The Games We Play - Chapter 41: Chapter 41

For eleven of the twelve months, Wes's house looks like a glorified locker room sponsored by the NFL.
The walls are like a shrine to the Charlotte Colts, with the odd vintage NFL collector's piece mixed in—jerseys, posters, a terrifying white silicone horse mask that gives me a damn fright every time I enter. I hate those things so fucking much.
In the middle of the living room is a large industrial wood coffee table that has clearly seen better days. One corner is duct-taped, like it got damaged during a party and they're planning on getting to it at some point. There's an array of single cleats lying around missing their pair, stray socks in corners and under furniture, empty Colts water bottles, and random hoodies and shirts everywhere.
And yet, it's comfy. Cozy. Lived-in. So wholesomely them.
But then it seems that as soon as December hits—Santa comes to motherfucking town.
Apparently, the guys go hard at Christmas.
There's a fake plastic tree near the front-facing windows in the living room—leaning to the side a little from age. Branches sag under the weight of mismatched ornaments that look like they're found at the bottom of a bargain bin. And at the top, some gimmicky sparkly football instead of the usual star or angel. There are too many string lights wrapped around so tightly the tree is no doubt suffocating—warm hue, cold hue, the multi-colored ones.
And there's some trap version of a classic Christmas song playing through Rome's portable speaker—and he refuses to let anyone touch the playlist.
The whole house is one visual nightmare that makes every interior-design, spatial harmony, color coordinating fibre of my being crash out.
But it's alive and warm and so much fucking better than our place.
Ugh, it literally makes me so depressed every time I go back home and see the cardboard boxes beginning to pile up in different rooms.
And it's not just us being evicted—the whole building is. It's been bought by developers who are just gonna tear the whole thing down and start over—with new luxury condos or whatever the fuck.
Scarlett, being the absolute mother queen she is, has already started looking for alternate places to live that aren't my proposed cardboard box under a highway.
The guys offered to let us live with them—actually, both Clay and Wes were practically on their knees begging to have us in their beds every night. And while it was super adorable and kind of them—and we got off on watching them plead like that—Scarlett and I are way too damn proud to ever rely on men.
But coming here today is certainly a welcome distraction. Surrounded by all these dumb decorations and terrible jokes actually makes it a little easier to breathe.
"So, what do you think?" Wes asks, standing beside me with his trademark cocky grin.
"Honestly—it's like a frat house had sex with a Hallmark movie." I scoff, sliding my gaze from the house to Wes, whose cocky grin blooms into a full-on grin. I scoff again, "Yeah, no—it's great."
"Damn right it is," Rome calls out, just lounging about while we all do the work. "You're welcome."
Wes chuckles beside me, then slips his arm around my waist like it's second nature—like he can't not touch me. His fingers slide up under my sweater, splaying his big fingers across the lower plane of my stomach. It sends a ripple of calm through my chest I don't know I need until it's there, and I lean into him a little.
"Please," Scarlett shoots back from the kitchen where she's pulling out even more tangled string lights from a box, "This place looks half-decent in spite of you."
"Half-decent?" Rome puts a hand to his chest. "Scar, baby, you wound me."
"I'll do more than wound you if you don't get off your fat ass and help me hang these," she grumbles, holding the lights in her hand, and I can just tell her Type-A brain is screaming.
Rome peels himself from the sofa with a grin. "I knew you had a thing for my ass."
Scarlett's answering glare could burn a hole through titanium.
I giggle quietly, feeling Wes's breathy laugh at my temple before he presses a kiss there—soft, absentminded, like muscle memory. I lean into him more, his solid body against mine, anchoring me in the loud, glittery mess of this ridiculous living room.
I sigh with purpose. "Alrighty, put me to work, coach."
Wes's hand slides from the flesh of my stomach, around my hip, and down over the soft gray material of my fold-over lounge pants, right over the curve of my ass. He squeezes it in his big palm as he exhales heavily.
He dips closer, his lips brushing the shell of my ear. "Cam—with all of them in the room?"
I look up just in time to see the biggest shit-eating smirk stretching across his face. His fingers have migrated now, just beginning to slip under my pants, under the seamless strap of my underwear.
"Damn, say less—"
"Oh, fuck off," I laugh, planting a hand on his chest and using it as leverage to push off him.
I move across the living room, and behind me, I can practically feel his eyes on me. Wes has this way of watching me like I'm the only thing in the room worth looking at. It used to make me self-conscious. Now it just makes me feel safe and loved.
Clay is kneeling by the fireplace, a piece of tape stuck to his mouth and the most concentrated frown on his face. He's fiddling with a garland that keeps slipping from the mantle, and on his head sits a Santa hat that has definitely seen better years.
"Wow. Santa, you're early," I say, stopping behind him.
He glances over his shoulder and grins around the tape, a little crooked. "You gonna poke fun or help?"
"But I'm so good at it," I pout as I drop to my knees beside him.
His eyes crinkle as he chuckles, and I hold up the garland while he sticks the tape in place. Clay and I work our way along the mantle in a rhythm that feels practiced, even though this is the first time we've done it.
He pauses every so often to rip off more tape, his fingers careful, precise.
"You like all this?" I ask, glancing at him as I hold the next stretch of garland. "Christmas and decorations and all that sparkly shit?"
He huffs a quiet laugh. "All that sparkly shit? Sure, Cam."
Clay's accent gets thicker when he's relaxed. Or when he's thinking about home, which I can tell he is by the way his gaze flicks toward the lights.
"This was mostly Rome and Wes's idea—but I grew up in a house that went all out for every damn holiday."
"No way," I say, genuinely surprised.
"It's my mama," he says, smiling down at the garland like it's something fond instead of fraying polyester. "She loves decorating. Drives Dad fuckin' insane, but he lets her do whatever she wants."
I bump my shoulder into him. "So you're telling me the big, bad linebacker was raised in a house full of twinkle lights and snowflake wreaths?"
"Hell yeah," he says with a proud little shrug. "We had those Christmas villages with the fake snow and light-up houses. I was dressed in every damn reindeer, elf, and Santa costume on the planet. I was baby Jesus a few times too."
"Okay, I need to see the pictures."
"Ain't no way anyone's seeing that shit. Tell anyone and I'll deny it."
"Please, I'm adding it to your Wikipedia page."
He lets out a low chuckle, but his eyes wander past me—and I follow his line of sight just in time to catch Scarlett balancing on a kitchen chair, trying to hang the lights over the curtain rod while Rome shouts unhelpful instructions from below.
She looks effortlessly annoyed. Hair back in a loose golden plait. Hands steady. Dressed in flare leggings and one of Clay's sweatshirts hanging off one shoulder. And Clay? He's gone. He watches her like she's made of starlight. Like she built the whole damn galaxy and just happened to land in his orbit.
"You're staring," I mutter, nudging his side again.
Clay blinks and glances at me, a little too slow to play it cool. "What can I say? She's worth staring at."
I roll my eyes, standing and brushing glitter off my jeans. "Then maybe go distract her before she murders Rome with a string of LED lights."
Rome has somehow gotten up on the kitchen island and is trying to wrap tinsel around the hanging pendant lights. Scarlett is massaging her temples like she's trying to summon patience from the afterlife.
"Rome!" she shouts. "If you shock yourself, I am not driving you to the hospital."
"Oh—so you do care, Raleigh?" he calls down, smirking like a goblin.
"You cheeky shit," she mutters, folding her arms. "Just be careful, yeah?"
We all laugh fondly at the pair—but there's one laugh that hits me right in the chest. I turn and glance over my shoulder toward the tree. And he's already staring at me.
Wes has his arms crossed over his navy Henley pulled tighter across his chest—grin soft and crooked like he's been smiling for a while. He looks at me like I'm the best part of the room. Like all this chaos—tinsel rats and blinking lights and Clay's secret Christmas poster-child past—is background noise.
I don't mean to blush, but Wes has that look on his face again—the one that makes my heart skip and stumble like it forgot how to beat properly.
And I know if I look at him any longer it will send me into cardiac arrest with a certainty of death.
So I turn back to the task at hand—helping Clay with the fucking stupid but adorable garlands, desperately ignoring Wes's burning gaze lighting me up from the inside out.
The last piece of garland finally sticks after Clay applies a frankly heroic amount of tape. We both sit back on our heels, surveying the mantle like it's a finished art piece instead of a glittery, off-center mess.
"Not bad teamwork, Cole," Clay says, wiping his hands on his jeans as he stands. I literally have to tilt my head all the way back to see him—he's too damn tall.
He reaches down with a hand, and I grab onto it to let him haul me to my feet.
"High praise coming from Santa," I reply, brushing sparkles off my palms.
He adjusts the crooked hat on his head, smirking. "Don't go tellin' the other elves, but I might have to promote you."
I laugh as I turn back to the room. Rome is now fully dancing on the kitchen island, waving a string of lights like he's signaling ships at sea. Scarlett looks like she's weighing the pros and cons of murder.
Clay glances toward her, soft and starry-eyed in that Clay Jackson way, like she's the only thing worth seeing in a room full of blinking lights and foam footballs.
And me? My gaze is on Wes, as usual.
He stands with his back to the room, broad shoulders stretching under that Henley that should honestly be illegal. And—god. That slutty little waist leading down to his loose jeans hanging low on his hips.
I hate how much I love it.
It's only accented by his stance, hands planted on his hips, his head tilted in deep concentration as he evaluates the branches like they're players on the field and he's calling the final play of the game.
One ornament dangles awkwardly from a limb near the bottom, and he reaches out to adjust it with such careful precision you'd think it's glass and not cheap plastic.
I don't even realize I'm smiling until Clay bumps my elbow.
"Go on," he says under his breath, voice low and knowing. "He's waitin' on you to tell him he did a good job."
I brush the back of my pants. "Like he needs my approval."
"Cam—whether you want to admit it or not, that boy lives on your validation and yours only." Clay shakes his head with a small scoff before heading toward the kitchen. "Now, I gotta go stop a murder."
I stand, brushing off my jeans and the thin layer of glitter that now permanently lives on me, and cross the room.
The closer I get, the more obvious it becomes that Wes is really trying with this tree. The lights are still blinking unevenly, and the tinsel looks like it was thrown on during an earthquake, but the effort? Unmatched.
I slowly walk up to him and wrap my arms around him from behind, sliding my hands under his top to the warm skin at his stomach—because I can. Because I need to. His muscles jump under my palms like he hadn't been expecting it, but he doesn't flinch—he just lets out a low, pleased hum.
I peek out from behind him, pressing my chin to the curve of his bicep, too short to reach his shoulder without climbing him like a tree. "Looking good."
Wes glances down, grinning as he lifts one arm and turns slightly—just enough for me to slot perfectly into his side. I follow the invitation without hesitation, pressing myself flush against him. His hand slips around to cradle my lower back, fingers dipping just under the hem of my sweater, finding bare skin like it's instinct.
"You talkin' to me or the tree?" he asks without missing a beat, shooting me a grin as he wraps an arm over the back of me.
"Definitely the tree," I tease with a hum. "Though calling it 'good' might be a stretch."
Wes shoots me a look, clearly trying not to laugh. "Alright, what's wrong with it now?"
I gesture toward a clump of ornaments hanging too close together. "This branch looks like it's carrying the whole team. Ever heard of spacing?"
"That's intentional," he says, feigning seriousness as he tightens his hold on me. "It's called focal design. You wouldn't understand—only Grady's favorite students would get it."
"Oh, okay." I scoff and roll my eyes. I can't even call him a liar because it seems that Wes has actually managed to melt Grady's ice-cold, tiny heart.
Apparently, Wes went to give him a small Christmas gift—just a bottle of whiskey like he does for all his professors—and Grady had one for him too. It's a smooth leather journal—real leather and gorgeous and expensive.
All I ever got was a "well done, Cameron" and a slight nod—and that was everything to me.
He turns to look down at me, "You know I couldn't have done it without you though, right?"
I tilt my head, looking up at him through narrowed eyes, even though my chest has already gone soft and melty like a microwaved marshmallow.
"So you're saying I deserve that journal?"
"Beat me in a one-on-one and we'll see." He leans down, close enough that his breath warms my lips, "Football or sex—your pick."
It's disgusting how cute he is. Tall and cocky and annoyingly soft with me in private. I mean, what kind of cruel joke is it that I ended up falling in love with a man who looks like he belongs in a GQ holiday spread but flirts like a teenage boy with a crush?
"Oh my god," I groan, laughing as I tilt my head back. "You are something else, Reed."
"Hey—that's my line."
And then he kisses me. Just like that.
One second I'm teasing him, and the next his mouth is on mine—soft and deep, like a slow-burn fire I don't want to put out. His other hand finds the side of my neck, thumb stroking just under my jaw in that way that instantly makes me wet.
I giggle into the kiss because of course I do. Because I can't believe I'm in love with Wesley Reed and he's in love with me. His hand skims under my sweater again, full palm pressed to the bare skin of my back, and I feel a little shiver climb my spine. Not from the cold. From him.
We break apart, but not by much.
My smile presses against his. "I swear, your hands are always under my clothes."
"Yeah, and?" he murmurs, kissing me again, feather-light. "You complainin'?"
"Not at all, my love."
He hums gently again, pleased with my answer, and kisses me gently once more.
"Got your dress all ready for tomorrow night?" he asks, his voice low and sweet, like we're not standing next to the world's ugliest Christmas tree in a room full of yelling people.
"Yep," I nod, grinning. "Paid for express shipping because of course I left it to the last minute. But you're gonna love it."
The dress is for Christmas with the Colts—the team's annual holiday blowout. And when I say blowout, I mean capital-B, black-tie, caterers-in-white-gloves, open-bar kind of blowout. Players, alumni, staff, partners—anyone even remotely connected to the organization gets an invite. There's food, drinks, dancing, live music, the whole glittery nine yards.
Some of the guys don't get to fly home for the holidays, so this becomes their version of Christmas—everyone dressed to the nines, pretending not to cry during surprise video messages from families or the occasional nostalgic slideshow from a past championship season.
Wes gave me the ticket last week—after bombarding me in the library drenched in sweat because he literally sprinted straight from practice after the boys were handed their envelopes. He wasn't wasting a damn second.
When I tried to get out of it, he called me his perpetual plus-one.
It was both very adorable and also shocked the fuck out of me that he even knew what that word meant.
He leans down and presses another kiss to my lips—short, and reverent. "Baby, you could wear a trash bag and I'd love it."
"Smooth," I say, trying to act unimpressed even though my heart is currently staging a Broadway tap number. "But there's no way I'm wearing a trash bag to Christmas With the Colts."
"Think I can get a sneak peek?"
"You, sir, can wait until tomorrow," I say, poking his chest, which is—unfortunately for me—solid as hell. "It's red. That's all you're getting."
He groans dramatically. "Damn. Maybe inviting you was a bad idea."
I raise a brow. "Oh?"
"You're gonna look better than everyone's dates, and I'm just gonna have to spend the whole night keeping people away from you."
I snort. "Well—for your sake, I hope you can dodge your own plays better than the Bulldogs' outside linebacker."
Wes blinks at me, visibly shocked. "Wow, you really gonna do me like that?"
"Gotta keep you humble." I perk up on my toes and peck his lips. "C'mon, little elf. There's more decorating to do."
☆☆☆☆
Clay's bedroom currently looks like a tornado ran through a Sephora and dumped everything in here.
Dresses are draped over his desk chair like fashion casualties. His wooden lowboy has transformed into a battlefield of makeup brushes, setting spray, and an alarming number of false eyelash containers. A curling wand teeters dangerously close to the edge, next to an open compact of highlighter that has already claimed a majority of the wood. Pairs of heels have been rudely divorced and lay separately on completely different sides of the room.
Safe to say we've completely taken over Clay's room—he's the sweetest dumb son of a bitch who offered it to us in the first place though.
Scar stands partially inside Clay's open wardrobe, using the mirror on the inside of the door to clip in her multiple gold earrings with surgeon-level focus.
Her black dress is a sleek, off-the-shoulder number that hugs her like a secret. One long sleeve covers her left arm, elegant and dramatic, while her right arm is bare, gold bracelets catching the light as she moves. Her blonde hair is parted dead-center and slicked into glossy perfection, straight and sharp and falling down her back like gold. She looks fucking hot.
"Y'all gonna finish in there before midnight?" Clay's voice comes from the other side of the door, followed by the world's most patient knock.
"Don't rush us, Captain America!" Scarlett calls back.
I snort, wobbling slightly as I try to breathe in this dress—my dress. It sat in my shopping basket for days because I was too nervous to go through with it. Partially because of my bank account, but also because it's a...choice.
Tasha and Liam had to physically hold me down while Scar and Jude bought it for me—of course with express shipping because I was being a pussy for too long.
The dress is some kind of holiday magic wet dream. It's a vivid red, with a ruched structured bodice that cinches my waist to the point that it requires its own amber alert. No straps either, just a very, very low neckline that pushes my tits sky-high. The hem kind of pools at the floor because of my height, and I have to be careful not to fall flat on my damn face at the moment.
The final touch? The matching thin scarf draped over my collarbone and trailing down my back. It makes me feel so fancy and feminine and I love it. My chocolate hair is in loose silky curls, soft, pushed behind one ear and cascading in waves over one shoulder. My lips match the dress—deep, glossy crimson that makes me look bold and unbothered, even though my stomach is flipping like a gymnast.
I fiddle with the scarf around my neck, nerves coiling tighter with every passing second. "He's going to cry when he sees the state of his room."
Scarlett is still adjusting her hoops in the wardrobe. "How I like my men," she deadpans.
I just snort, continuing to nervously fiddle with the scarf around my neck. Anything to calm my nerves.
I hear Scarlett's heels click the ground as she steps back from the mirror, giving herself one last look-over before she's closing the doors and turning around. She turns—and her face changes. Her eyes do a slow, deliberate scan down the length of me, and then back up again.
Her mouth opens a little like she's about to say something snarky, but nothing comes out.
I freeze. "What?"
"Cam—" she blinks, then stands up from the bed so fast she almost trips over a heel. "Holy fuck."
I blink back at her. "What? What! You're freaking me out, Scar!"
Scarlett ignores me completely, now circling around like she's studying fine art.
"You—oh my god, Cameron. You look fucking insane. And I'm starting to regret agreeing to just being friends freshman year."
I raise a brow. "Beginning to?"
"Fine," she scoffs, flicking her hair over her shoulder. "I regret it at least once a week. But this—you look beautiful, honey. Shit."
I can't help the way my lips curl, that quiet little rush of satisfaction blooming somewhere between my lungs and my ego. "You really think so?"
Scar gives me the most aggressive eye roll in human history. "Babe. Look at you. You are literally a holiday wet dream. The dress, the scarf, the hair—this is not fair. Stop second-guessing yourself and give me a goddamn twirl."
I grin, flicking my wrists like I'm a Disney princess with bills to pay, and spin slowly in place. The dress moves like smoke, catching the light in a way that feels unfair to the laws of physics. Scar groans, clutching her chest dramatically.
"Shit."
"Uber's coming in five, ladies!" Rome knocks on the door. "Y'all can fight it out for who gets to sit on my lap!"
Scarlett doesn't even blink. "That Uber better have an eject button."
I laugh as I bend slightly, lifting the skirt of my dress with one hand and holding out the other. "Gimme a hand?"
Scar walks over and slips her fingers around mine instantly, steadying me while I step into the heels she picked out for me. Just a casual pair of red-bottom Louboutins from her personal collection. No big deal. Just enough money on my feet to make my bank account whimper.
With them on, I gain a few inches—and just barely edge out Scarlett in height. I look down at her, grinning smugly.
"Damn," I say. "I can see everything up here."
"Try not to break an ankle on the way out, yeah?" she mutters, crouching to slip into her own stilettos—strappy black things that look like they were custom-made for sin.
"No promises," I chirp.
I drop my dress back down, smoothing the material tight over my hips one more time, and grab my clutch from the bed. Scar grabs hers too, and with one last check in the mirror, she reaches for my hand again.
Our heels click in sync against the hardwood as we step out into the hall.
And the moment she swings the door open, the world stops.
The guys are standing in the living room by the door, mid-conversation. All three of them, frozen like someone pressed pause on reality.
Clay stands closest, dressed in a navy suit that's tailored within an inch of its life, crisp white shirt open just enough at the collar to look like he's not trying too hard. His mouth parts slightly when he sees Scarlett—like she just stepped out of one of his dreams.
Rome, in head-to-toe black with some kind of obnoxiously cool pocket square, is the first to move. He clutches his chest dramatically and groans.
And then—Wes.
Completely frozen. Not even blinking. His jaw is tight, his eyes track every inch of me like he's trying to memorize it. His hands are in his pockets, but I can tell by the way his fingers twitch that he wants them on me.
Wes, in a classic black suit, tailored to his long frame with the kind of precision that makes my throat go dry. No tie—of course. His white dress shirt is unbuttoned just enough to be suggestive, the open collar framing the sharp line of his jaw and hinting at the tan skin beneath. Single-breasted, closed button. Pants cropped in proportion to his muscular legs, and sleek black dress shoes on his feet. Hair perfectly tousled. Jaw freshly shaved. Eyes dark and locked in on me.
"Sweet baby Jesus," Rome mutters, shaking his head. "Y'all are fine."
Scar and I exchange smug looks, our heads held high as we walk over to them like we own the place.
Clay is the first to move, stepping forward and offering Scarlett his arm.
"Darlin', you are... stunning," he says softly, his voice low and warm as he slips his hands onto her waist and pulls her flushed against his front. Scarlett gives him a small, satisfied smile as she slips her hand into his arm.
"You're not looking too bad yourself, cowboy."
Wes, meanwhile, closes the distance between us in two long strides and stops in front of me, close enough that I can smell his cologne—warm, woody, and devastatingly familiar.
"You're killing me here, baby," he murmurs, his hands sliding to my waist like they're made to live there. "How am I supposed to leave the house with you lookin' like that?"
I laugh, even though my throat feels tight. Even though my knees feel like they're thinking about giving out under me.
"Don't even think about it, Reed," I say, placing my hands against his chest—firm, warm, annoyingly perfect. "You got me all dressed up; now you're taking me out."
He doesn't let go. If anything, he pulls me closer, hands slipping down over my ass again and grabbing two whole handfuls despite us not being alone.
But that's never stopped him before.
He leans down, brushing his lips against mine in a teasing kiss. "I'm 'bout two seconds from lockin' you up in my room."
"Keep it in your pants, QB," I tease, patting his chest lightly as I step back, though the grin tugging at my lips betrays me. Rome lets out an exaggerated groan, throwing his hands in the air.
"Damn. I'm officially third-wheeling tonight. Hell, I'm like the sixth wheel."
"Aw, are we a little jealous, Booker?" I shoot back, sliding my arm through Wes's as we turn toward the door.
"Jealous of what?" Rome scoffs, straightening his blazer and smoothing a curl with way too much attitude. "The Colts Christmas Feast is the night for the King."
"He always shows up alone," Wes adds, his voice low and lazy as his hand settles possessively over mine, "and somehow ends up with the dates of at least two other guys."
"Better keep an eye on me then." I grin up at Wes, who can't help but chuckle darkly at me.
Clay chuckles as he pulls Scar tighter into his side. "Come on, y'all. Let's not leave the driver waiting. Time to show this city how the Colts do Christmas."
We move as a unit, the five of us stepping out into the December night like we're walking into a movie scene.
The cold air hits instantly, crisp and sharp, but softened by the warm glow of the porch lights and the wreath hanging on the front door. Holiday lights sparkle down the street, casting everything in soft color. Wes has to help me down the small porch steps.
He gives up after the first step and just grabs my waist to carry me down to the path while I giggle from nervous fright.
The Uber—a sleek black SUV, thank God—pulls up just as we reach the curb.
Wes opens the back door for me and helps me into the back row of the seven-seater with a careful hand on my ass, of course. Once inside, he climbs in after me and plops himself down on the leather seat at my side. He reaches for my hand and intertwines our fingers.
And when I glance over at him, heart still racing, he's already watching me—eyes soft, mouth tilted into that lazy, lovesick grin that makes it hard to think.
"I love you," he whispers, bringing our hands up to his mouth and kissing the back of mine. "Like fuckin' crazy."