Cameron Cole has a plan.
After yet another relationship ends because of certain shortcomings-literally-Cameron decides it's time to swear off dating and focus her energy into her junior year at the University of Charlotte. There's an internship up...
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"Be careful there, Cole. I might just start thinking you're obsessed with me." Wes pauses to grin at me as he bites the top of his straw, holding his large peanut butter protein shake.
I scoff, "Calm down, Reed. I went to Tasha's for the free pizza and because they got a kitten. Your game just happened to be on."
"Yeah—but you watched me more than the cat. Admit it." Wes chuckles softly as I stab at my salad with my fork and shake my head.
"I may have looked over every now and then." I shrug casually as Wes' grin grows brighter. I point my fork, "And I didn't watch you. I watched the whole team."
Wes nods, "Mmm-hmm, says the girl who called me after the game to tell me she got turned on watching me in my uniform."
"Well, I would've call Rome, but I didn't have his phone number." I shrug as a small but evil smirk stretches across my face at the same slow rate Wes' cocky grin dies. I tilt my head, "No?"
"No." Wes shakes his head at me, and I giggle, leaning back in my chair as Wes continues to devour the huge plate—plates—of food in front of him, "You wear his jersey on Friday night?"
"Gotta represent," I say, raising a weak rallying fist, and Wes rolls his eyes, "It's not like I have other options."
"We're stopping by the Team Store after this," Wes announces, and I tilt my head back and laugh at his weird obsession with seeing his name on my back.
My giggle carries across the Watering Trough—which is just another gimmicky name for the dining hall inside the multi-million-dollar football facilities: The Charles W. Myers Athletic Complex. Although it's more affectionately referred to as The Stables or The Charlie Dub.
No one knows what the W stands for, but it's named after one of the greatest football coaches to teach at the college.
It was built three years ago, costs more than my entire existence, and could probably launch into space if it wanted to. That's not its official marketing tagline, but it should be.
It's massive—practically its own zip code—and every inch of it screams money.
The exterior is all sleek glass panels and polished concrete, while the inside feels like it's part luxury hotel, part futuristic gym. There's a recovery spa, hot and cold plunge pools, top-tier weight rooms, an indoor turf field, a basketball court, and even a state-of-the-art lounge for players with leather recliners and massive TVs.
When I was a freshman, a lot of the seniors in the same degree as me helped out with the interior designs. I made friends with a handful of them so I could sneak into their workshops to just listen.
And somehow, Wesley Reed—the Prince of the Stables—managed to sneak me into the dining hall for no other reason than to eat salads and piss me off.
I don't know why I agreed to this. I really don't.
