—cuts through the noise like nails on a chalkboard.
"Well, well, well," Logan drawled, his smirk as smug as the suit he was wearing, as him and his buddies stop on the stairs at the end of the aisle, "Look whose up in the VIP suite."
Right where Scar and I are sitting.
"Looking good, Scar." Logan does a once over of his ex-girlfriend.
Scarlett didn't even flinch. She straightened in her seat, lifting her chin a slow, deliberate smile.
"Logan," she said, her tone light but razor-sharp. "What a surprise. I thought you'd be too busy suckling Mommy's tit to make it to the game."
His grin faltered for a split second.
"No?" Scarlett smirks, "I mean—you did it until you were nine and y'know what they say about old habits.
His friends behind him all gape at Scarlett's words, turning around to hide grins or poorly cover their laughs with coughs.
His jaw tightened, the forced smile barely holding its ground.
"Thought our break up would've matured you a little. Kinda sad to see." He pouts down at her, "Thought the team captain would've fucked the bitch out of you."
I throw my hands up, "Whoa!"
"Who the fuck are you're talking to?" Jude screams as he gets out of the chair on the other side of me.
Logan lifts a a defensive hand wrapped around a beer bottle, "Ladies, ladies, it's just a joke."
"Wow, we got ourselves a comedian!" I cut a glance up at him from where I sit, being on the end, and Logan's jaw flexes his jaw as his eyes flicker to me.
Jude moves his a pointed finger around, "Oh, bitch, let me tell you something. You're gonna wish I found that shit funny, because right now, I'm 'bout two seconds away from rearranging your ugly motherfucking face—and trust me, I'll do it better than God did the first damn time!"
Logan blinked, visibly thrown off, and his friends behind him all looked like they wanted to be anywhere but here.
But he overs it with a scoff, "You got the alphabet mafia protecting you now?"
"OOOOOOOH BITCH!" Jude whistles as he throws his purse off his shoulder, "Someone hold my purse, I'm bouta to rock this pasty motherfucker—"
Jude's already out of his seat with his arm cocked back, only to get caught by Yasmine whose instantly wrapping him up and holding him back. People in the aisles around us are all looking over and I know security is on their way.
"Logan just fuck off." Scarlett, huffs, turning her attention back to the field like she's already down with him and the conversation.
"Gladly, baby." Logan smirks as he slowly steps down the stairs, ""Enjoy the game. Colts are off to a fucking bad start though—would hate to see your little boyfriend choke under pressure."
Scarlett didn't flinch, her gaze steady as she watched him walk away, his friends already further down and looking for their seats, "But don't you have that thing for watching men choke, Logan?"
He froze for half a beat, his smirk flickering before he turned and stalked off to follow his friends.
I slowly look down at Scarlett who's got her fingers pressed together in a prayer, resting her nose against the seam of her hands and her eyes on the focus.
Gently, I turn to her and put a hand on her shoulder, "You good?"
"Of course." Scarlett scoffs but I can tell she's most definitely not good.
"Ooh—put me in a ring with that motherfucker and I swear only one of us is coming out." Jude grumbles menacingly with clenched fists as he lowers himself back down into his chair, "And it sure as shit ain't gonna be me."
Scarlett didn't respond to Jude's grumbling, her hands clenched in her lap like she was holding herself steady through sheer force of will.
Around us, the others settled back into their seats, though the air still felt charged, like an invisible current of tension was humming between us.
"Scar, seriously," Kiki said softly, leaning forward from her spot beside Yasmine. "Are you okay?"
She musters up a smile and glances down the aisle, "I'm just fine, honey."
Tasha shot a look at me, her lips pressed together in concern, while Yasmine rubbed a comforting hand over Kiki's shoulder. Jude, however, wasn't done yet.
"I swear to God, if I ever see him in public, it's on sight," Jude muttered, pulling a compact mirror out of his bag to check his burnt-red lipgloss is still in place.
"Jude," Scarlett said, finally dropping her hands and turning to him, her expression softening just slightly. "Thanks, but...just leave it. Really."
He gave her a long, skeptical look, then clicked his compact shut with a dramatic sigh. "Fine, but if you change your mind, I'll be in the parking lot practicing my wind-up."
That drew a small, reluctant smile from Scarlett, though it didn't reach her eyes. Jude returned it, reaching over me to grab one of her clenched fists and give it a small shake.
The game carried on below, the Colts fighting to regain ground after their slow start. But my attention kept drifting back to Scarlett, to the faint lines of tension in her posture, the way her jaw stayed clenched just a little too tightly.
Without a word, I leaned closer and wrapped an arm around her and rest my cheek on her shoulder. She turns to me with a small smile and I return it.
I tilt my head, "Let's cheer on our boys, yeah?"
"Yeah." Scarlett nods before we're turning back to the field.
☆☆☆☆
Colts 27, Bulldogs 24.
The final whistle blew, and The Iron Pasture erupted in a deafening roar.
Our boys fucking did it. National Champs here we come.
We're already down by the sideline with the rest of the crowd. The players were streaming onto the field, helmets raised in triumph.
It's chaos. Pure fucking chaos.
The band struck up the fight song, their brass section blaring triumphantly as fans screamed themselves hoarse. Players hugged each other, coaches shouted directions, and cameras swarmed the field like moths to a flame.
The second they waved us through, we were swept into it—me, Scarlett, Jude, the whole damn crew. Liam was crying into Tasha's arms. Kiki and Yasmine were busy fluffing Jude's curls while he reapplied his lip gloss, and then they're off searching for hunky Bulldog boys in need of consoling.
We were in the thick of it—bodies pressing in from every direction, confetti fluttering like snow, coaches and camera crews and students all moving like they were caught in a current. I lost Scarlett almost instantly. But I wasn't worried. I knew she was off finding Clay—probably already in his arms, refusing to let go.
I try to look for my own Colts player, my eyes flickering from face to face as I continue further and further into the chaos.
I kept pushing forward, scanning faces, ducking under limbs and flags and boom mics, searching for one specific player in that sea of sweaty glory.
People cheer and scream right in front of my face—some guy with a face of blue paint full on bellows inches from my face and I can only give him a tense smile before continuing on my way.
And then—arms. Big ones. Wrapping around my middle and hauling me off the ground.
"COLTS ALL FUCKIN' DAY, BAY-BEE!" Rome's voice bellowed right in my ear.
I squealed, legs kicking out as he spun us like a human tornado, my grip on his forearms the only thing keeping me upright.
"ROME!" I laughed, dizzy as he set me down on the turf.
"Surprise baby!" Rome beams as I'm instantly throwing my arms around his shoulders.
"You did it!" I cheer excitedly as he hugs me back, "That final catch? Fucking unreal!"
"I know," he said smugly, brushing invisible dust off his shoulder as we step back from each other. He cups his ear with a cocky smirk, "Don't stop there Camazon Prime, tell me more about how great I am."
I rolled my eyes, laughing as I shoved him lightly. "How the fuck did they fit this many people in the stadium with that damn ego of yours?"
"Ego?" Rome gasped, clutching his chest like I'd wounded him. "Baby, that's just me. And besides..." He leaned in closer, dropping his voice to a teasing murmur. "You know you like it. C'mon, admit it."
"I'm good thanks." I grin cheekily up at him as he rolls his eyes, chuckling with a shake of his head.
Then—something. Out of the corner of my eye.
Wes.
He was a few yards away, still surrounded by teammates and fans, his helmet held in one hand as the other is wrapping around his teammates and management and supporters and everyone scrambling to congratulate him on an epic battle.
His smile is bright and beautiful and his blonde hair is damp and sticking up in all places.
He's literally lowing under the stadium lights in his pads and Colts homestrip.
My smile falters at the sight of him and my heart begins to thump out of my chest. No matter how many times I see him, the sight of him still evokes such an overwhelming rush of love and desire from me.
My breath hitches as his gaze landed on me.
He almost misses me and has to do a double take.
His entire face softens, the tension in his shoulders melting as his eyes light up. A smile—his true smile—broke across his face, wide and unabashed, and I swear the noise around us dimmed for a second.
He's instantly on the move. Fast. Dodging fans, brushing past outstretched hands. A couple girls try to intercept—one even reaches for his arm—but he's locked in on me. Complete and utter tunnel vision.
"Ah shit." I hear Rome chuckle, "Go get your mans, Cammie."
I start forward, my steps moving quicker as my smile grows wider.
Wes is meeting me with in seconds, his helmet clattering to the ground, and he exhales heavily, "Baby."
His arms engulf me as he lifts me off my feet.
A laugh bursts from me as I'm throwing my arms around his shoulders. He tucks his head into my neck, inhaling me deeply as he spins us around and around.
"You did it!" I squeal as Wes gently places me down on the ground.
"Fuck yeah we did!" Wes exclaims as he pulls back slightly, his arms still around my waist, "I've only fucking dreamed off this moment."
I scoff, "You've been to the national champs before, Wes."
"I mean this, baby." He grins down at me, "Running to you on the final whistle. You in my jersey. It's fucking perfect."
"Well, since you walked into that one—You're perfect." I feed his cheesy line back to him and he chuckles softly.
He grabs my face between two gloved hands and smashes his lips on to mine. He kisses me deeply, claiming me in front of the cameras and fans and everyone in the world. His lips are warm, a little chapped, still tasting like Gatorade and adrenaline, and I melt into it like I always do.There's whistling, someone yells "Get a room!", and Rome's voice cuts through—
"Damn, let a girl breathe, QB!"
We break apart with flushed faces and zero shame.
"Where's my kiss, Cameron?" Rome calls.
I glance over my shoulder to shoot him a glare. "On the bottom of my boot, Booker."
His eyes narrow, "You just want to see me on my knees."
Both Wes and I laugh, shaking out heads at him before he's instantly distracted like a dog on crack and is instantly running off shouting someone's name.
"That fucking guy." Wes chuckles softly as his eyes trail after him.
It gives me the chance to look at Wes, really look at him. Before it felt weird that I was watching him from so far away—but this is great, him with his big gloved hands on my face, right in front of me, with me.
"I'm so so so proud, Wes." I tell him as his gaze flickers down at me, "So fucking proud. The way you played, commanded the field, every ball, it was all incredible. You deserve this win."
He grins, "You think so?"
"I know so, baby." I mumble, reaching up to brush back the damp blonde strands from his eyes, "And you deserve to go celebrate with your boys. Don't worry about me."
"I ain't going nowhere." Wes grins at me, "As far as I know, I've already got my trophy right here."
"Wes," I smooth my hands over his pads. "That's sweet, but seriously, go. This is your moment and you—"
"Reed!" We both look through the crowd to see a man in a blue Colts polo waving and arm, "Media's waiting. Let's go!"
Wes glanced back at me, his hand squeezing my waist.
"My words exactly." I urged, smiling. "Come find me later. But for now, go steal those hearts, quaterback."
His lips quirked up in a crooked smile, and he holds my face steady to kiss my lips multiple times like a damn woodpecker.
"Don't stray too far, baby." He's smiling as he hovers above my face.
"Promise." I grin, picking up my pinky promise in that stupid gimmicky way he does.
The grin that stretches across his face his blinding as he glances at my finger.
He hooks my pinky with his, brings it up to his mouth and stamps the promise with a kiss to the back of my hand. He steps away, letting go of my hand at the last moment and I giggle as I watch him contort himself to get through the throngs of people.
I took a deep breath, looking around the field. The chaos was still going strong, with fans shouting, and the team celebrating all their damn hard work. Of course, it's not over yet.
But the relief of getting this far is clear in everyone's smiling faces.
I fold my arms around myself, the jersey not doing much to keep the chilly crisp air away, and I'm quickly on the hunt for my friends.
The field was a swirling mess of noise and movement—players shouting, families crying tears of joy, and staff scrambling to capture every moment.
The marching band performs Kanye's Flashing Light's in the background, blending with the buzz of excited conversations and the occasional whoop of celebration.
I turned in a slow circle, trying to spot Scarlett or Jude in the crowd. Kiki and Yasmine were probably glued to each other somewhere, and knowing Liam, he was still gushing over every play to Tasha.
But for now, all I had was a sea of faces I didn't recognize.
The energy was infectious, but it didn't make navigating any easier. I ducked around a camera crew, dodged a couple of overly enthusiastic fans, and nearly tripped over a discarded water bottle before straightening myself out.
I pressed forward, squeezing between two players who were taking a selfie. My foot catches on the grass, and I stumbled, bumping into someone as I tried to regain my balance.
"Whoa—!"
"Oh my God, I'm so sorry—!"
We ricochet off each other and I quickly turn back to him to apologise.
Crisp navy sport coat, white dress shirt open at the collar, Colts pin on the lapel. He looked less like he belonged on a football field and more like he'd walked out of a magazine ad for old-money bourbon. He smiled when he saw me, teeth white, eyes sharp.
Calvin Reed. Wes' father.
The last time I saw him, Wes practically dragged me away before we could exchange more than ten words, introduced me like I was just another name on a class roster—his tutor, nothing more. But now, Calvin's eyes flickered with recognition, and this time, he didn't look through me.
"Well howdy there," he said, clearly amused, "Cameron, right?"
My stomach dropped.
He remembered me.
And not just remembered—recognized me immediately.
"Oh—hi," I said, trying to find my footing, both literal and emotional. "Good to see you again, Mr Reed."
He extended a hand like we were old colleagues at a conference. "Hell of a game, huh?"
"Yeah," I nodded quickly, trying to match his energy. "It was... incredible. They played their hearts out."
He smiled again, this time with just a hint too much calculation behind it. ""It's been a while since I've made it out to see him play in a while. I invited Delilah along—she was bouncing off the walls to be here. Not hard to guess who she was rooting for."
The name hit me like a flicked rubber band to the ribs.
Delilah.
He said it like I was supposed to know her. Like it was obvious. Like Wes hadn't spent the last three months dodging the question every time I asked.
"She rushed the field as soon as the whistle blew," Calvin continued. "She's out there somewhere. Probably getting trampled. I figured Wes would've already grabbed her."
I just nodded again, mouth dry.
And then—like it was nothing, like it was just some idle clarification—he added, "Anyway, it's good to run into you again. I know you've been working with him for a while now—tutoring, right?"
The word hung in the air.
Tutor. Has...has Wes not told him? I mean both my parents know by now.
Hell—literally my entire town are aware of my relationship status thanks to my mother and her generous sharing of my personal life.
But maybe Wes just doesn't have that kind of relationship with his father,
I smile softly, "Actually, Mr Reed, I'm not just his—"
"He's always been stubborn,"
He talks right over me. Smooth. Effortless. Deliberate.
Calvin continues, "Wouldn't let anyone help him with a damn thing growing up. Even when he needed it. So it's nice to see him finally letting someone in. At least academically."
My mouth snapped shut.
There it was.
He'd heard me. Knew what I was going to say. And shut it down without flinching.
He smiled again, checked his watch, and gave a brisk nod toward the crowd. "And you must be helping—his focus on football seems a lot less distracted so I'm sure we can all thank you for his performance out there."
I didn't know how to respond to that, so I didn't. I just smiled, tight and polite, the kind of smile you give when someone's trying to be nice but it still manages to come out... sideways.
"Well—I should probably go. I've gotta talk to Wes' coach and find Delilah—he's probably halfway into the media pit by now. Good seeing you."
"Ah—yeah—you too," I said, friendly. Automatic.
He was already gone.
And just like that, I was alone again, standing in the middle of a stadium that still smelled like victory—but suddenly didn't feel like one.
End of The Games We Play Chapter 39. Continue reading Chapter 40 or return to The Games We Play book page.