The Games We Play - Chapter 5: Chapter 5

"Wait, you've had a lecture and a discussion session and just now realized you need textbooks?" I stop mid-aisle, giving Wes a look that says everything his mama should have taught him.
He shrugs, the kind of easy, cocky shrug that only someone like Wes Reed could get away with. "Ain't everythin' online now?"
"Not everything."
The UC bookstore is pure chaos, packed with jittery first-week freshmen pretending not to be terrified and seasoned seniors hunting down used copies like their lives depend on it. Overpriced textbooks, shelves of logo-covered sweatshirts, and the faint smell of overpriced coffee fill the air.
And everyone is filling their baskets with stuff they probably won't even glance at for the entire semester.
I glance back at Wes, who's strolling along on the other side of the aisle like he's window shopping for snacks, not the academic lifeline he'll need to pass. "Please tell me I'm not walking into some kamikaze mission where you don't even pass and I go crazy?"
He snickers, flashing a grin that could sell a thousand tickets to Friday night games. "I've made it to senior year. I think I know how to pass a paper, Cameron."
"You made it to senior year because of your golden hair and perfect spiral, Wesley." I scoff as Wes catches my gaze and holds it steady with a cocky smirk. I groan. "That was not a compliment."
He puts his hands up in defense. "Sure thing."
He continues down the aisle, running a finger over the spines of some books like he's pretending to know what he's looking for.
Honestly, it's kind of cute—like watching a puppy tilt its head at something shiny.
I slow to a stop, taking a slight step back to assess the books on the bottom shelves.
Wes mirrors me, stopping on the other side, and rests his forearms atop the bookshelves. "You must've taken this course, right?"
"Yep," I mumble as my eyes skim over the titles.
"How'd you do?"
I shrug. "Alright, I guess."
"You guess?" Wes scoffs, and my gaze snaps up to him, totally calling my bluff.
"Fine, I aced it," I admit as his grin grows. "Didn't want to make you feel insecure."
"That's my girl." Wes beams at me, and the way my heart gallops should be illegal. His praise should mean nothing—it does mean nothing.
"It wasn't hard," I say, turning back to the books. "All you have to do is actually read the assigned material. Crazy concept, I know."
Art Through the Ages sits pretty, big, heavy, and guaranteed to ruin your posture. I hinge at the hip slightly and pluck the book up from the shelf before slowly continuing down the aisle.
Wes pushes off the shelf and follows on the other side. "Shit—but Grady is just so damn hard to follow."
"He still teaching the course?"
I meet Wes at the end of the aisle, the two of us turning the corner to face each other.
I lift the book and hold it out to him. "Here."
"Thanks—I think the question should be, is he still breathin'?" Wes scoffs as he takes the book from me.
His quarterback hands are practically the size of the book itself, and his fingers graze the tips of mine in the most cliché way possible.
Great. Just what I need—more butterflies.
I instantly snap my hand back and smooth it around the swell of my hips to my back pocket. "He's not that bad—he can actually be quite sprightly on a good day."
The corner of his lips quirks up. "You always see the best in everyone?"
"Not everyone," I say pointedly, and it makes his smirk grow bigger.
"Real cute."
"Thank you," I hum in a sing-song tone and spin around, heading toward another aisle in search of the last book on his required reading list.
He's not missing one but three books needed for the course because Wesley Reed always exceeds expectations.
I can feel his gaze on my ass the entire way down the next aisle, but I can't be bothered to look back at him.
I stop in front of the section and put my hand out to him. "Give me another look."
He places his phone in my hand—of course, it's the latest model and huge—and I skim the required titles. Wes is standing close, a little too close for comfort, and his gaze is burning a hole into the side of my face.
He really has a staring problem.
"So, I get that I'm forced to take this course," Wes starts, and I look up at the shelves, having to move a little further down the aisle in search of the title.
There are just so many damn books in here, and most of them are placed at a level that borders on offensive to vertically-challenged people.
The yapping quarterback follows. "But why you? It's your minor, ain't it?"
"It is." I nod, my eyes on the shelf. "I guess it works with my major, but I also just love it. Not just the paintings—but the stories behind them. They tell you what mattered to people, what they believed, how they saw the world."
I spot the final book on the shelf, but it's high up, and like hell I'm reaching that.
"That one." I point up as Wes peels his eyes from me and follows my finger.
He steps forward, reaching up for the book, and the bottom of his shirt rides up, revealing taut golden skin and the faintest trail of blonde hair.
Goddamn.
My brain struggles to process words and thoughts. "Also—uh—my mom's an elementary art teacher, so it must've rubbed off on me."
"Yeah? What's her name?" Wes asks as he brings the book down, examines the cover, then places it in the big blue basket he's carrying in his other hand.
I need both hands and a decent amount of strength to hold that book, and he has it in one big hand like it weighs nothing.I can't even imagine the weight of the basket right now—but Wes doesn't look like he's struggling at all. Asshole.
"Kirby," I answer as Wes lifts his gaze from the basket to me. "She's a great teacher—handling all those six-year-olds without breaking a sweat or something."
He chuckles, and the warmth in the sound makes my stomach flutter. "So that's where you get it."
"Get what?" I ask with a slight frown.
"The whole teacher vibe," he says, grinning. "You're good at it. A little bossy, though."
I snort, shaking my head. "Okay—I am not bossy."
"Oh, you are," he says, his grin turning playful. "But it works for you—and me."
We lock eyes, his smirk daring me to argue, my lips twitching as I fight the grin threatening to spread across my face. I poke my tongue into my cheek, narrowing my eyes in faux exasperation, but I know I'm not fooling anyone. Wes knows he's won this round.
For a brief moment, the bustling bookstore fades into a blur of muted colors and distant chatter. Time seems to hang, stretching out like a held breath as we just... look at each other.
And then—
"Oh shit!" A guy stumbles into our aisle, pulling the moment out from under us. "Wesley Reed!"
Wes straightens instinctively, his easy posture shifting just a notch into something more contained, more measured. His grin doesn't falter, but it changes—still friendly, but lacking the spark I've come to associate with his teasing remarks.
"Hey, man. What's up?" Wes greets smoothly, the picture of calm under the weight of the guy's awe.
"I—uh—shit. Wow." The guy exhales hard, rushing forward to slap hands with Wes in the overly complicated, half-hug way douchey guys always seem to greet each other. "This is so cool. Huge fan."
"Thanks," Wes replies with a small shrug, taking a step back as if to give the guy room to breathe. "What's your name?"
"Dylan," the guy manages, his voice cracking slightly.
"Well, it's nice to meet you, Dylan." Wes claps him on the shoulder, his quarterback charm in full effect. "Those your friends?"
Dylan swivels to gesture at the pair still lingering near the aisle's edge. "Yeah—my girlfriend and my roommate."
Wes waves at them, his smile easy but detached. "Hey, guys."
The two manage awkward little nods, the girl looking like she might faint if he so much as blinks at her. I have to stifle a laugh, coughing into my hand to keep it together.
"Well, I'm hopin' to see y'all in the student section on Friday," Wes says, his tone bright and friendly. "Can't take down The Irish without you guys."
"Hell yeah, we'll be there!" Dylan exclaims, practically bouncing. Then, as if remembering his girlfriend's existence, he turns and points to her. "She's in the marching band!"
Wes flashes her a grin. "Guess I'll be relyin' on you to hype up my team then."
And the girl dies.
Or at least mentally. I can pinpoint the exact second her soul leaves her body and a red tinge spreads over her cheeks.
"Hey, uh..." Dylan fumbles, patting down his shorts for his phone. "Could I get a picture? My dad's gonna freak out."
"Sure," Wes says with a nod. Then he glances at me, jerking his chin in my direction. "Come on, Cam. Show 'em your pretty smile."
"Oh, no." I wave him off and reach for the basket. "I'm good. I'll take this up."
Wes looks like he's about to protest, but Dylan's girlfriend is already angling the phone for the shot. Dylan straightens his shoulders, puffing out his chest like it might help him look less like a twig next to Wes' towering frame.
"Have fun," I tease, flashing Wes a cheeky grin as I take the basket from him and turn down the aisle.
By the time I reach the counter, my arms are screaming in protest, and I heave the basket onto the surface with a dramatic huff.
The cashier has a lovely round face, streaks of pink in her hair, a blue UC lanyard full of enamel pins, and the kind of sunny smile that makes me think she genuinely likes her job.
"Yep," I exhale, resting my hands on my hips. "Looks like it's calming down now, huh?"
"Oh my god, yes. The start of this week was absolute chaos," she says, shaking her head as she begins to unload the books. "Tried to quit twice. My manager said no."
I laugh. "I would've walked out the second more than five students walked in."
"That's the thing—they all came in at once. There was literally no escape," she says, her eyes widening for emphasis. Her animated tone makes me laugh, and it pulls a matching chuckle from her.
She's so bubbly, and I love bubbly people—it makes it easy to bounce off their energy. If they're quiet, I'm usually compelled to overshare so much information that we both leave the interaction scarred.
The girl starts scanning barcodes, launching into a rant about how dealing with freshmen all week has completely obliterated her faith in humanity, when Wes slides up next to me like a storm cloud rolling in—sudden, imposing, and absolutely impossible to ignore.
The girl freezes mid-scan.
Her bright, easy smile falters into something smaller, her cheeks dusting pink as she fumbles with the scanner.
"Uh—h-hi," she squeaks, her voice trembling.
I exhale heavily, dragging my gaze to Wes with a look that could curdle milk. "Great. Now you've broken her."
I roll my eyes and turn back to the girl, ready to pick up the conversation, when I feel it.
His hand.
Big and warm, it lands on the middle of my back like a brand, the heat seeping through my shirt and sending a jolt of awareness down my spine. Then, slowly—way too slowly—it starts to slide lower.
I freeze, my brain short-circuiting as his palm inches downward, deliberate and completely unbothered. Every nerve ending in my body lights up like a switchboard, and something deep in my belly starts to flutter with an alarming intensity.
There's no doubt those at the front of the line behind us are playing witness to all this audacity.
"And who—who's paying today?" the girl asks, her voice quivering slightly but her cheery smile miraculously holding steady. Props to her for keeping her cool while Wes is actively ruining mine.
I didn't think he'd do it—but his hand keeps going, sliding over the curve of my ass like it's got all the time in the world. Then, as if he's completely unaware of societal norms, he squeezes.
Little shit.
I instantly reach behind me, tightly grab his wrist, and rip his hand off of me.
I grit my teeth as I jerk his hand back to his side and let it go. "He is."
"Gotta treat my girl right," Wes shrugs casually as he brings up his digital credit card on his phone.
The girl instantly looks to me, and I shake my head.
"Not his girl," I clarify smoothly, forcing a smile as I fold my arms across my chest. "And they're his books."
I settle with a confident smile even though I'm planning all the ways I could murder this man and still secure the Colts football season.
Eh—I don't really care for football all that much anyway.
Wes leans forward to punch in his payment code, flashing the girl one of those panty-dropping grins that should be outlawed in public spaces.
"She's just a little embarrassed of me," he whispers conspiratorially, his voice low and teasing.
I roll my eyes and cross my arms tighter, as if to physically restrain myself from giving him the argument he so clearly wants. Not here. Not now. Not worth it.
Wes finishes the payment, and the cashier quickly loads the books into a free Colts tote bag.
"Thanks, sweetheart," Wes says, throwing her one last grin as he slings the tote over his shoulder.
I don't wait for a response. I'm already heading for the exit, my strides purposeful and my focus pinned on getting some much-needed space.
The moment we step outside, I come to a halt a few feet from the entrance, planting myself in place as Wes holds the door open for a couple of students shuffling inside. He lingers for a second, his gaze searching for something.
Then he spots me waiting and flashes that damn grin again.
"Damn—I'm kinda hungry. Wanna join me for lunch at The Watering Trough?" He strolls toward me, flattening his hand across his stomach in a gesture that's both casual and oddly enticing.
The thought of going anywhere, let alone the private cafeteria in the million-dollar football facilities with him, makes me want to scream.
"No, Wes," I say firmly, folding my arms across my chest again as his grin falters, just slightly. "Because I don't hang out with people who say one thing and then do something completely different."
He tilts his head, his brows knitting in playful confusion. "What are you—"
"Oh? So did you not agree to be professional about this and then go and grab my ass? Did that not—was that not just what happened?" I ask sarcastically, pointing toward the doors of the bookstore.
Wes rolls his eyes, a scoff escaping him as his grin twists into something annoyed. Turning, he leans his back against the brick wall, crossing his arms loosely as he looks down at the ground, clearly deep in thought.
"It's not going to work if we can't be adults," I press, softening my tone slightly as I dip my head, trying to catch his gaze.
For a long moment, he stays quiet, his jaw tight and his expression unreadable.
"Wes."
Finally, his eyes lift to meet mine, and the intensity in those clear blue depths hits me like a sucker punch. I instantly want to eat my words and get down on my knees to make him feel better. But I straighten, determined not to let him throw me off.
I sigh, dropping my arms as I try to diffuse the tension. "You asked me to be your tutor, and I respect the program—and Will—enough to do my job. But that's all this is. I'm your tutor. You're my student. That's it."
The words feel heavier than they should, and I stop myself before I reveal anything deeper. He doesn't need to know about my self-imposed no-dating rule or how I'm throwing myself into my work and internship. The fact that he knows my mom's name is already more than enough personal information.
Wes stays quiet for a beat too long, and then his lips curl into a smirk—a softer, more dangerous version of the one I've grown used to.
"Tutor and student," he says slowly, the words deliberate. "Got it."
I narrow my eyes. "That means no flirting. No touching. And definitely no grabbing my ass."
His grin returns, bright and bold as ever. "What about lookin' at your ass?"
"Wes."
"Kiddin', kiddin'," he laughs, throwing his hands up in mock surrender.
"There's no use pretending that... night never happened," I say, sighing as I rake a hand through my hair, the chestnut strands spilling down past my shoulders to graze my lower back. I really need to book a haircut. "But it'd be better if we just forget it and move on."
Wes lets out a low whistle through his teeth, shaking his head like I've just asked him to move mountains. "Shit—that ain't goin' to be easy for me."
I give him a pointed look, silent but firm.
He exhales through his nose, pushing off the wall with a languid grace that's so very him.
Turning to face me fully, he raises one hand as though taking an oath. "Alright, alright—look, Cam, I'm sorry. It won't happen again. Cross my heart."
"Good," I reply, leveling him with a no-nonsense nod before holding out my hand, palm up. "Let's start over. Hi, I'm Cameron."
Wes stares at my hand for a few seconds, and the look on his face literally screams, what the fuck? His head tilts slightly, his brow furrowing in that charming, cocky way of his. Slowly, his gaze drifts from my hand to my face, his lips quirking into a lopsided grin that practically oozes disbelief.
After a long pause, he sighs dramatically, reaching out to clasp my hand in his. His grip is firm, warm, and lingers a second too long. "Nice to meet you, Cameron. I'm Wes."
"See? You're not so bad when you listen," I say, beaming at him like I've just tamed a particularly stubborn wild horse.
He runs a hand through his hair. "Only to you."
"Wow—what an achievement," I deadpan, pulling out my phone and scrolling through the colorful chaos of my calendar. "So, I'm thinking for now we meet once a week. Maybe twice when exams roll around."
"Once?" Wes winces. "Ain't that too little?"
"Any more, and you'd get sick of me," I say, glancing at him over my shoulder with a raised brow.
"Doubt it," he fires back, quick as ever.
"Plus, I'd probably teach you so well they'd think you were cheating," I add with a smirk, meeting his gaze briefly before focusing back on my phone. "So, your lecture is on a Monday—I'm thinking Tuesday at midday?"
He runs a hand through his hair. "What if I don't go to my discussion seminars?"
He's so damn relentless—but I guess that's a core personality trait any D1 college team would want in a quarterback.
I glance up sharply. "Seriously?"
He shrugs, looking far too relaxed for someone confessing academic truancy. "The TA's about as useful as tits on a bull."
I squint at him, skeptical. "That bad?"
"Worse." He nods, and I eye him suspiciously, beginning to think it's not the professor or TA's fault at all.
"You'd have to pay more."
"Worth every penny," he says, his tone casual but resolute.
"Thursday mornings, then?" I suggest, adding the time to my calendar. "Before you... whatever it is y'all do for football."
"You mean practice?" He grins, his blue eyes glinting with mischief, and I nod. "Yeah. I got a class in the afternoon, but before then I usually hang out in the players' lounge for a few hours."
"Well, now you'll be with me," I say, glancing up from my phone with a satisfied little smirk.
Wes tilts his head, his grin stretching wider. "Lucky me."
I roll my eyes, ignoring the flutter his tone sparks low in my stomach, and finish tapping in the appointment. My color-coded calendar now has yet another bright mark of chaos, but at least this one's on my terms.
I feel him step closer to me, his hands at the back of his waistband as he adjusts his jeans. "So... lunch?"
"You have lunch with all your tutors?" I ask, quirking a brow.
"No, but—"
"Then goodbye, Golden Boy." I wave my fingers at him, already walking away. "See you next Tuesday. And good luck against Notre Dame."