The Games We Play

SIXTEEN

Wait, no—I know exactly why. It's the same reason my sheets have seen more of Wes lately than I'd care to admit.

Wes leans back in his chair, arms crossed, watching me with that smug little smirk that makes me want to throw my salad at his face. 

"I'm just saying, you'd look good in it. You'd suit it," Wes says, still harping on about the jersey. "Cameron Reed's got a nice ring to it, don't you think?"

"Subtle, golden boy," I deadpan, stabbing at another piece of lettuce. "Real subtle."

"Subtle's overrated," Wes replies, biting into his second steak like the golden retriever of a human he is. "Gotta get you one before Saturday. To match your VIP passes."

"Bold of you to assume I'm using them," I say, quirking an eyebrow.

Wes pauses, looking at me like I've just mortally wounded him. "Hey, we pinky-promised."

"I know we did," I say with a sigh, leaning back in my chair. "But don't act like you didn't weaponize those stupid puppy-dog eyes of yours to make it happen. It's unfair."

He grins, wide and unrepentant. "Worked like a charm though, yeah?"

"Barely—but yes, I'll be there," I say, stabbing another piece of lettuce with unnecessary force. "But you better make it worth my time, Reed. Put on a show for me."

Wes pauses mid-sip of his shake, his grin curling into something cocky and dangerous. "I always do, baby. Just for you." 

"Ha—okay." I roll my eyes with a short scoff, "You guys all prepped and ready?"

"Yep," He says, setting his shake down and leaning forward slightly, his elbows braced on the table. "Alumni Spotlight means there'll be a ton of old players in the stands—big names, some of them in the NFL now. Coaches are hyped, so we've been tightening everything up this week." 

Why is it so fucking hot when guys talk about sports?

It's not the words—half the time, I don't even know what they mean. Zone coverage? Tightening things up? Sure, Wes, whatever you say. 

But it's the way he says it. The confidence. The pride. The passion for his team, his teammates, and, okay, maybe a little for himself.

He talks about football like it's a religion, like the field is his holy ground, and it's so annoyingly sexy that it's criminal.

Criminal because of how fucking wet it makes me. 

"BYU's a strong team, but their secondary's weak. Lot of gaps in their zone coverage. If I can exploit it early, we'll keep the pressure on, force them to play catch-up," Wes says, his voice calm and confident, like he's already running plays in his head.

I cross my legs beneath the table, trying to ignore the way his forearms flex every time he shifts in his seat. I think I'm at the point now where I may just require medical intervention and aid for my mental health. 

He leaning back with that easy confidence that only someone like Wes can pull off. "Alumni Spotlight games are always wild. The energy in the stadium's gonna be off the charts—fans, boosters, ex-players. Plus I got a lot riding on this game." 

"NFL scouts?" 

He tilts his head slightly, his dark eyes locking on mine with an intensity that makes my stomach flip. "You."

"Me?" I repeat, blinking.

He leans forward now, his voice dropping lower, smoother. 

"Yeah. You. In my bed. After the game." He pauses just long enough for the words to settle, his grin curling into something wicked. "When I walk off that field, sweaty and sore, I wanna come home and celebrate the only way I want to."