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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The party is still in full swing—bright lights, music kicking up, laughter echoing like we're all invincible—but Wes is nowhere in sight.
He hasn't been for a while.
I start moving through the crowd, gently brushing past people, scanning for that familiar head of tousled curls and that suit jacket I can't stop staring at earlier. Still nothing.
I pass the wide hallway where the photo booth is and spot Jack Ralston, one of the trainers, holding court with two of the redshirt sophomores.
He smiles when he sees me and offers a wink. "Cam, taking a break from crushing everyone on the dance floor huh?"
"Gotta give other people their time to shine," I say with a smile that feels lighter than I am. "You seen Wes?"
Jack shakes his head, thinking for a beat. "Not since early on. Maybe an hour ago? He was talking with Coach Brant and some Colts alumni, I think."
"Alright," I nod, thanking him. "If you spot him, tell him I'm looking?"
He gives me a thumbs-up. "You got it."
I turn away, weaving deeper into the room, eyes skating over a group of defensive players posted near the massive dessert spread. Tyrese, their linebacker, gives me a nod as I pass, so I circle back and touch his elbow.
"Hey," I ask, "has Wes come by here?"
Tyrese frowns. "Not recently. Last I saw, he was over by the main hall. Think he got pulled into talking to some donor types."
More and more faces I stumble across, and more and more answers of either having seen him hours ago or not having seen him at all. I continue to search the room, slipping around the edge of the party, past the overdecorated wreaths and towering Christmas trees.
The crowd thins near the far end of the foyer, and when I spot a small knot of players near the drink refills, I step in with a quick, practiced smile.
"You boys seen Wes anywhere?"
They exchange glances before one of them, a sophomore receiver named Evan, gestures with his chin. "Saw him heading out the back through the doors over there—about five minutes or so ago."
I turn, my eyes following a pointed finger to a pair of metal double doors heading into the back hallways of the Stables. Relief fills my system instantly and I smile at the guys.
"Thanks so much," I manage, already moving as I pick up my dress and head to the doors. I use my shoulder to push them open and stumble into the hall. And just like that, the noise of the party drops off completely. It's cooler back here. Quieter.
The hallway is long and polished, lit with softer sconces and lined with doors that lead deeper into the facility—offices, conference rooms, private lounges.
