The Games We Play - Chapter 7: Chapter 7

I grip the handle of the shopping cart, one foot planted firmly on the bottom rail and the other dangling behind me as I zoom down the aisle like a Tony Hawk dupe. The cart squeaks dramatically with every step I push off, but I'm committed.
Behind me, Scarlett mutters to herself, reading over the grocery list like it's a legally binding contract.
"Scar, think we can get pumpkin spice Pop-Tarts since we're heading into fall?" I call, spinning the cart around to face her.
She glances up, one perfectly shaped eyebrow arching."And have them sit in the pantry until they expire? Hard pass, honey."
"Don't be silly—Pop-Tarts can't expire," I scoff as she gives me a blank look. "You'll never know when you could be overcome with the sudden urge to enjoy a warm, spiced treat!"
Scarlett snorts, flipping the list over to the next item. "Fine," she says, waving a hand dismissively. "But when you don't eat them, I'm either force-feeding them to you on your deathbed or tossing them into your coffin."
"Yay!" I squeal as I push off the cart and fly down the aisle.
By the time she reaches me, I've already added the pumpkin spice Pop-Tarts to the cart with an overdramatic flourish.
Scarlett glances at the box. "You'd better actually eat those."
"I will," I promise, placing a hand over my heart like I'm pledging allegiance to the snack gods. "This is the beginning of something beautiful."
"Uh-huh," she replies, shaking her head as she side-eyes me suspiciously and continues down the aisle.
We always try to do our big weekly shop on a Wednesday afternoon, which is practically the only time we're both free—although Scarlett always regrets coming with me because I fill the cart with so much unnecessary shit. I'm just here for comedic value, really.
Not just in Trader Joe's—but in life in general.
Scarlett and I walk home together after our last classes, get into our activewear, and make the twenty-five-minute trip to the local supermarket. It's a weekly tradition—we usually grab salads and a Diet Coke from the small café near the front and eat them in the park across the street, under the setting sun.
I round the corner and follow Scarlett into the next aisle, where she's already scanning the shelves with the kind of laser focus usually reserved for defusing bombs.
Then I spot him.
A guy with a Bluetooth headset stands smack dab in the middle of the aisle, completely oblivious to the fact that he's blocking the path to what Scarlett is very clearly eyeing: spiced mango salsa. He gestures with one hand while holding his phone with the other, his voice loud enough to be heard on the other side of the store as he talks to someone on a FaceTime call.
Scarlett tries—she really does—to step around him, but she can't.
"Excuse me," she says, her voice polite but firm, as if she's giving him a chance to save himself.
Instead of acknowledging her, the guy holds up a hand, palm out right in her face, like she's the one being an annoying piece of shit.
Oh, buddy, no.
My eyes dart between Scarlett and the guy. She turns back to me, annoyance flickering through her brown eyes as she pokes her tongue through her cheek.
Scarlett doesn't hesitate.
She turns back, grabs the phone with one swift motion, and ends the call with a tap of her thumb. The screen goes dark, and she holds the phone out to him with a practiced, polite smile that somehow still feels like a threat.
"Hey! What the—" he starts, turning to face her, his expression shifting from shock to indignation.
Scarlett hands the phone back to him with a calm, neutral smile. "There we go. Now you can hear me when I say excuse me."
The guy's face flushes red as he stammers, "You can't just—"
Scarlett cuts him off with a slight tilt of her head and an arched brow, her voice as smooth as glass. "I can. I did. Now, move. Pretty please."
He scoffs. "What—are you crazy, you bitch?"
"Yes."
The guy clearly sees the confidence on her face, hears the resolution in her tone, because he steps back.
"Yeap, keep going—you're almost there, buddy." Scarlett smirks as the guy takes another step back and looks up at the shelves, connecting the dots and realising he was standing in front of what she wanted.
"Fucking bitch," the guy mumbles before turning around and walking out of the aisle. Scarlett grabs the jar of salsa off the shelf and returns to my cart.
"What?" she asks, putting the jar in the cart. "I did say excuse me."
I chuckle softly. "I love you."
Scarlett and I move on to the next aisle, the awkward energy from the salsa showdown already fading into the background. She scans the shelves for something on her list while I push the cart, still giggling every now and then at the memory of the guy's face.
We fall into an easy rhythm, grabbing what we need and occasionally stopping to debate over brands.
By the time we hit the frozen foods aisle, the conversation shifts.
"So, now that we're almost two weeks in—how's the portfolio going?" Scarlett asks, not looking up from the ice cream section she's thoroughly inspecting.
I groan, leaning against the cart. "It's... going. I've barely started the second mock-up because I keep tweaking the first one, and now I'm behind schedule. My professor's going to kill me."
Scarlett straightens, holding two pints of ice cream, one in each hand, like she's weighing life-changing decisions.
"You've still got time," she says, glancing at me. "It's not due until what—end of December?"
"Yeah, but it's not just the deadline," I explain, fiddling with the cart handle. "I want it to be perfect. It's not like internships at firms like Lume Interiors just fall into your lap every day. I have one chance."
Scarlett gives me a look—gentle but firm—and puts one of the pints back before dropping the other into the cart. "Cam, you always pull it together. You'll make it perfect because you're incapable of doing anything halfway. And, honestly? Lume would be fucking stupid not to take you."
"Scar, stop." I smile, a small flicker of relief easing the knot in my chest. "You're 'bout to make a bitch cry in a Trader Joe's."
"Okay, you big crybaby." She chuckles, already moving on to the frozen veggies. "Stir-fry mix or winter mix?"
I come to a stop beside her and breathe out. "I think tutoring Wes might've been a mistake."
"...Not one of the options, but okay." She puts a hand on her hip and turns to me. "Why?"
"Shit—sorry. Winter mix," I tell her as she nods and retrieves it from the freezer. "But—uh—I think it's taking up time I don't really have. And I can already see it getting in the way. He's so... distracting. It's like tutoring a golden retriever that constantly flirts."
"Because you like being distracted," she says simply, leaning against the freezer door handle. "If you didn't want to deal with him, you wouldn't have agreed to tutor him in the first place. And you definitely wouldn't still be doing it. But that's mostly because you're a people pleaser, Cam. You can't say no."
I groan, my head tilting back. "UGH, BUT I HATE PLEASING PEOPLE!"
An elderly couple crawl past with their walkers, both pairs of beady eyes and liver-spotted faces gawking at me as they shuffle by.
"Grocery shopping is the only time she's allowed out of the house," Scarlett explains to the couple while smoothing a hand down the back of my head and hair. "Progress has been slow, but we're hopeful."
"Scar!" I snap, spinning to glare at her as the couple quickly moves along.
She shrugs, unbothered, and tosses the peas into the cart. "What?"
"You're so mean," I grumble, glaring at her.
"That's why you keep me around," she says with a shrug, crossing her arms and leaning against the freezer door. "But for real though—is this actually about time? Are you one hundred percent, completely, totally sure that the only reason you don't want to tutor Wes is because it'll take up too much of your focus?"
"Yes!" I insist, gripping the cart handle like it's going to help me win this argument.
Scarlett doesn't look convinced. In fact, her raised brow and small smirk scream the exact opposite.
"Mmm-hmm," she hums, tilting her head slightly. "Okay."
"Why did you okay me? " I demand, narrowing my eyes at her, "Don't okay me."
"Okay." she says simply, her tone maddeningly calm and I clench my jaw, "I must say it's real cute how hard you're working to convince yourself this is just about your portfolio."
"It is !" I snap, my voice pitching higher than I intended.
"Sure it is, sweetie." Scarlett says, pushing off the freezer door and brushing past me to inspect the frozen pizza section. "Because it definitely doesn't have anything to do with him being, oh, I don't know, charming. Or touchy. Or super fucking into you."
"He is not into me!" I protest, my cheeks heating up instantly.
Scarlett pauses mid-reach for a pizza box, turning to give me a slow, deliberate look. "Cam, he literally pays you five bucks every time he touches you. If that's not flirting, I don't know what is."
I splutter, struggling to find a coherent response. "That's just... that's a game! It doesn't mean anything!"
"Uh-huh," she replies, plucking a pizza and tossing it into the cart. "Well, whatever the reason, you've got two options. Either quit tutoring him because it's so distracting"—she adds air quotes for emphasis—"or figure out how to manage your time, because that little bit of extra money will be good when you're heading into Charlotte every week for your internship."
"Why do you hate me?" I glare at her, my face still burning. "Why must you give me helpful, practical, realistic advice on how to fix my life?"
"Because I know it pisses you off," she says in a sing-song voice as she walks off with a teasing grin, leaving me fuming next to the frozen fish sticks.
☆ ☆ ☆ ☆
Not sure if it's obvious or not—I don't really give a fuck—but I'm using every possible excuse not to be locked in a room with Wesley Reed.
I know it's ironic. There are countless girls who would do quite literally anything to be near him, and here I am using every possible tactic to avoid being alone with him altogether.
So, the second I opened my curtains this morning and saw the sunshine and cloudless skies, I was already texting Wes to suggest an outdoor study session on the grassy knolls of campus.
Westside Greens, on the western side of campus (shocker), is a stretch of lush, rolling hills overlooking the largest quad and the busiest crossing intersection at UC. At the far end, Whitmore Tower looms, its white brick vivid against the blue sky. At certain times of the year, the sun sets directly behind it, casting everything in a golden glow.
Today isn't one of those days, but it's still pretty as hell.
Wes actually agrees without argument, which should've been my first clue that something was up.
Now, sitting cross-legged on the grass, I'm trying to ignore the strange quiet from him. Wes has been shockingly well-behaved during this session. He's been listening—listening—as I break down lecture notes on Byzantine mosaics, and he's even taken a few of his own.
It's almost unsettling.
"Alright," I say, clapping my hands together. "Let's do a quick recap before we finish. Tell me three things about Hagia Sophia."
Wes leans back on his elbows, his face tipped up toward the sun. "One, it ain't a person. Two, it's in Turkey. Three, it's old as hell."
I groan. "Wes."
He grins, tilting his head toward me. "Relax, baby. I know it's a Byzantine church turned mosque, and it's famous for that dome that makes it look like it's floating. Also, it was built under... Justinian?"
I blink at him, surprised. "That's... actually correct. Who are you, and what have you done with Wesley Reed?"
He chuckles, sitting up and brushing grass off his arms. "See? I am learning. Give a man a little credit."
"Fine," I say, narrowing my eyes at him. "Credit given. But only a little."
The sunshine warms my shoulders, my cream cardigan having slipped down my arms and pooling at my wrists. I'm left in a baby-pink tank, the straps thin and the neckline loose, but tight enough to make my tits look perfect. Not that I wore it for that reason.
I just like the color pink, okay?
My eyes close for a second before I can stop them, warmth spreading over my skin and face as I tilt my head back. Hair falls back over my shoulders, and a slight warm breeze passes over the grassy knolls.
But I can feel Wes's stare on me—the heat more blazing than the sun above.
I peek open one eye, seeing him sitting there, leaning back on his hands with the sun catching in his hair and turning it a shade lighter, like spun gold. His gaze is locked on me, but it's not his usual cheeky grin or playful smirk.
It's... softer.
His brows are relaxed, his eyes warm and steady, the kind of expression that feels too heavy for the lightness of the moment. Like he's seeing something I don't even realize I'm showing. His mouth isn't curved into a teasing smile, but there's a faint tilt at the corner, like he's caught somewhere between awe and disbelief.
The breeze tousles his hair, and he doesn't react, doesn't blink. He just keeps staring at me, his jaw tight in a way that makes him look like he's holding something back—something he won't say but desperately wants to.
I tilt my head at him, blinking both eyes open. I frown. "What?"
The word pulls him back, and the corners of his mouth lift into a grin that's all Wes again. "Nothing," he says, shrugging one shoulder. "Just wondering if you're ready to scream my name tomorrow."
Ah. He's back.
My brain short-circuits for a second. "I—what?"
His smile turns cheeky, his dimple popping. "Where on earth is your dirty little mind, Cameron? I'm talking about football."
"Sure you are," I scoff, rolling my eyes and shaking a hand through my hair.
"I am," he insists. "So can I expect to see you there?"
I nod. "Of course. It's an Armed Forces Tribute Game, plus I'm a UC student. Gotta support the troops and my home team."
"Yeah—but it'll be my name you're screaming the loudest, right?" he says with a grin.
I point at him. "Weston Robb, yeah?"
"Cute, Candice," Wes chuckles softly as he pulls his black Colts-branded backpack up to his side and unzips the front pocket.
I close my laptop, resting it on my folded legs and watch him, waiting for whatever shit he's trying to pull now.
He pulls out an envelope with my name scrawled on it and hands it to me.
"Open it," he says, leaning back on his hands with a casual shrug.
I slide the envelope open and pull out several thick, laminated cards, each one stamped with the Colts logo and the words VIP Access.
I stare at them, stunned. "Wes... what is this?"
"VIP passes," he says, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "They get you into the team's lounge, the field perimeter, and the tunnels. Basically, wherever you want to go. Thought it'd be nice to have you close."
I blink, my brain struggling to process. "I can't accept this."
"Yes, you can," he says simply.
"Wes, this is... I mean, this is way too much. I don't need—"
"It's not too much," he interrupts, his voice softer now, all the teasing stripped away. "You've been putting up with my crap, helping me figure out all this art stuff. I wanted to say thank you. And I figured, if you're gonna be at the game anyway, you should be able to actually enjoy it."
His earnestness catches me off guard, and for a moment, I don't know what to say.
I glance down at the passes again, the weight of them suddenly heavier in my hand. "Wes... you didn't have to do this."
"I wanted to."
"I don't need VIP access or field access or anything," I argue. "If you wanted to thank me, do your damn readings."
"I'll do my readings. Just—just keep them," he says, his gaze locking on mine as he adds softly, "Please."
The midday sun, the blue skies, and soft breeze. The glint in his blue eyes, the earnestness and softness in his tone. It's all making my walls crumble.
I stare at him, trying to find a reason to refuse, but the look in his eyes—so steady, so genuine—makes it impossible.
"Fine," I say quietly, slipping the cards back into the envelope. "Thank you."
His grin returns, lighting up his face. "See? That wasn't so hard, was it?"
"Okay," I roll my eyes, but there's a warmth in my chest I can't shake. "But if you make me mad, I'm selling these to the highest bidder on Craigslist and keeping the money."
He gives me a two-finger salute. "Yes, ma'am."