The Games We Play - Chapter 40: Chapter 40

The music inside The Stables is damn loud.
Not in a party way—more in a my head already hurts and these speakers are pushing me toward a murder kind of way. The place is packed, air thick with sweat and leftover adrenaline, everyone buzzed on cheap drinks and post-game euphoria. Banners hung crooked along the beams, and the bartenders looked like they regretted ever getting out of bed.
I was posted up against one of the support beams near the back, nursing my second drink and faking a smile every time someone passed and screamed, "What a game!" like I wasn't already twenty minutes past done.
All I wanted was to go home with Wes. Shower with Wes. And curl up in bed with Wes.
But it seemed like getting any form of communication from him right now was like getting water from a stone.
Scar was somewhere near the bar, arguing with the bartender about whether the team should be getting a tab tonight, while Clay leaned against the beam beside me, flipping his empty cup in one hand.
"No word yet?" he asked, not looking at me.
I shook my head and sighed out, bending at one side and resting my head against Clay's arm. Comfy bicep pillows.
I didn't even try to hide how many times I'd checked my phone. I'd lost count anyway. Every buzz that turned out to be someone else's text made my stomach twist just a little tighter.
"He's probably still stuck in post-game interviews," Clay said casually, but I could hear the slight edge in it—the part of him that didn't love how this looked, "The cameras sure do love him."
"But I love him more." I grumble against his arm.
I leaned into his side a little, and he shifted without hesitation, angling his arm so I could rest my head on it. It was like leaning against a wall that moved with you. Comfortable. Familiar. Safe.
"I ever tell you you've got a big ass head?" he said, smile in his voice.
"Only every time I do this."
"Well, it's still true."
I smiled, eyes falling shut for just a second. The music was quieter now, low and slow, like even the playlist was ready to call it a night.
Clay stayed still, solid beside me.
"You know he loves you," he said after a pause, "He's probably givin' one word answers to get back to you as quick as possible."
"I hope so." I said, even though the interviews had ended hours ago.
We stay like that for a little more, watching as body after body begins to slide out of the exit doors. The bartenders are beginning to bottle up bottles and other waiters are clearing empty tables. Someone's passed out near a plant and I think the playlist is looping.
And my phone remains silent. Wonderful.
Scar finally found her way back through the thinning crowd, looking windblown and done. I stand up a little straighter when she nears us and hold my arms out to her with a pout like a love-starved child.
"They're shutting it down." Scar tells Clay as she wraps me up in her arms and rests her chin on my shoulder. I tuck my face into her neck, inhaling dark roses.
"Let's take you home, Cam." Clay insists, "Or you can come to ours—wait for him there."
I inhale deeply, loosening my arms around Scar as I stand back from her.
"Ah—yeah. Yeah, let's do that." I nod sleepily, running a hand through my hair as I struggle to keep my eyes open.
"You good, darlin'?" Clay double checks Scarlett, grabbing her gently at the back of the neck and pressing his lips to her forehead.
She hums, "Yeah, baby. Just tired."
Cruel bastards.
Outside, the cold hit fast—sharp and honest.
The parking lot was mostly empty now, the field across the way lit up like a distant memory.
I wrap Scar's arm up a little tighter, holding it to my chest as we follow Clay across the parking lot. We're both so sleepy and literally leaning on each other for support. It's like the damn blind leading the blind.
We're both shivering too, me in Scarlett's bomber jacket and Scarlett in Clay's game-day hoodie. And big macho-manly captain cowboy is in a simple Colts long sleeve. Ugh.
"Baby—can we stop for food on the way home?" Scarlett's calling out to Clay who turns slightly to glance at us over his shoulder.
He nods, "Sure thing—what do you feel like?"
"Chicken nuggets!" I exclaim excitedly, suddenly rocked with energy, "And chocolate milkshakes."
"My best friend is so smart!" Scarlett beams as she leaning towards me and kissing me on the side of the head. Clay's just smiling softly with a shake of his head as he's adjusting the bag on his shoulder and turns back to the front.
We're almost at his truck when footsteps slamming against tarmac sounds behind us.
"Cam!"
We all stumble to a stop and turn, watching Wes jog across the parking lot with damp hair, hoodie unzipped, and breath visible in the cold.
He didn't slow down. Just reached for me and pulls me out of Scarlett's grasp. his arms wrap around me and he pulls me tight into his chest like he needed to make sure I was still here.
"Fuck, baby, I'm so sorry." he murmured against my hair. "Everything ran long—media was a mess and I swear I tried to sneak out like five times—"
I didn't answer right away. I let myself melt into him first. He smells like clean soap and shampoo and I find myself inhale him as I reach up and grip onto the hoodie at his back.
Because even if I'd been pissed—quietly, stubbornly pissed—he was warm and real and right in front of me now.
"I kept checking my phone," I said quietly, the words muffled.
"Shit—I left my phone in the locker room" His hand slipped up into my hair, cradling the back of my head. "I should've texted. I didn't mean to disappear on you, I just—fuck, Cam, I was going crazy not seeing you."
I looked up at him.
"Really?" I asked, even though I didn't need to. Even though I could already feel the answer in the way he was touching me—like I was his center of gravity.
He smiled—slow and devastating. "You think I'd win a game like that and not come find my girl?"
I can't stop the grin that stretches across my face. I'm a fucking weak, weak woman.
"I should've grabbed you the second it ended," he whispered. "I hated not having you there."
"I waited," I whispered back.
"I know. Let me make it up to you."
I swallowed, the air between us gone all soft and heavy.
"Come back with me?" he asked, lifting my hand to his lips and kissing the backs of my fingers. "Let me take you home, baby."
That stupid flutter hit me again—low and warm and unstoppable.
"Yeah," I breathed. "Take me home, Golden Boy."
Clay's already got Scar wrapped up in his arms by the time we turn back to them to say our goodbyes. He gives me me a quiet look—no teasing, no judgment, just that soft, big-brother warmth that made my chest ache a little.
Then we're walking toward his car, hand-in-hand, fingers laced tight. Every step feels like it has heat under it, electricity humming between our palms.
Neither of us say a word on the ride to my place.
We didn't need to. His hand stay on my thigh the whole drive, fingers flexing every time we hit a red light. My skin is already buzzing.
By the time we pull into the parking lot of my building, my pulse is high and my breath is shallow.
Wes killed the engine, turned to me, and grinned.
"You've got about five seconds to get upstairs, baby, or I'm bending you over the hood."
I practically sprint.
We barely make it inside.
His hands and mouth were on me in seconds and I barely had the time to breathe.
And then he fucks me in the jersey. So damn hard I swear I see stars.
He didn't start slow. He didn't tease. He gave it to me exactly the way I needed it—deep, fast, filthy. One hand cupped the back of my neck while the other held my hip still, anchoring me as he thrust into me over and over, every move harder than the last.
Holding my gaze the entire time. Sucking my nipples through the material of his jersey.
He takes me on the wall. On the bed. On my knees. On my back.
We lay in silence after that, wrapped up in each other. His jersey was somewhere on the floor, forgotten, and our bodies were tangled up under the sheets—bare skin on bare skin, legs crossed, chests rising and falling in sync.
My cheek rested against his collarbone. His hand moved slowly over my back, dragging lazy circles along my spine, like he wasn't ready to let the moment end. Like he needed to feel every inch of me still here.
The room was quiet, the only sound the hum of the streetlamp outside and our breathing. My hair was damp. My thighs were still trembling.
Wes shifted just slightly, just enough to press a kiss to the top of my head.
"I ain't leavin' you alone like that again," he whispered.
I didn't say anything right away. I just held on tighter, my hand splayed across his chest, feeling his heartbeat beneath my palm.
He tucked my leg around his hip, pulling me even closer, wrapping himself around me like we were one thing instead of two.
"I mean it," he murmured, softer now. "I don't give a shit if they fine me, or bench me, or drag me to every press table in the damn state—I'm ain't leavin' you again."
I giggle gently, lifting my head up to press a kiss to his collarbone, "Okay."
His fingers found mine under the blanket, laced them together.
"You tired?" he asked.
I yawn, "Yeah."
"You want me to shut up?"
"No."
"Good," He said and presses a kiss to my head. "Because I just wanna stay here like this for a while. Just you and me."
I breathed him in—warm skin, sweat, the faint scent of his cologne still clinging to his neck—and I let it settle in my chest.
Safe. Loved. His.
"Yeah," I whispered, letting my eyes fall closed, "Me too."
☆☆☆☆
We barely left each other all weekend.
It wasn't planned. We didn't talk about it. No one said let's stay in bed for two straight days or I don't want to be anywhere else but here. It just... happened. Naturally. Effortlessly. Like our bodies knew before we did that the only place that made sense was next to each other.
After the play-off game—after he kissed every inch of me and whispered things I wasn't ready to admit I needed to hear—we stayed wrapped up in sheets and skin and silence. The kind that felt full, not empty.
He made me coffee in the morning and kissed me slow before it even cooled. I wrapped myself up in his hoodie and we took over the sofa in the living room with blankets piled up high and rain pelting the window from a Carolina thunderstorm.
We ordered food we barely ate. Watched a movie neither of us finished. I fell asleep on his chest at least twice. He kissed me awake both times.
The Colts group chat was going insane. His phone buzzed nonstop. I'm pretty sure Scar tried calling me three times. Neither of us checked. Not really. Not when his hand was on my thigh or his lips were at my neck or we were laughing about nothing and everything in between.
It felt easy. It felt like ours.
And maybe that's why I didn't ask him.
Not about his dad.
Not about Delilah.
Because for those two days, I was exactly where I wanted to be.
Even if part of me knew it wouldn't last like that forever.
Now, on a late Monday afternoon, the public study area of Drayton Commons was warm and bustling, a stark contrast to the chilly December air outside.
Garlands hung from the edges of bookshelves, fairy lights twinkled along the tall windows, and a small Christmas tree sat near the librarian's desk, its branches decorated with miniature Colts ornaments.
And now we have officially become some of the worst people on the planet—a couple committing full on PDA.
Ugh. I hate us. I love us.
I'm perched on Wes's lap at the end of one of the long communal tables, and though I should been focused on my notes, I'm mostly focused on not giggling every time he whispered something ridiculous in my ear.
His arms were around my waist, and he rested his chin on my shoulder as he grinned like he had no finals to worry about.
"This is not what I meant when I said we should come here." I grumble as I turn my head slightly to face him, "We should be studying Wes."
"I am studying." He insists as he reaches onto the table and flips the page, "This some compelling shit."
I tilt my head back and my laugh carries across the library louder than I anticipated.
"You're so full of shit, my love." I chuckle as I grab his chin between my thumb and finger and press a kiss to his cheek.
"Mmm, I like that." Wes mumbles as he leans back in his chair and brings his arm up to rest along the back of the one beside us.
"What?"
"You callin' me 'my love'. I love that shit." Wes smiles softly up at me as his other hand slips from my waist and slides down over the curve of my ass, giving it a tight squeeze.
An older librarian gave us a pointed glare from across the room. A couple of students nearby exchanged annoyed glances, their heads shaking as they went back to typing furiously on their laptops.
Drayton Common's wasn't busy in the slightest and yet we still managed to piss off everyone here. And honestly—fair.
I slide my hand up his chest and around to cup his neck, gently laying the side of my body against his front as I bring my lips to hover near his ear.
"Well then, I suggest you start focusing before I shove my foot in your ass." I whisper softly into his air, "My love."
Wes's eyes flicker up mine, "God you make me fucking horny."
"You have weird kinks." I tap his nose before pushing on his shoulders and pull myself from his lap, "But fun's over. Let's actually study before we get kicked out of here."
Wes pouts as I point a stern finger at him while rounding the table to the other side.
"Too far."
"This distance is for both of us." I tell him as I sit down in the chair and open up my laptop sitting there, "Now focus."
Wes sighed heavily and leaned forward onto his forearms either side of his textbook. His hair hangs down in front of his eyes, still slightly damp from our earlier shower where he'd spent more time washing me than himself.
I crossed my legs under the table, adjusting the hem of my gray Skims long-sleeve as I settled into my seat. The sleeves were snug, perfectly fitted, and I tugged on one absentmindedly while glancing down at my laptop screen. My black jeans were soft and slightly loose at the ankles, brushing against the tops of my chestnut Uggs.
They were perfect for the December chill outside—practical and cozy—and also an excellent choice for kicking Wes under the table when he started slacking. Which, knowing him, is inevitable.
He let out another long sigh, glancing at me across the table like a bored kid who'd been told to eat his vegetables.
"Don't even think about it," I said, not bothering to look up from my screen.
"Think about what?" Wes asked, his grin obvious in his tone.
"Whatever bullshit excuse you're trying to come up with to stop studying," I said, leaning back in my chair. "Your art history final is literally this week, Wes. You cannot just coast on being charming."
"Got me this far." He shrugs casually, "Got you into my bed."
I finally glanced up from my laptop, raising an eyebrow at him. "Oh, that's how you did it huh?"
He shrugs, "Of course. I speak and the people are charmed. It's fucking uncanny really. Can't help it."
I rolled my eyes, tapping at the touchpad of my laptop. "This is why we need to study. Because the second you're done with football, charming your way through life isn't always going to cut it."
"Won't need to charm my way through anything once you've got my ring on your finger." Wes points to my hand, "I'll have achieved everything in my life already."
That made me want to cry.
And also throw a chair at his head.
I sigh out, running a hand through the soft waves of my brown hair, "How about we start with you achieving a finished reading—then we'll talk about rings."
"That's a deal, baby." Wes grins at me before looking down at his book and I'm instantly regretting what I had just said.
What the hell did I get myself into?
The library was quieter now, though the faint sound of someone typing furiously at a nearby table filled the gaps between our conversation.
The fairy lights along the windows twinkled against the early evening gloom outside, and the little Colts-decorated Christmas tree by the circulation desk gave off a subtle glow.
I adjusted in my chair, smoothing the material of my jeans against my thigh as I watched WesWes flipped through his notes, frowning slightly.
His looks up at me, "Okay, explain this to me one more time. What's the difference between tempera and oil paint? And why does it matter?"
I raised an eyebrow. "You seriously don't remember this?"
"Refresh my memory," he said, leaning back in his chair with a grin.
I sighed, folding my arms on the table. "Alright. Tempera paint dries quickly, which makes it harder to blend colors. It's why medieval art looks so flat. Oil paint, on the other hand, dries slower, which means artists can layer and blend to get those soft transitions and realistic textures."
His brows furrowed as he scribbled something down. "So, like... the difference between Da Vinci and some random monk?"
"Exactly," I said, laughing softly. "Naturalism, Wes. It's the whole reason Renaissance art looks so different from medieval art."
He nodded slowly, his pen tapping against the page. "Naturalism. Got it. So, Da Vinci's blending for realism, and some monk's just... slapping colors on Jesus."
I snorted, covering my mouth to keep from laughing too loudly, "Exactly, my love."
He beams like a golden-retriever puppy, "That deserve a quick reward?"
"Nope." I inhale as Wes laughs at me, "You want a reward, you pass the exam."
"Damn—thought fucking the teacher would mean she goes easy on me." Wes mumbles under his breath and I pass him a pointed glare—or though it's undercut by the small, amused grin on my face.
Wes taps on his keyboard, as he jotted down another note on his iPad at the side, and for a moment, it felt like we might actually be productive.
Then his phone buzzed on the table between us.
The screen lit up and Wes quickly turns the phone over—but not before I caught a glimpse of the the word "Dad".
I bite on my lip as I watch Wes for a little, seeing how quickly he goes back to his laptop.
I smirk as my gaze flickers to his phone, "That was smooth."
Wes froze for half a second, his Apple pen stalling mid air. Slowly, he glanced up at me, his blue eyes guarded in a way I didn't see often.
"What?"
"Quickly turning your phone open like that." I point to his phone, "Everything good?"
"Huh—oh—yeah." Wes runs a hands through his blonde hair, "Don't worry 'bout it."
"Right," I said, leaning back in my chair and crossing my arms. "Because that doesn't make me suspicious at all."
He let's out a laugh, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Baby—it's just my dad."
"Okay..." I trail off, clicking my tongue and folding one leg over the other as I drop my attention to my laptop.
"Look," Wes breathes out, "You know what I've told you about my dad. Fuck—you met the guy. And I'm in a good mood—don't want him ruining it."
I frowned, my heart sinking a little at the way he brushed it off. "Do you want to talk about it?"
He hesitated, his eyes flickering toward the overturned phone on the table. Then he shook his head, his smile turning sharp and self-deprecating. "Nah. He ain't worth the trouble."
"Wes..."
He cut me off, his tone casual but clipped. "It's fine. Haven't heard from him in a few months and he shows up at the play-offs. The guy's the worst Christmas gift I never asked for.
"So, what were we saying about Da Vinci? Something about him being a blending genius?" Wes smiles softly as he quickly turns back to the study material.
The change in subject was so abrupt it gave me whiplash.
I opened my mouth to press him further but stopped myself, the words catching in my throat.
Wes was grinning at me, but there was a weight behind it—a wall I couldn't quite see over.
So I let it go. For now.
"Fine," I said, sighing as I flipped through my own notes. "But don't think I'm not filing this away for later. I'm going to bring it up again so be prepared to talk."
His grin softened, the tension in his shoulders easing ever so slightly. "I wouldn't expect anything less."
☆☆☆☆
The rain pattered softly against my window, a rhythmic backdrop to the glow of my laptop screen. I was buried under a mountain of furry blankets, my knees pulled to my chest as I clicked through endless articles.
It started innocently enough—just a little Googling out of curiosity. But curiosity had a way of snowballing, and now I was deep into Wes's family history.
Not much came up at first: a few local articles from his high school football days, a photo of him at a charity event with his mom. He was so fucking adorable!
Then I search up Calvin Reed.
And I was truly terrified for a second about how much you can really find out about a person on the internet. Article after article popped up.
The head of a massive international hotel and resort chain. A rumoured shady business man—a career plagued with lucrative deals and lawsuits that he always seems to win.
There's a picture of him with the goddamn President from fifteen years ago.
Goddamn.
"Cameron!"
"FUCK!" I shrieked, my phone flying out of my hands and landing somewhere near the foot of the bed.
This is damn deja vu, I swear it.
Still clutching my chest from the scare, I climbed out of my blanket cocoon and hesitantly crawl out to the living room.
My pitch is high and awkward, "Wassup girrrrrrl..."
"A problem." Scar says as she picks up a piece of paper away from its envelope between two fingers and lifts it to me, "A massive fucking problem with quite possibly the best timing in the world."
I take it from here and read over the letter.
Eviction Notice.
"The fuck?" I asked, my voice tight.
Scarlett paces in the kitchen like a caged tiger. "The owners are selling the building to some motherfucker corporation, and they're kicking everyone out by the end of the January."
"What?" I breathed, my chest tightening. "They can't do that."
"They can, and they are," she said, stopping to glare at the notice like it had personally wronged her.
I sank onto the sofa, staring at the paper in disbelief. "End of January?"
"Yeah," Scarlett said, her voice dripping with bitterness as she flopped down beside me. "Merry fucking Christmas and a Happy dam New Years, right?"
The room fell into a heavy silence, the sound of rain tapping against the windows filling the void.
"Oh my god." I gasp, falling between my knees as I physically feel ill.
Scarlett groans, "I have no fucking clue what we're going to do."
"Drop out of school and focus on Sims."
"Cam."
I lift my head, "Shit—sorry—I'm nervous!"
"I know, I know." Scar runs a hand through her golden hair, "I'm nervous too."
"Don't say that, Scar! You're not supposed to be nervous. If you're nervous—that makes me even more nervous." I cry out as I run my hands down face, "Damn. We should've planned for this—seen this coming."
She folds her arms, "No one could've, Cam."
"Maybe." I shrug, "Or maybe I should've been saving money from the start. What the hell was I doing five years ago—fifteen years ago!"
"You were six."
"Playing with barbies instead of locking in. Pathetic." I shake my head as Scarlett laughs despite herself, "Well, guess I better get out my sketch book and start designing us a cardboard box to live in. Like hell I'm gonna live in the ugliest one under the overpass."
"Hey," Scarlett chuckles as she appears at my side, putting her hand on my shoulder as she lowers herself onto the sofa at my side, "It's not going to get that far."
"How do you know?"
"Well, first I'm going to track down our landlords and give them a piece of my damn mind." Scarlett explains seriously, "And then I'm going to find us a new place to live. One way fucking better than this. Because you deserve better than a cardboard box."
"I would've made it really cute."
"I know you would've." She smiles, bringing me in and kissing the side of my head, "We've got this Cam because we've got each other, yeah?"
I muster a smile, "Yeah."
"Now," Scarlett nods with a small smile, "I may need an alibi for this afternoon. Think you can do that for me?"
"What alibi? You were with me all afternoon?" I ask as a devious smile stretches across her lips.
Yeah. We'll be just fine.