The Games We Play - Chapter 42: Chapter 42

"There's no way that man still uses a flip phone," I say, wide-eyed, nearly sloshing champagne over the rim of my glass.
Coach Fletcher's mustache twitches. "Swear on the game. Straight-up Motorola. Has to tap it three times just to type a damn period."
I wheeze. "Please. Tell me he has to use the belt holster too."
Coach looks entirely unamused. "Wears it like it's tactical gear."
"Is he aware of what decade we're in?"
Coach shrugs, clearly unbothered. "Man can build a defense like a damn fortress. Doesn't mean he can work a group text."
I nearly drop my glass.
I'm not sure how we get onto the topic of Coach Dawkins, but we sure as hell are here.
He's the Colts defensive coordinator, former linebacker, old enough to have stories about the pre-NFL merger and mean enough to make them sound like bedtime tales. He growls more than he speaks, chews gum like it owes him money, and wears his whistle like it's blessed by a priest. But he's brilliant. The kind of terrifying genius you can only respect. And, apparently, still deep in the early 2000s.
We're tucked off to the side of the grand foyer, at one of the tall cocktail tables, both of us half-shielded by a ten-foot Christmas tree decked in silver and navy ribbon. It's the kind of tree that probably comes with its own insurance claim.
The foyer of the Stables has been transformed for the night—less state-of-the-art football fortress, more luxury winter gala.
Fairy lights drape from the mezzanine balconies like snow falling in slow motion. Every column is wrapped in garland thicker than my forearm. A six-piece jazz band plays smooth, vaguely sexy renditions of holiday classics in the corner, and the catering staff are walking around with trays full of bite-sized magic and glasses of sparkling gold.
I just ate something that I'm pretty sure was a truffle disguised as a snowflake.
It's decadent. Gorgeous. Obscenely expensive.
And I'm warm from the bubbles, maybe on my fourth glass of champagne, maybe my fifth, and I feel... really, really good. Floaty. Sparkly. Happy.
Coach Fletcher, somehow, hasn't changed at all even though he's currently nursing his umpteenth scotch of the evening.
He's wearing a clean black suit that's been ironed by someone who loves him and a face like he's already over this entire event. He's been parked at this same high table since I find him twenty minutes ago—clearly trying to avoid the eyesight of anyone currently on the dance floor.
It's kind of adorable.
"You doing alright, sweetheart?" he asks, cutting his eyes toward me like he already knows the answer.
"I'm about one flute away from cordoning off the champagne tower and claiming it as my personal property." I raise my glass in salute before taking a sip. "This just goes down so easily, don't it?"
He lifts his glass. "Wouldn't know."
"Ah—I get it. You go for the more quote-unquote manlier drinks, huh?" I scoff, bringing up my hands and creating air quotes with my fingers.
"Nah—I love a good glass of bubbles just as much as the next. Champagne just gets me real emotional." He inhales sharply, running a flat palm down the front of his tie as I eye him for a moment too long.
I nod. "Okay—now I have to get you a glass."
He gives a low huff of laughter, eyes crinkling under his brow.
We lapse into a moment of easy silence—comfortable, natural. I can feel the thrum of the party behind me: music, chatter, the occasional burst of laughter echoing off the sleek walls. I catch flashes of glittering gowns and velvet jackets and the scent of spiced cocktails drifting through the air.
I sip from my glass again, bubbles going straight to my cheeks. I can feel the champagne hitting now—soft, warm, a little floaty. Like my whole body is gently swaying in time with the jazz piano echoing off the vaulted ceiling.
We lapse into a stretch of silence, not awkward—just easy.
Coach's eyes flick across the crowd. "He sure is doin' alright, though."
I glance over at him. "Dawkins?"
"Reed."
Ah.
I lean back slightly, letting my fingers roll the stem of my glass. "Yeah. I think so too."
"Just in this past season I've watched him grow," Coach says, eyes scanning the room. "When I first met Wesley, I though he was the cockiest sonuvabitch I ever did meet."
I glance at him, my eyes clearly giving away more than I expect. They always do that—which makes people-watching a dangerous game because if I don't like someone's outfit, my whole damn face is broadcasting it to the world.
"Don't worry—he knows." Coach chuckles softly at my reaction. "But this year it was clear something rattled that confidence. Back in summer, before the semester started—he came into my office. No appointment. Just showed up."
A pause.
"Had that look on his face," he goes on. "You know the one—like his head's goin' a mile a minute but he can't string a sentence together to save his life."
I smile faintly. Yeah. I know the look.
"Took him a while to get to the damn point," Coach says. "Kept pacing. Ramblin'. I just sat there and waited for him to spit it out."
"And?" I ask, quietly.
Coach takes a long sip before answering. "Said he was in love, and that it was killin' him. Said every day he didn't have you felt like runnin' plays with a broken rib."
I laugh softly, the kind that sticks somewhere in my throat. "Oh my god—he's so dramatic."
"Don't I know it, Cameron," Coach says, finally turning to look at me. "But I'll tell you this—I've known that boy a long time. I've seen him shaken, pissed off, burned out, locked in. But I've never seen him like that."
Coach shakes his head a little, like the memory still hasn't left him.
"Whatever happened—back then, between y'all—rattled him. Shook him up real bad—but not in the way you'd think. He wasn't spiralin'. He was... waking up. Like something finally clicked."
He turns back to his glass, rolling it slow in his palm.
"Boy started thinking like a man. Started askin' questions about more than just his throwing mechanics and playbooks. Started wonderin' what kind of life he wanted. What kind of man he wanted to be. And what it'll take to deserve the things he wanted.
My chest pinches, hard and small.
Coach's voice goes soft—not gentle, but real.
"He's better now. More focused. Sharper. Heart's still loud, but he's learning how to lead with it instead of fight it. And that—that all started with you."
I open my mouth, then close it again. My throat is hot.
"I didn't do anything," I say after a second, the words falling out of my mouth. "I didn't even speak to him then. Matter of fact—I, like, actively avoided him. I did anything I could not to be in the same vicinity as him. I can't take credit for anything—that's all Wesley."
"Yeah, well, you should take some." Coach looks at me again. "It matters. You matter. To him. To all of us, really—mostly because he wouldn't stop yapping about you to the whole team—but my opinion still stands."
I don't know what to say to that. So I smile and blink a little faster.
A beat passes, thick with things I can't quite say without crying in the middle of a glittering football party.
Then Coach clears his throat and straightens his coat.
"Now," he says, voice lightening, "you gonna tell me if he's treatin' you right, or do I have to pull him for an extra practice tomorrow?"
I snort. "He's treating me right."
Coach raises a brow.
"The best," I add. "He's... the best."
Coach just hums, pleased but unshowy.
I squint at him. "You're real good at this. Being all wise and mysterious."
He chuckles deep in his chest. "I try."
"No wonder the team thinks you're a hundred years old and part wizard."
He arches a brow at me with a completely blank face. "They say that?"
"No they do not," I respond instantaneously, shaking my head and clearing my throat. "Sir."
The corner of his mustache picks up in a faint, teasing smirk—his attention is stolen by two little voices squealing, "Daddy!"
Coach turns just in time to catch his twin girls barreling toward him in matching burgundy velvet dresses and patent shoes, their hair tied in red ribbons. They grab his hands, tugging excitedly.
The older one, Kylie, beams up at him. "C'mon! It's your turn! Mama said!"
"She did, did she?"
"Yeah, you promised you'd dance with us!" the younger one, Sadie, insists, already tugging at Fletch's hand like Arthur trying to pull the sword from stone.
"Well," he says, looking back at me with a helpless grin, "can't break a promise to my girls."
I laugh, warm all over. "Get out there, Coach. Show 'em you still got it."
Just then, his wife, Diane, sweeps in behind the girls like a vision of grace and Southern command. She wears a gorgeous satin navy gown with caped shoulders and her graying blonde hair pulled back in a sleek updo to show off her killer cheekbones.
Coach Fletch is so totally punching—but like hell I'm ever saying that out loud. Maybe I'll whisper it to Diane if we meet in the ladies' room later tonight.
She places a kiss to her husband's cheek before turning her smile on me.
"Cameron, honey, you look absolutely beautiful tonight," she says, cupping my elbow in that gentle, motherly way.
"Diane, stop," I beam, leaning in to kiss her cheek. "You look like the rich wife in a Hallmark movie. You're stunning."
"Oh, I like her," she says to her husband as she steps past him and takes one of her daughters' hands. "Come on, darlin'. You promised."
"Yeah, Daddy! You promised!" the girls repeat in unison.
"Alright, alright," he sighs, but he's smiling like a man who wouldn't be anywhere else in the world.
I clap my hands as they walk off. "Go Coach!" I call after him, laughing as the girls begin dragging him toward the center of the dance floor.
Coach just shoots me a look as he finally gives in to his little girls and they begin to drag him to the dance floor as Brenda Lee's "Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree" starts playing across the foyer.
With them gone, I turn back to my high-top table and take another sip of champagne, the bubbles soft and sweet on my tongue. The string lights overhead twinkle like someone has punched holes in the sky, and the garlands wound around the railings glitter every time someone passes beneath them.
There are poinsettias the size of toddlers. A hot cocoa station that looks like it has been designed by elves with Michelin stars. Fake snow flurries from the ceiling every twenty minutes like clockwork. The whole thing is absurdly, overwhelmingly magical—like if a Hallmark movie comes to life and marries the NFL.
I exhale, smiling softly to myself, and let my eyes scan the crowd. Still no Golden Boy.
We came in together—he held my hand tight and introduced me to every coach, staff member, and alum like I was already part of the franchise.
Like I was someone he was proud to show off.
But then something shifted. One minute he's grinning and warm and his hand sliding a little too low on my dress, and the next... stiff shoulders. Flicking eyes. His voice clipped short. Like he was waiting for something. Watching for someone.
It didn't take long to figure it out.
Calvin Reed.
I caught sight of him in the crowd about two minutes before Wes did—he was hard to miss, tall and smug and dressed like he's come straight from auditioning to be the next Bond villain. Wes saws him, and it was like a switch flipped. He did his best to pretend he didn't notice him, but his whole body betrayed him.
We tried to ignore it.
Pretended Calvin wasn't hovering around the edge of the event like a storm cloud in Tom Ford. But the conversations started—boosters and board members and some greasy-looking guy from ESPN—and one by one they pulled Wes away. And eventually, he squeezed my hand, leaned in, and asked Scarlett to take me to the bar.
And that's it. I haven't seen him since.
But I don't mind. Not really.
I'm not the kind of girlfriend who needs to be glued to her boyfriend's hip. He has things to do. Hands to shake, faces to smile at—whatever the order is. He's handling it.
I'm proud of him. And I'll see him at the end of the night, probably sweaty from dancing and sleepy from all the talking, with his hands on my ass and whispering in my ear that he wants to take me home to unwrap his present early. And I'll say yes.
Still, I scan the room again.
Not a single Golden Boy in sight.
What I do find, however, is a table of freshmen players all very clearly hyping each other up to talk to me.
One is even elbowing the other in the ribs, nodding toward me like I'm a boss level in a video game and he just got a new sword.
I sip my champagne, cocking an eyebrow in silent warning.
They all look away instantly—one turning to the huge potted plant next to him like it's an actual person.
I just smile to myself, shifting my attention elsewhere—and it lands on Elroy Biggs, standing at a high table—not really high next to him—by himself with two full platters of finger food spread out in front of him like a buffet built for one.
I laugh under my breath and cross the floor, hooking my arm through his as I lean in.
"Come on, big guy," I say, pulling him back from the table with one big step. "You're dancing with me."
Elroy blinks, looks down at the food like he's about to apologize to it, then up at me.
"Can I bring a spring roll?"
"As long as you bring one for me too," I tell him with a big smile as he turns back to the table quickly, loading a few spring rolls onto a napkin in his hand.
☆☆☆☆
I have no idea how long we've been dancing, but my cheeks are flushed, my feet beginning to ache in these heels, and my voice is on its last legs from all the singing.
Elroy has been a delight—he can move surprisingly well for a six-foot-six, three-hundred-pound wall of man. The height difference is hilarious and I'm practically looking straight up, but I really enjoy dancing with him.
Scarlett and I are the real show, though. We've taken over the dance floor like two tipsy Christmas demons, high off sugar and bubbles. At one point, we all but bully the band into playing Santa Tell Me and A Nonsense Christmas, and somehow those get the loudest cheers of the night and the most bodies on the dance floor.
Honestly? The guys go feral for Ariana. Who fucking knew?
Now I'm swaying with Isaac Moreno, our sweet, baby-faced safety who looks like he'd rather be tackling a linebacker than trying to two-step to Mariah Carey.
He looks down at our feet, confused again. "Wait—so left foot, then... spin?"
"God, no. Do not spin me. I'm not ready to die yet," I warn, laughing as I guide his hand back where it belongs. "Just step to the left, honey. Like you're dodging a bad pass."
"That's every pass from Wes in practice," he mutters under his breath.
I snort, "Okay, now you're getting it."
He tries again, more confident this time, but still off-beat. Endearingly so. I don't have the heart to tell him he's dancing like a confused Roomba.
"You're really patient," he says between steps. "You must've had the patience of a saint tutoring Wes."
"Oh, absolutely," I say, deadpan. "Mother Teresa and I? Same WhatsApp group."
Isaac laughs, nearly tripping over my foot. "Seriously, though. He's a lot."
"He is a lot," I agree, smiling despite myself. "But he's my lot."
Isaac just gives a soft, knowing hum, nodding like someone who's seen the whole Wes Reed Saga from the sidelines. We move again, stiffly—he still has two left feet, but I have to give it to him: he's learning. The man is putting in the work.
"You done hogging her, Moreno?" comes a voice behind us.
I turn to see Clay standing there, a big teasing grin on his face and his hands in the pockets of his navy slacks.
Isaac holds up his hands in surrender. "She's all yours, big man."
"Don't say it like I'm a prize cow at the county fair," I say, laughing as Isaac slips away with a quick salute.
Clay extends his hand to me, grinning. "Ma'am."
"Oh, God," I mutter, placing my hand in his. "Don't ma'am me, cowboy."
He pulls me in gently, moving slow and steady like he's raised in a barn where every dance is sacred. "Well I was raised right," he says with a wink.
The tempo slows just enough to let me catch my breath, the twinkle lights above us glowing like lazy stars, and the floor spinning soft with couples and teammates and Colts alumni.
Clay looks down at me with a warm smile. "You doin' okay?"
His eyes are so damn blue. Not like Wes—like a clear summer's day—but like frozen ice in the Arctic. And yet warmer than any desert on the planet. His hair that has been styled earlier in the night is a little messy—no doubt the result of Scar running her hands through it too much.
And the big lights above us cast more shadow on his already chilled face, bringing out his cheek bones and Roman nose and full lips. I think there needs to be a full-on investigation into the scouting system of the Colts because there is no way a single college football team could look this fucking good.
Like every single player is equipped with a face-card that will never decline.
I nod, "Yeah, Clay, I am. Tonight's been real good."
Clay chuckles low in his chest, a kind, steady sound.
"You and Scar really tore it up that dance floor earlier," he says. "Think half the freshman line might be in love with y'all now."
I laugh, tilting my head back. "We were just trying to wake everyone up. DJ was playin' nothing but Christmas jazz and heartbreak ballads. We needed some fun."
"Think y'all pulled it off," he says, spinning us gently. "Even ol' Coach Fletch was tapping his foot. He likes a bit of Sabrina—don't tell him I told you that."
"Never," I grin. "I like living."
From the corner of my eye, I catch movement—Scarlett and Rome spinning dramatically in a cleared spot, Rome with one arm behind his back like some grand ballroom pirate. Scarlett is barely holding it together, her head tossed back in laughter, trying to keep up without stepping on him.
"Oh my god," I say, nudging Clay and tipping my chin in their direction. "Look at those two."
Clay follows my gaze and bursts out laughing. "Rome thinks he's on Dancing with the Stars. Swear, give that man a spotlight and he'll never leave it."
Scarlett spins under his arm, laughing, her curls bouncing, her smile wide and real. She looks beautiful—radiant, even. I glance up at Clay, and something in his expression shifts. Not jealousy, not even longing. Just... warmth. Like watching something you love be loved by the world, too.
"She looks happy," I say, quietly.
He doesn't look away. "Yeah," he murmurs. "She does."
Scar catches my eye and blows me a kiss. I catch it with a flourish, grinning, then press it to my heart.
Clay chuckles beside me as we continue to dance to the music.
The warmth in my chest fizzles gently until my eyes catch on something else—Calvin Reed, across the room, standing stiff beside his wife Alexis—fifth wife—who looks like she'd rather be anywhere else.
She is in this glittery gold dress. Skin-tight, halter-neck with a keyhole cutout and her plastic tits on full display. Her hand rests in the crook of his arm like it's contractually obligated. They are talking to two men in suits, the kind with Rolexes and folded napkins that haven't touched food.
I turn back to my dance partner, noticing his smile again, a little softer this time, and for a second we just sway, the music slow and swirly and just the right amount of tipsy.
"Clay?" I ask after a beat, voice a little quieter. "Does Wes... talk about his dad much?"
Clay's smile fades a little—not completely, just enough to let the truth sit. "Not really. Only when he has to—and even then it's not much."
I glance over Clay's shoulder, finding Calvin across the room once again—hands in his pockets, posture perfect, smile polished to hell.
Clay follows my line of sight and nods once, like he knows.
"He doesn't like talkin' about him," Clay says. "Doesn't really see him unless it's unavoidable. And even then, it's like he puts armor on."
My brows pinch slightly. "Is it bad?"
Clay shrugs with one shoulder. "From what I've heard? Yeah. Calvin's a snake. Knows how to make himself look real good, but behind closed doors..." He exhales through his nose. "Never really treats Wes like a person. Just a product. Somethin' to control. Mold. Show off."
I swallow, that heat of champagne softening into something sadder.
"He doesn't talk to you about him?" he asks, voice low. Not judgmental. Just surprised. Gentle.
I blink. "No," I say slowly. "Not really."
He doesn't push, but I can feel his eyes on me. That soft, quiet concern.
And something inside me twists—because now that I think about it, Wes has never really talked about his dad. Not directly. Just shadows around the edges. Mood swings. Quiet tension. A deep exhale every time he mentions an obligation he can't get out of.
I've filled in the blanks because it's easier. Because I'm too in love with the way he touches me and kisses me and makes me laugh. I don't ask.
I don't like Clay's gaze too much so I smile up at him, "I mean—he's told me little bits. I know that some bad shit went down between them but other than that, he hasn't told me much either."
Clay's hand is still warm at the small of my back. "That doesn't mean he doesn't want to," he says gently. "Just means it's heavy. And maybe he's still tryin' to figure out how to carry it."
I don't say anything. The music swells around us, something soft and romantic. I don't feel soft or romantic.
"He'll tell you," Clay says. "When he's ready."
I look up at him.
I bite down on the inside of my cheek and nod. "Yeah," I say, almost to myself. "Yeah. I know."
And I do. I do. I'm not someone who pushes—not with that. Not with him. Wes always feels things deeper than he lets on, like everything's running under the surface, fast and electric. So if he hasn't said it, it's not because I don't matter.
It's just because it's hard.
And I get that. I do. God, if anyone gets that—it's me.
I've kept enough of my own mess locked up tight. I know what it's like to hold something so close to your ribs you forget how to speak it out loud.
"You're good for him, Cam. Too good. And he knows it. He's just... workin' through his stuff. Doesn't mean you're not already part of the pieces."
"Calm down there, Shakespeare." I chuckle, always using my humor to deflect, and pat his shoulders, "You should be writing plays instead of running them."
Clay laughs gently, "Ah, that was good."
I grin cheekily up at him, "I'm smooth with words too, cowboy."
We dance in silence for a few more beats, the floor spinning slowly around us, twinkle lights turning everything soft and gold. I think we might leave it there—float gently into the next song, let the moment fade—but then Clay speaks again, quieter this time.
"Still," he says, "seein' his dad here? That's gotta be messin' with him."
That pierces right through me.
I look over toward the far side of the room, toward where Calvin stands surrounded by cold smiles and crisp suits.
"I didn't even think about that," I say quietly.
I feel the guilt settle fast—sharp and cold and immediate. I've been here, laughing, dancing, stealing gingerbread cookies, singing Mariah Carey off-key like my only real problem is whether my lip gloss will survive the night.
Meanwhile Wes... he's probably doing his best just to breathe around that man.
"I should go check on him," I murmur, the warmth in my chest starting to shift, uneasy now. "I just—I want to make sure he's okay. He doesn't have to talk about it or anything, I just..."
Clay gives my hand the gentlest squeeze.
"Go find your boy, Cam," he says, soft but sure. "He'll want to see you."
I give Clay one last smile before weaving through the crowd. I leave the dance floor with my pulse tapping just under my skin, a mix of champagne and something quieter, heavier, curling low in my stomach.