The Games We Play - Chapter 43: Chapter 43

The party is still in full swing—bright lights, music kicking up, laughter echoing like we're all invincible—but Wes is nowhere in sight.
He hasn't been for a while.
I start moving through the crowd, gently brushing past people, scanning for that familiar head of tousled curls and that suit jacket I can't stop staring at earlier. Still nothing.
I pass the wide hallway where the photo booth is and spot Jack Ralston, one of the trainers, holding court with two of the redshirt sophomores.
He smiles when he sees me and offers a wink. "Cam, taking a break from crushing everyone on the dance floor huh?"
"Gotta give other people their time to shine," I say with a smile that feels lighter than I am. "You seen Wes?"
Jack shakes his head, thinking for a beat. "Not since early on. Maybe an hour ago? He was talking with Coach Brant and some Colts alumni, I think."
"Alright," I nod, thanking him. "If you spot him, tell him I'm looking?"
He gives me a thumbs-up. "You got it."
I turn away, weaving deeper into the room, eyes skating over a group of defensive players posted near the massive dessert spread. Tyrese, their linebacker, gives me a nod as I pass, so I circle back and touch his elbow.
"Hey," I ask, "has Wes come by here?"
Tyrese frowns. "Not recently. Last I saw, he was over by the main hall. Think he got pulled into talking to some donor types."
More and more faces I stumble across, and more and more answers of either having seen him hours ago or not having seen him at all. I continue to search the room, slipping around the edge of the party, past the overdecorated wreaths and towering Christmas trees.
The crowd thins near the far end of the foyer, and when I spot a small knot of players near the drink refills, I step in with a quick, practiced smile.
"You boys seen Wes anywhere?"
They exchange glances before one of them, a sophomore receiver named Evan, gestures with his chin. "Saw him heading out the back through the doors over there—about five minutes or so ago."
I turn, my eyes following a pointed finger to a pair of metal double doors heading into the back hallways of the Stables. Relief fills my system instantly and I smile at the guys.
"Thanks so much," I manage, already moving as I pick up my dress and head to the doors.
I use my shoulder to push them open and stumble into the hall. And just like that, the noise of the party drops off completely. It's cooler back here. Quieter.
The hallway is long and polished, lit with softer sconces and lined with doors that lead deeper into the facility—offices, conference rooms, private lounges.
Walls are covered in Colts memorabilia and LED screens playing loops of game footage both new and old. The floors are carpeted in a sleek charcoal gray and mute my heels as I venture deeper down the halls.
I round a corner, slowing slightly, and that's when I hear it—low voices, muffled but familiar.
I follow the sound.
And then I see them.
Wes and her. The girl from the country club. The girl that Wes tells me he barely knows. The girl that Wes tells me not to worry about.
Delilah Pressman.
They're tucked into a shadowed corner near one of the private side exits, half out of view, bodies angled a little too close for "she's just the daughter of my father's business partner."
Way too fucking close.
Wes' back is to me, but I can tell he's standing tall and straight. Delilah's smiling at him, hand lightly wrapped around his arm to balance herself as she pushes herself up onto the toes of her heels.
She leans in, tilts her head, her lips brushing the edge of his ear as she whispers something to him. Her red lips form a sly, seductive smile as she whispers slow and sultry.
I take a step back like a knee-jerk reaction, my heel catching on the carpet and sending me stumbling sideways. I manage to brush up against a nearby potted plant, the leaves rustling violently and far too loud in the quiet space.
They both turn at once.
Delilah's eyes go wide in surprise, her mouth parting slightly, but she doesn't let go of his arm.
Wes... Wes looks like someone has ripped the floor out from under him. His whole face shatters. Like he's taken a hit straight to the chest.
His mouth parts and he's already taking a step toward me instinctively with an outstretched hand.
"Cam—"
But I step back just as fast, my breath catching in my throat.
A smile curls up on my face before I can stop it. Not a happy one. Not even a bitter one. Just the kind of automatic, stupid fucking expression my stupid fucking face makes when my stupid fucking heart's trying to crawl out through my ribs.
"Oh," I laugh lightly, "uh—sorry. Didn't mean to interrupt."
His eyes widen, panic edging into something like heartbreak. "Cam, wait—"
And before he can close the space between us, before he can explain or touch me or say anything that would make it worse, I turn.
I don't fucking know why I leave them be. I don't why the fuck I just said that stupid shit.
But I can't stop myself. It's a knee jerk reaction—one imbedded in me for a long time.
My steps are fast and stupid and shaky as I flee back down the hall—like if I can move quick enough, I can outrun the image of her hand on his arm. Of her mouth on his ear. The sound of her laughing. The way his face broke when he saw me.
By the time I shove open the double doors back into the main hall, everything feels too loud and too bright.
The gold lights strung from the vaulted ceiling, the sparkle of glasses clinking together, the laughter, the rustle of suits and dresses and a jazz singer crooning in the background—it's like all of it is happening underwater.
I don't know where I'm going, just that I need to keep walking, to stay upright, to not let anyone see what's happening to my face—until I turn too fast and slam straight into someone.
"Oh—my apologies," a smooth voice says, too smooth, too rehearsed.
I step back instinctively, brushing at my dress as I look up—and freeze.
Calvin Reed.
Of course.
And Alexis, beside him, standing still and glassy-eyed like she's been posed there by an art director. They both look at me with the kind of polished amusement that makes my skin crawl, even without context.
"Oh, Cameron," Calvin says, his smile as sharp as it is empty. "Lovely to see you again. You're looking very festive tonight."
I force a polite smile. "Mr. Reed."
"Have you met my wife?" he asks, already turning to gesture beside him. "Alexis, this is Wesley's tutor. Cameron Cole."
Alexis gives me a slow once-over, her expression unreadable but cool as glass, "Pleasure."
Her accent's a mix of American and something from Northern Europe.
Calvin doesn't seem to notice—or maybe he just doesn't care. He turns back to me with that same lacquered smile, something smug flickering behind his eyes.
"I must say it's nice of Wesley to invite you to—"
The doors behind us slam open with a bang that rattles the champagne flutes.
"Wes—stop—!" I hear Delilah's voice, no doubt trying to stop him from getting to me.
Both Alexis and Calvin look past me but I can't turn. I won't turn.
Calvin beams, like he's just been handed a winning lottery ticket.
Wes moves fast, closing the space between us like he can fix it just by getting close, reaching for me like I'm already gone. He faces me and only me, dropping his head as he tries to find my gaze.
"Cam—baby, please—let's just—"
But Calvin cuts through his voice, loud and thrilled and smug in that awful polished way of his.
"Ah, perfect timing," he says. "Cameron, I'm not sure if you've met Delilah yet—Wesley's fiancée."
The word lands like a punch to the ribs.
Wes reaches for me again, hand curling around my elbow, voice cracking. "Baby, no—it's not—please, just come with me—just for a second—"
I pull my arm out of his grip, too hard, too fast, and take a step back. My eyes flicker around the small group, from Calvin's grinning face to Alexis' cold stare to Delilah's smug expression. She is so gorgeous.
So damn fucking gorgeous with her big brown eyes and raven-black hair falling down over one shoulder and her designer black cut-out gown. She looks like a model fresh from a runway and I can't look at her for too long.
My voice comes out small, wrecked.
"Fiancée?"
Wes flinches. "No—Cam—don't listen—just come with me—"
But Calvin doesn't skip a beat.
"Oh, come on now," he says, laughing under his breath. "Wes—you didn't tell her? And here I was thinking my son was generous enough to have invited you."
I don't look at Calvin. I don't look at Delilah. I don't even feel the crowd anymore, not really. I just look at him.
Wes stands frozen in front of me, caught in the dead center of something I can't name but feel pressing in from all sides. His eyes are locked on mine—wide, desperate, trembling in a way I've never seen before. And for one split second, I almost falter.
Because God, the expression on his face—it's not cocky, not smug, not even defensive. It's wrecked. His brows are drawn, his mouth slack with something broken, and his eyes—his stupid, beautiful blue eyes—are glassed over with panic so real it steals the breath from my chest.
Calvin continues, his voice cheery and bright and oh so fucking smug, "It's no secret. We've had this planned for years. Of course, we're waiting for the formal announcement—but it's just a matter of time until it's all over the news."
He looks like he's trying to speak, trying to form a single sentence, but can't remember how to use his mouth. Like everything he ever planned, everything he ever thought he had control over, is slipping between his fingers and he can't hold on fast enough.
And maybe once, I would've seen that and reached for him. Maybe once, I would've said, It's okay, just tell me the truth.
But now?
Now all I see is someone who got caught.
Someone who thought he could juggle me and a future already bought and sold. Someone who thought I wouldn't find out, not like this, not in public, not humiliated.
My chest was caving in, but I stayed standing, stayed locked on Wes, because I needed to see how long he'd let this play out. How long he'd let his father script the ending of whatever this had been.
"You see Della's family owns the Washington Commanders." Calvin's voice floats up through the pressure I'm drowning under, "The Pressman Family? A top ten pick I believe and no doubt wanting to get their hands on my boy."
I can feel myself starting to shake again, but it isn't from panic this time—it's something sharper. Hotter. Uglier.
"And of course," Calvin adds with a laugh that could curdle wine, "we'll make the announcement after he's drafted. Just to seal the image. It's all lining up rather nicely, wouldn't you say so, Cameron?"
Wes snaps, his gaze slicing to his father as a storm falls over his broken features.
"Get her name out of your fucking mouth."
The words crack like a whip, fast and full of heat, and Calvin actually blinks, startled out of his own smugness. Delilah takes a step back, silent, as Wes turns to me—his voice fraying, his face carved with panic and something like grief.
"Baby," he says, and now his voice is low, raw, ragged. "Please. Please come with me. Just give me a second. Just—come on. Don't do this here."
He reaches for me again, and I dodge without thinking, stepping back, heart punching against my ribs like it wants out.
"Don't touch me," I say, my voice trembling but loud enough for him to hear it over the blood rushing in my ears.
"Wesley," Calvin barks, the smoothness gone now, replaced with sharp edges and irritation.
"Stop. You're making a scene."
"I don't give a shit," Wes snaps without looking at him. "You don't get to talk right now." He turns back to me, closer this time, blocking out everything else. "Cam, please. This isn't what you think. You know me. You know I wouldn't—"
I try to step around him, but his hand catches my arm—not rough, but enough to stop me.
"Baby—please—"
I pull back hard—too hard.
And that's it.
My heel catches on the edge of the floor and my balance collapses underneath me, tipping me backward as I stumble, arms flailing. Behind me, a waiter is passing, his tray balanced high, moving too fast to react. My elbow swings wide and catches him square in the back with a sickening thud.
He lurches forward with a shout, tray tilting violently as glasses slip and shatter midair, champagne flinging out in arcs that catch the lights overhead before crashing to the floor in a chorus of glass and liquid and gasps.
He goes down hard, landing on one knee, the tray skidding out from under him, a single flute rolling to a stop beside my foot.
The music keeps playing.
But the conversations—the laughter, the background buzz of clinking glasses and polite small talk—all of it stutters, trails off, then stalls entirely.
I feel it.
The silence that follows a car crash. The pause in a room when the energy shifts and everyone instinctively turns toward it, like animals sensing a threat.
One by one, heads start swiveling. People angle their bodies, whispering as their eyes drag over me, over Wes, over the waiter pushing himself upright, soaked and stunned.
It's a slow tidal wave of attention, rippling outward from the mess I've made, spreading from the back of the party like a spotlight has just been dropped on top of us.
And I can't move.
My skin burns. My mouth dries out. My legs lock at the knees.
And just like that, I'm back in high school. Back in a hallway lined with faces that all turn when I pass. Back in a body that never feels safe no matter how small I make myself. Back in a moment where I've done nothing wrong except exist.
My vision tunnels, edges blurring as everything else narrows to sound and heat and the tight ache of air that won't quite reach my lungs.
This is what it always feels like.
Not fear. Not embarrassment.
Exposure.
Being watched. Picked apart. Laughed at.
I can hear my name now—soft, curious, speculative. I can see the people turning at the tall cocktail tables, their movements casual but their eyes sharp. I can feel the weight of it all pressing into my back, my chest, my throat.
The waiter is still on the ground, blinking up at me, dazed, and something in his expression twists the knife—confused but kind, like even he isn't sure how it happened.
And I want to say I'm sorry. God, I want to kneel down and fix it all, to help him up, to erase the sound of broken glass and breathless whispers.
But I can't speak. My jaw won't move. My heart is racing too fast to keep up with itself.
Then I see her.
Delilah.
She's standing just behind Wes, one hand raised to her mouth, not quite hiding the smile behind it. And then her other arm curls around his like it belongs there. Like this entire night, this entire plan, this entire mess has gone exactly the way she wants it to.
Her eyes are on the waiter. Wes' eyes are solely on me.
And he looks like he's been shattered in half.
His face—fuck, his face—is cracked wide open, eyes red, mouth parted like he still hasn't figured out how to fix any of it. His hands hang at his sides, useless. His shoulders are pulled in, like he's been caved in by the weight of everything he hasn't said.
And I hate that even now—even now—some part of me still loves him enough to memorize the look on his face.
I take one final glance at him, just a flicker, just long enough to see what he looks like when he realizes he's losing me for real.
He knows what I'm going to do. He knows because he's already stepping toward me, already got a hand lifting from his side to grab me.
"Wait—"
I turn.
And I run.
Not because I'm weak. Not because I'm dramatic. But because if I stay there one second longer, I'm going to lose the last piece of myself I haven't already given away.
And I need to keep something.
I don't stop moving.
Head down, shoulders tight, breath catching in my throat, I push through the blur of faces and stares and hands holding glasses, bodies parting just enough to let me pass, like they know better than to touch something on the edge of breaking.
My vision blurs—part tears, part adrenaline—as I shove through the crowd, past the tables, past the stupid glittering centerpieces and the velvet ropes that are meant to keep guests out of the cordoned-off foyer.
I don't care.
I shove the glass door open with both hands and don't look back. The cold December air hits me like a slap, sharp and immediate and grounding, and I fumble for my phone with fingers that don't feel like mine.
I open the Uber app. A car is nearby. Thank God.
I step onto the stone walkway, crossing the wide, manicured stretch of the Colts' front entrance—lit up for Christmas, all twinkle lights and silver wreaths and glowing signage. The fountain churns behind me, water catching the lights in a soft, golden glimmer. It looks beautiful.
I feel sick.
I can see the curb ahead, maybe forty feet away. The blacktop shines with cold, and the headlights of my ride cut through the darkness just a little ways down.
"Cam!"
His voice hits me like a crack.
I don't stop.
"Cam, please—baby, wait—please—"
But I keep walking, fast, faster, until suddenly he's in front of me, cutting me off just before I reach the edge of the curb, and I have to stop short, stumbling slightly in my heels as I look up into his face.
His expression is wrecked. Blue eyes wide, glassy, chest rising too fast. Blonde hair all wild, lips parted like he hasn't figured out how to speak and is still trying to find the words in the cold air between us.
He opens his mouth.
"Cam, I—" He shakes his head, swallows. "It's not—it wasn't supposed to—fuck, I just need a second, okay? Just a second. Please—"
I don't blink.
"Is it true?" I ask, my voice quiet and sharp. "Are you engaged?"
His mouth stays open for a beat too long.
Then comes the answer—low, quiet, shaky.
"...Yes."
I stare at him.
Then nod. Once. Then again. Then faster, like maybe if I just keep moving my head, I can get out of this body and into someone else's.
And then I laugh—short, sharp, humorless—and try to step around him.
He moves with me, blocking me again. "Cam, please, just give me five minutes—just five, I'll explain everything, I swear to God—baby, please, you can't just walk away, not like this, not when I—"
"Oh my God!" I say, my voice cracking, my laugh bitter now, raw. "You really think you can keep me distracted all night, don't you? Think if you make me laugh enough, dance me around, have your little team babysit me like a goddamn joke—"
"What? No, Cam—what are you—"
"Did you tell Coach to say that shit to me?" I ask, stepping toward him now. "That whole speech about how good I am for you? Was that just a script? What about Clay? Did you tell him to keep me busy? Keep me smiling? Was everyone in on it? Was that the joke, Wes?"
He looks like I hit him. "No. God, no—what the fuck—baby, how can you think I'd ever—"
"Because they've fucking done it before!" I shout. "They all did it before. Boys like you. Smiles like yours. Eyes that looked at me like I was something, only to laugh behind my back two seconds later. So tell me, Wes—was I just one last fuck before you got shackled to your daddy's business arrangement?"
He flinches again, like the words hit him in the gut.
"Was I the only one you fucked?" I ask, cruel now. "Or were there others? Did you keep a list? Line 'em up behind Delilah's back while she polished your stupid little ring?"
"Stop," he whispers. "Please stop—"
"You barely talked to me," I hiss. "And I was fucking stupid enough to tell you everything. My trauma. My history. All of it. And you gave me nothing. Not your family. Not your past. Not her. I trusted you. And you turned around and did the same shit they did. You hid me."
"That's not—Cam, I love you—"
"No, you don't," I snap. "You used me. Just like they did. You're fucking just like all of them."
He inhales sharply, shakily, almost like a pained whimper as his eyebrows fall in on each other.
He looks like he's going to collapse. His hands shake. His jaw clenches. His shoulders curl in. Like my words have cracked his ribs wide open, and the guilt is dragging him to his knees.
But I don't care. Not anymore.
Because I mean every word of it.
Because I have to.
I turn toward the curb again, but his hand shoots out, gentle and shaking, trying to hold onto me one last time.
"Cam, don't—don't go yet—please, just let me explain—"
"Did you sleep with her?" I ask, my voice hollow now, numb.
He freezes.
Doesn't say a word.
That silence—that goddamn silence—is louder than anything.
I feel everything in me still.
And then he whispers, "It was a long time ago. Before I even met you. It doesn't matter."
"But it does matter," I whisper, tears finally spilling over. "You told me not to worry about her. You told me you barely knew her. That she didn't mean anything."
He opens his mouth.
But I'm already shaking my head.
"Just another fucking lie," I murmur.
Wes reaches for me again.
"Baby—"
The Uber pulls up beside me, headlights slicing across the stone path, illuminating both of us in cold, artificial light.
"Toot toot! All aboard for Cameron," comes a voice, too loud and far too familiar, as the window of a black Toyota Camry rolls down and the Uber driver leans on the horn with a grin.
I blink at him.
Of course it's the same guy.
The one who picks me up outside Wes's house the morning after I run into that cheerleader. Full circle, like some kind of cruel cosmic joke.
"Ohhhhhh, this is just fucking cruel!" I tilt my head back and yell at the sky, stomping my foot like a child and turning away for a second just to breathe.
Wes steps toward the driver's window, one hand raised. "Hey—can you give us a second? Please. Just—we need a few minutes, man."
But I'm already moving.
I step off the curb, fingers curled tight around the fabric of my dress, and grab the handle of the back door. I'm ready. I'm so ready to be gone, to be out of this nightmare of a night.
But Wes slides in front of me before I can pull the door open all the way. He steps between me and the car like he can still fix this with proximity alone. One hand on the top edge of the door, the other pressed on the roof, barring me from getting in—not rough, not demanding. Just desperate. Terrified.
"Please, baby. I'll do anything. I'll fix it—I can fix it—Just—"
"Wes. Move." I stare at him, jaw tight.
And then he says it—barely a whisper.
"Are we done?"
The words hang between us like they've been torn straight out of him. His eyes are red, rimmed with something close to panic, like he's still waiting for me to tell him it's okay, that this is all a misunderstanding, that I'll still choose him.
But I don't.
I just look at him, feel the weight of everything in my lungs, and answer flatly, "What's done, Wes?"
He blinks.
"There was never anything to end," I say, my voice cracking. "Not when your fucking ring is on someone else's finger the entire time."
His face crumples. His mouth parts like he wants to argue, to defend himself, to fight—but nothing comes out.
I keep going.
"Don't you dare stand here like some heartbroken hero," I snap, stepping closer. "You don't get to play the victim when you've been fucking lying this whole time. You don't get to cry when you hid me. You don't get to love me when someone else was always going to be your endgame."
"Cam, I never—" His voice cracks in half. "I never wanted her. I love you. I swear to God—I love you like fucking crazy. I don't know how to stop any of it—I'm just trying to keep us, and I fucked it up, I know I did, but please—please—I can't lose you. I can't."
His voice breaks, and I watch his eyes fill with tears—not the kind you hide behind a blink. The kind that sting and spill and make you look smaller than you are.
And it almost undoes me.
Almost.
"You already have," I say, soft and shaking and mean in the way only a person protecting their own shattered heart can be. "And if you don't move right now, I swear to God, Wesley, I will never fucking talk to you again."
And then—slowly, hollowly—he steps back. Not far from the car, just enough for me to get in.
I reach for the door, my hand on the top of the frame and I stop for a split second, as I turn my head to look at him once more.
"I need space," I tell him, voice thick, unsteady. "I need time. You damn well owe me that much."
His head bobs in a faint nod, like it's the only part of him still working.
I slide into the car, my dress catching on the edge of the seat, my hands still shaking so hard I can barely get the door closed behind me as Wes steps up to the curb, his hand running through his damp hair. His lips part, his eyes wide, pleading.
The driver looks between the two of us, clearly torn. "Are you sure—"
"Drive," I say, my voice low but firm, cutting him off.
The Uber pulls away from the curb, and Wes doesn't move. He stays planted there, his hands falling limply to his sides as the distance between us grows.
My chest feels like it's caving in, every breath coming shallow and uneven. I grip the fabric of my dress, staring out the window as the world blurs past in streaks of amber streetlights and shadowed buildings.
I can feel the driver glancing at me in the rearview mirror, his concern palpable. "Rough night?"
I force out a bitter laugh, the sound hollow even to my own ears. "You have no idea."
He nods slowly, his gaze shifting back to the road. "My wife and I have a huge fight back in our day. It happens when we're out too—y'know, in the clubs, out on the town. Everything's going great until..."
His story fills the awkward silence in the car, but I'm not listening to a single word. My eyes are on the passing scenery and the night sky outside the car. My reflection in the window stares back at me, pale and glassy-eyed.
Wes's face flashes in my mind, the raw pain in his eyes, the devastation.
But he isn't devastated because he's hurt me.
He's devastated because the whole thing is unraveling too fast for him to manage.
That guilt on his face? That pain?
That's the look of a boy who just watched his backup plan collapse.
And I hate him for it.
Because he wins me. He gets everything he wants. I give him everything. And all I ever ask for in return is honesty. Just truth. Not presents. Not promises. Not a place in his future—just a real fucking answer.
And now I realize he's never going to give it to me. He was never given himself to me. Not all of him.
Not ever.
I press my forehead to the cool glass, willing myself to hold it together, wondering why the fuck I even decide to wake up this morning.
And now I'm crying.
Full-on bawling. Tears down my eyes. Ugly crying in the backseat of a Prius.
I know rock bottom doesn't have a location but damn, this has got to be it.
"Oh no! Sweetheart—is my story that bad? I can shut up!" the Uber driver panics as he flicks his gaze back and forth between me and the road. "I always seem to do this. Look, I'll just stay quiet and—"
"It's fine." I sniffle, wiping my nose as I muster a smile. "Keep talking. It's nice—keeps me distracted."
"Well, alright then." The Uber driver nods while settling back in his chair. "And then I go and say something stupid like..."