The Games We Play - Chapter 8: Chapter 8

The Iron Pasture is alive.
It's not my first rodeo at a Charlotte Colts game, but it's still a shock to my system every time I step foot in Mercer-Hayes Stadium.
The stands are packed, a sea of trueblue and silver with scattered bursts of golf and black from the Army fans. The air hums with energy—cheering, chanting and the occasional ear-bursting blast of music from the speakers.
The Armer Forces Tribute always brought an extra edge to Friday Football at UC.
The Colts were decked out in their color strip: blue helmets, blue jerseys and white pants that gleamed under the stadium lights like polished steel. The Army Black Knights stood on the opposing sideline, their black-and-gold uniforms cutting stark silhouettes against the green field.
The enormous American flag that stretched across the field during the national anthem was still fresh in my mind, the crowd roaring as fireworks exploded overhead.
The Patriot Guard Riders had done their pregame motorcycle lap, flags streaming behind them as the announcer thanked every brand of the military.
And then the game begun.
Scarlett and I sat in the prime section of the lower bowl in comfy leather seats, just high enough to see the action clearly but close enough to feel every hit and tackle reverberate through the stands.
Unfortunately Logan Aberdeen and his merry band of terrible humans are also here, loudly betting on every possible aspect of the game.
How Scarlett—gorgeous, intelligent, stunning, lovely, sexy Scarlett—is dating the sad likes of Logan, I'll never fucking understand.
"I'm telling you," Logan drawled, leaning back with his arm slung of Scarlett's chair, "Reed's gonna choke tonight. Everyone hypes him up, but when it really counts? He's all talk."
Scarlett didn't even flinch, her expression cool and detached, but I could see the tension in her jaw.
"Do you know him personally, Lola?" I ask, my tone sweet enough to rot teeth.
It's just a little joke between us. I call him Lola, he calls me devil incarnate.
So cute.
He glances at me, smirking. "Nah, but I don't have to. Guys like that are a dime a dozen. Flashy, but no follow-through."
"Because your in-depth analysis from the comfort of your cushy seat is totally comparable to, oh, I don't know... actually being on the field."
Scarlett's lips twitch, and for a moment, I think she might laugh, but Logan doesn't notice. He's too busy showing off for his friends, who are just as insufferable as he is.
Every time I try to understand how Logan scored Scarlett, I end up just giving myself a migraine.
Scarlett is calm, effortlessly poised even in the chaos of the stadium, while Logan is the exact opposite—loud, jittery, and too invested in whatever bets he's placed.
He's a senior, majoring in Business or something pompous like that. He's always put together, brown hair slicked back and some Ralph Lauren polo stretched across his broad shoulders. He's handsome—real handsome.
And he's Dean Aberdeen's son.
As in the Dean of The University of Charlotte.
The crowd erupts as the Colts storm onto the field, led by Wes. Even from here, his presence is undeniable. He has that star-player energy, the kind that makes people sit up a little straighter.
The Black Knights win the coin toss and opt to receive, starting the game with a roaring run-back that the Colts' defense barely manages to stop at midfield.
The energy shifts, the tension mounting as the Knights push their way into field goal range. Their kicker nails it, putting the first points on the board.
The Colts' first possession is electric. Wes leads the team down the field with precision, threading passes like a surgeon.
The crowd roars as he launches a fifty-yard bomb to his star receiver, Rome Booker, setting up a first-and-goal.
Two plays later, they're in the end zone, and the stadium explodes in cheers.
I can't help but grin, the adrenaline infectious. Even Scarlett, who usually acts like she's above all this, claps politely before settling back in her seat.
Logan, of course, has other things on his mind.
"I told you Rome would make that catch!" he crows, slapping the armrest of his seat and turning to his buddies.
"That's fifty bucks in my pocket."
"Lucky throw," one of them mutters, clearly bitter.
"No luck," Logan shoots back. "It's skill, baby. Pure skill. Reed's only good for flashy plays like that. Watch—he'll crumble under pressure by the second half."
I snort loudly, turning to him with a saccharine smile. "It's so inspiring how much faith you have in your own team, Logan. Truly heartwarming."
The stadium erupts again as the Colts' kicker sends the extra point sailing cleanly through the uprights. Logan barely glances up from counting out a handful of crumpled bills for one of his friends.
He shrugs. "It's not about faith. Guys like Reed always burn out when the stakes get high. It is what it is."
I glance at him, already regretting my life choices. "Well, you've been wrong about everything else tonight, Logan—but I'm so here for the perseverance."
"I haven't been wrong, Cam. Just slightly off. You wouldn't understand." Logan scoffs like I should be embarrassed.
"Damn—sorry," I say, leaning back in my chair. "Whatever helps you sleep at night."
I watch as he curls a hand around Scar's thigh, letting it rest there as she keeps her gaze on the field.
I've tried asking, pushing, bringing it up casually like, 'Hey, girly-pop, look at this rock—doesn't this remind you of the complete lack of personality your boyfriend has, so you should probably dump him right now?'
It never works. Scarlett rarely talks about Logan—or herself for that matter—and I know that pushing her to talk only pushes her away.
Logan goes back to ignoring me—just how we both like it—his attention back on the field as Wes leads the team into position.
The crowd roars as the snap comes, Wes rolling out to avoid pressure before launching a pass to his tight end. Clay Jackson catches it with one hand, pulling it in as he stumbles out of bounds.
Logan's idiot friends are hollering again, one of them throwing his arms up so enthusiastically that his beer sloshes out of his cup and onto the poor guy sitting in front of him.
"Hey, come on!" the guy shouts, twisting around to glare at them.
Logan just waves him off, laughing. "Relax, dude! It's a game!"
The guy doesn't look like he's in the mood to relax, but he turns back around, muttering under his breath.
I clench my jaw, biting back the urge to tell Logan and his douche friends exactly where they can shove their cheap stadium beer.
Instead, I glance at Scarlett, who looks like she's two seconds away from pretending she doesn't know any of us. Her perfectly composed expression doesn't crack, but I can see her fingers tapping against her knee in irritation.
As much as I hate being in this section, I know it's the right call not to use the VIP passes Wes gave me.
I'd handed them off to my friends instead—Jude, Yasmine, Kiki, Tasha, and Liam—because they'd appreciate them way more than I ever could. They were a great gift from Wes and needed to be treated as such.
Jude immediately started snapping me photos of himself lounging in one of the plush seats, his Louis Vuitton sunglasses perched on his nose as if he were on a private jet instead of in a stadium.
Yasmine and Kiki, on the other hand, sent a series of videos of themselves downing beers in the private bar, Yasmine doing an impressively chaotic cartwheel in the background while Kiki cheered her on.
Tasha and Liam's updates were more wholesome but no less enthusiastic. They sent me pictures of the field from the sideline access at the start of the game, the two of them beaming as if they'd just won the lottery.
As much as I love them, I mute the Snap notifications after the fifth one. It's not jealousy—not really. It just isn't my scene. And being stuck with Logan is better than leaving Scarlett to deal with this on her own.
Back on the field, Wes is on fire. He moves like he's a step ahead of everyone else, his passes crisp and precise. The Black Knights are scrambling to keep up, their defense wearing down with every play.
"Alright, here comes the choke," Logan mutters as the Colts line up for a third-and-goal.
I don't even bother responding. I just lean forward, watching as Wes barks commands at his line, his voice carrying over the buzz of the crowd.
The snap comes, and Wes fakes a handoff to the running back before rolling to his right. A defender lunges at him, but Wes ducks and spins out of the tackle like it's nothing. The crowd gasps, the noise swelling as Wes scans the field, locks onto his target, and launches a pass straight into the corner of the end zone.
Rome catches it mid-air and lands safely.
The stadium explodes.
Scarlett claps politely, while I can't help but cheer loudly—I may be the loudest in our little box.
"Whoooo—hell yeah!" I screech, turning my grin to Logan. "How fucking unreal was that, Lo?"
Logan, however, looks like he's just bitten into a lemon.
"Lucky throw," he mutters again, though his tone lacks the earlier confidence.
"Right," I say, side-eyeing him. "Must be all those lucky throws that won him the Heisman last year."
Scarlett smirks, nudging me lightly with her elbow. "Don't make him cry, Cam."
"Wouldn't dream of it," I reply, though the grin on my face says otherwise.
Logan's friends start arguing about their bets, one of them gesturing wildly enough to knock over another cup of beer. Scarlett sighs quietly, and I shoot her a sympathetic look.
At least Wes is giving me something to cheer for. Watching him dominate the field isn't just satisfying—it's cathartic. Because no matter what Logan says, Wes is proving himself with every snap, every play. And Logan? He's just proving he literally has no fucking clue what he's yapping about.
It's the best and makes his sour expression so fucking worth having to be near him.
Eventually, Logan and his friends head off to grab more drinks, leaving Scarlett and me alone.
"You didn't want anything?" Scarlett asks, referring to when Logan offered, and I turned him down.
"I'm good." I shake my head. "Plus, I don't want to deal with his bullshit intricate breakdowns of the receipts again."
Every damn time we go out to dinner with Logan, he always offers to pay and then sends me a damn Excel sheet of how much of everything I had. I once had to pay for half of a mushroom arancini ball when we went out for Italian. Half.
"Fair." She chuckles softly, her shoulders relaxing slightly as she turns to me. "So, about this fundraiser..."
I groan. "You're not coming, are you?"
"Logan wants to go to this new speakeasy afterward." She grins awkwardly, and I roll my eyes. "You should come with!"
"I've already given a blood oath to Jude that I would go to this stupid frat party." I run a frustrated hand through my hair. "You need to come! Come to the dark side—we have jungle juice!"
Scarlett shrugs. "Logan's been complaining that he hasn't seen much of me lately."
"So Logan's an insecure bitch, and I have to suffer?" I point a finger at my chest as she chuckles. "Fine. Go. You don't love me."
"You know I do." Scarlett chuckles as she wraps an arm around my shoulder and begins to attack the side of my face with kisses. Her smile fades slightly, and she studies me for a moment before nodding.
I laugh, shoving her playfully. "You better text me pictures of your fancy cocktails."
"Deal," Scarlett says, settling back into her seat as the game roars on. "Just be careful, yeah?"
"I'm always careful," I reply, though the words feel lighter than I intend.
Scarlett doesn't look convinced, but she lets it drop, turning her attention back to the field.
The Colts' defense takes the field, their intensity palpable as they work to shut down the Black Knights. The Jumbotron cuts to the sideline, showing Wes sitting on the bench.
I freeze, my attention zeroing in on the massive screen above.
He has his helmet off, a towel draped around his neck, and his hair is a mess from the game. Somehow, he still looks perfect. His elbows rest on his knees, his head tilted slightly forward as he stares out at the field. His expression is serious, his focus razor-sharp, like he can see every detail of the game in a way no one else can.
The camera lingers on him, and I feel my heart skip—just for a second.
This is going to be a fucking issue.
Not just the occasional he's objectively attractive and the camera loves him kind of issue.
No, this is a full-blown, he's starting to crawl under my skin in ways I don't want to admit kind of issue.
I hate that I've even noticed. The messy hair, the sharp jawline, the way his focus is so intense it feels magnetic. And the worst part?
It isn't just the way he looks. It's the way he is.
All of him.
Wes has this way of filling space without even trying, like the damn sun and the rest of the world just revolves around him.
He's charming—too charming—but there's something else, too. Something earnest. Something that makes it impossible to write him off as just as another cocky ass athlete.
I sigh, slumping further into my seat.
This was not the plan, Cameron Mae Cole.
The plan was to tutor Wes, take the extra cash, and move on with my life. No strings, no complications, and definitely no letting myself get distracted by his stupid grin or his stupid shoulders or the stupid fact that he seems to genuinely care about whether I'm having a good day.
Damn—once again my day is ruined by men.
Wonderful.
☆☆☆☆
"Let's go, bitches!"
Jude announces our arrival as he holds our conjoined hands above his head and I follow him through the front door.
Music blasts through the walls, Von Dutch by Charli XCX rattling the windows as bodies press into every available corner of the house. The air smells like cheap beer and sweat, with the faintest hint of someone's overambitious cologne wafting through the crowd.
The Sigma Chi house is notorious. Part frat house, part social experiment gone wrong. It's a hulking, white-columned mess that could've been charming if the guys who lived there cared even the slightest bit about upkeep. But they don't.
So instead of a stately home, it's a collection of dented walls, sticky floors, and mismatched furniture that looks like it's been stolen from a dorm dumpster.
As an interior design student, it actually physically pains me to look at it
Solution? Get so fucking drunk I go blind.
I follow Jude inside, already buzzed and feeling lighter than I have in weeks. I've shot-gunned two guava White Claws in the back of the Uber on the way over, cheered on by Yasmine, Kiki, and Tasha, who recorded the whole thing and posted it everywhere.
Now, with the drinks settling warmly in my stomach, I'm actually feeling a little ounce of joy.
The music thuds in my chest, the crowd surges around me, and for the first time in a while, I'm not thinking about school or my portfolio or the fact that I'm an adult who has adulting to do.
I needed this—a break from everything.
From life.
From school.
From the text messages burning a hole through my little handbag.
He must've talked to Jude and the others at some point after the game when they were all on the sidelines, posing for pictures in the tunnels—and trying to sneak into the locker rooms.
And now Wes thinks I haven't shown up because I don't care.
Which isn't true.
I do care. That's the problem.
I sigh, locking my phone and shoving it back into my bag. I'm not explaining myself—not tonight.
The main floor of the Sigma Chi house is a pulsating, sticky mess of bodies, music, and questionable decision-making. The bass of Von Dutch by Charli XCX thumps so loudly it feels like it's shaking my ribs.
Jude leads the charge, weaving through the crowd with all the grace of a runway model, his arm raised high to part the seas of partygoers. Behind him, Yasmine and Kiki hold hands to avoid getting separated, while Tasha and Liam trail behind, their heads turning in unison like they're scouting for the best drink source.
The house is already in complete chaos.
Beer cans litter the floor, sticky spots marking every step, and the faint smell of tequila and sweat hangs in the air. A neon sign above the bar flickers ominously, spelling out GO TROOPS in garish red and blue.
The kitchen is our starting point. Jude, as always, is in his element, plucking Jell-O shots off the counter with while Tasha and Liam bicker over which mixer to use for a drink they're concocting.
Yasmine and Kiki are already on their second round of White Claws, leaning against the fridge as they people-watch with amused grins.
For a while, we're a unit—holding base in the kitchen and trying to charge a fee for people to enter. Not sure how that started but I'm also not sure how people actually believed us.
Pulling out coins and bills and crying when they didn't have enough.
But then, Yasmine and Kiki disappear. One second, they're by the fridge, and the next, they've been swept into the living room by a pair of girls in sparkly crop tops. I catch a glimpse of them arm-in-arm, laughing as they're pulled toward the dance floor.
Next, Tasha and Liam vanish. They've been arguing over drink ratios when someone shouts, "Beer pong tournament!" Their heads whip around in unison like dogs hearing a treat bag.
That leaves me with Jude, which is usually a safe bet—except Jude has the attention span of a gnat when he's buzzed.
We make it as far as the hallway before he spots someone wearing a fur coat and platform boots. "Iconic," he says, zeroing in on them. "I must steal it from them."
The house feels different without my friends—a little louder, a little more chaotic. The music pulses through the walls, and every room seems packed with people shouting, laughing, and dancing.
Drunk Cam isn't fazed, though.
If anything, the wandering urge kicks in stronger.
So I goddamn wander.
Every room is like a levelling up in a video game. One room has a pool table stacked with Solo cups, another is packed with people dancing so hard the floor feels like it's vibrating.
The party roars on as I meander through the house, drink in hand, my buzz fully in control now. It isn't long before I find the staircase, a wide, creaky monstrosity that someone has slapped an OUT OF BOUNDS sign on.
The sign is adorable—handwritten in Sharpie on a piece of torn notebook paper and taped up with what looks like Scotch tape. Obviously, it's a suggestion, not a rule.
Drunk Cam does not care for suggestions.
I grip the railing and make my way up, the muffled thud of music fading slightly with every step. Halfway up, I pause, catching sight of the backyard through a massive, grimy window.
The view is... chaotic.
The backyard is packed, glowing under strings of mismatched lights. I can see guys shirtless or in boxers doing beer funnels while their friends cheer them on, hands over their hearts as if this were a sacred ritual. In one corner, someone has set up a game of flip cup on a table painted like the American flag, as Born in the USA screams through the walls.
It's a whole scene—a frat party fever dream that somehow manages to be patriotic, absurd, and vaguely impressive all at once.
The hallway upstairs is quieter, though not by much. The muffled bass from below still vibrates through the walls, and the faint smell of stale beer and Axe body spray lingers in the air.
I begin opening and closing doors, peeking inside for only a few seconds just to judge and criticize.
It's typical. A house full of men and no fucking taste.
I swear every bed I see has at least one pillow and a top sheet that I doubt has been washed in months.
I continue down the hall; bedroom, bedroom, bathroom, closet, bedroom.
Then I open one door and immediately freeze.
I wrap my hand around the handle and push the door open.
"Holy shit!" I blurt, my drunk brain way too slow to stop my mouth.
It's a threesome. Two naked girls and one very, very lucky Sigma Chi brother.
All three of them freeze, their heads snapping toward me like deer caught in headlights.
The guy pushes up onto his knees in the middle of the bed. "What the fuck!"
With the two girls still lying on the bed, my eyes instantly drop to his penis hanging down in front of him.
My eyes widen, and I squeal.
It comes out of me, strong and sharp, and I slap my hand over my mouth, cackling as I slam the door shut.
I'm still laughing as I run down the hall and back downstairs.