Page 1 of The Games We Play (Balance of Power #3)

SEAMUS

“ S ea-ma…Sea-mass Matthews.” I roll my eyes hearing the overly dramatic pronunciation of my completely butchered name, just like it has been my entire life.

I don’t mind my name, until someone new tries to say it.

“It’s pronounced ‘Shay-muss’,” I reply slowly to the camp counselor with the least amount of disdain in my voice as possible. I’m not trying to get on their shit list the first day.

“Hmm, okay, Seamus.” Saying it correctly but snarky as hell. She hands me a red name tag that says, Hello My Name is , printed out with my first name written in black Sharpie underneath.

“Put this on and head over in that line for a lice check. You’ll get your cabin assignment after the health check is complete.”

My eyes shift in the direction she pointed, seeing another line of campers waiting. One person stands in front of a counselor who is filling out a form on a clipboard, while another gets their hair sorted by what looks like a popsicle stick.

A lice check?

I understand why my mom wanted me to come here this summer, but I hate it.

Most kids go to summer camp to enjoy the experience, make friends, and break up their summer routine—not to hide away from life at home.

In her eyes, putting me in here for two weeks out of the summer is better than spending it at home with a father who spends half his day drinking, and the other half telling you how worthless you are.

He’s gotten worse this past year.

She’s right by saying that. Except the truth is, he’s gotten worse with me as I’ve gotten older.

But, the way I see it, at least he takes less out on her.

And that’s worth it for me.

I’ve never been to a summer camp before, but it’s clear as I look around the room at the lines of people that everyone else here has.

There are others around my age and some younger, I think around twelve or thirteen, all lingering around with their over-sized backpacks, sleeping bags, and suitcases, caught up in conversations with each other.

Some of them are running to each other, jumping up and down while screaming and hugging.

I suppose they only get to see each other this one time in the year, and it’s a very happy event for them. Not awkward like mine.

I make my way through to the front of the line. The clipboard counselor asks me a few questions, checking off a few items on her form, then directs me over to the lady wearing plastic latex gloves as she grabs another popsicle stick out of a plastic bin.

I sit down, removing my baseball cap as my dark hair flops down over my forehead.

I didn’t have a chance to get it cut before I left, but I’ve also been intentionally growing it out this year .

It doesn’t go past my ears, but it’s long enough that the strands fall over my face, making it feel like a barrier from me and, well, everyone else that I have no desire talking to.

“You’re clear,” Latex Glove Lady says gruffly, as she tosses the wooden stick in the metal bin at her feet, making a ping sound echo through the room.

Standing, I slide my hat back on over my head and grab my backpack, placing the strap over my shoulder.

There are two guys standing at the front of the line talking to each other. One stops as he looks at my name tag, back up at my face, then down again. He taps the arm of his friend and pats his own name tag while popping his chin up at me.

I look down to inspect myself, when he says, “Semun, your name is actually Semun?”

There’s a mix of a snicker and a snort before they both burst out in exaggerated laughter.

My backpack strap is covering a portion of the last letter, and the front of the tag is bunched together, removing the “A” from the middle, completely messing up the print.

Fucking great.

My fist clenches tightly around the strap of my bag as I step toward him. I don’t have friends here, so getting into a fight with an idiot whose maturity level rivals a five-year-old doesn’t sound like the smartest idea, but I won’t be the new guy that everyone uses as a punching bag.

My dad already does that.

Neither of the guys are too big. One is roughly my same height, sitting at about 5 '11, the other just slightly shorter. Although, the shorter one is heavier than both of us by at least forty pounds.

I open my mouth to reply when I feel a hand wrap around my bicep, giving me a slight tug in the other direction.

“I see the year hasn’t done anything for your maturity levels.” Her voice is soft like velvet, but the sharp tone of irritation is obvious.

My neck swivels down to her hand, then trails up slowly. My gaze moves from her dainty wrist and olive skin—that looks freshly sunkissed—up to her collarbone and smooth neckline, and over the contours of the most beautiful face I’ve ever seen.

Her dark chocolate eyes meet mine, and they’re the kind you get lost in, the kind that pulls you in and traps you unknowingly, but willingly. Her midnight hair compliments her gorgeous, almond-shaped eyes, and I’m officially speechless.

A confident smile spreads over her lips, and I can’t help but mirror it.

“Come on, Seamus, I need help finding my cabin.” She says my name perfectly, and it sounds like my new favorite song that I’d like to play on repeat forever.

“Hey!” the guys call out. “We were just messing around. He’s totally one of us, tell her, dude.” He points at me, begging with his eyes, like I’m actually going to save him right now.

Lifting a shoulder, I shrug with a matching one sided smirk, then turn to follow the goddess currently residing on my arm toward the bungalows.

“Every year those guys find someone to pick on,” she says as she leads us away from the check-in chaos. “They’re so annoying,” she adds.

“You were behind me and couldn’t see my name tag. How did you know my name?” I’m instantly irritated with myself realizing that is the first thing I’ve said to her.

“I heard you when you checked in—sounding out your name. Plus, my grandfather's name was Seamus. He was my grandfather on my mom’s side. He died before I was born, but we have a big Irish family, so I’m familiar with the name.” She smiles as she turns to look at me.

“You’re Irish?” I ask with skepticism, because I’m full-blooded Irish, and she doesn’t look just Irish .

“My dad is Japanese, so I’m half, officially.” She smiles again, and I’m already half in love with her. “I’m Mimi.”