Page 24 of Play Fake
“Beck Harrison, right?”
I glance over. A brunette in a tight red top is smiling up at me, her nails curled around a cup as she steps closer. She tilts her head, eyes bright. “You were insane out there tonight. That interception you got? Highlight reel material.”
“Appreciate it,” I say, polite but even, not giving her much more. I definitely didn’t get an interception. I caused a fumble. Very big difference.
She lingers, biting her lip like she’s waiting for me to add something. When I don’t, she leans in, voice a little softer. “So…you celebrating big tonight or just hiding over here?”
Before I have to answer, Logan reappears with a fresh drink and sweat on his brow like he’s just come back from the dance floor. His grin is wide, already half amused at the scene he’s walking into.
I shift slightly, nodding toward him. “You know Logan, right?”
Her eyes flick to him, recognition sparking. Logan’s smirk grows.
“Logan Brooks,” he says, giving her a little bow with his cup. “But I’ll answer to anything you want to call me.”
She laughs, turning her attention to him like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Logan slides easily into the conversation, his charm cranked up to full blast.
I take the opportunity to step back, leaning against the wall again.
Not my lane. Not what I’m here for.
The music and shouting follow me up the stairs, bass rattling the walls as I push past a couple making out in the hallway. My room is quieter, the noise muffled once the door clicks shut.
I kick off my shoes and sit on the edge of the bed. My body aches from the game—shoulders sore, legs heavy, the adrenaline finally fading.
I turn on my sound machine, and it instantly starts to blur out the chaos from downstairs.
Reaching into the nightstand, I pull out a box of granola bars. The wrapper crinkles under my fingers as I peel one free. Before I tear it open, I flip it over, scanning the label like I haven’t already checked it a dozen times before.
Gluten-free.
I chew slowly, leaning back against the headboard, letting the sugar ease some of the postgame crash. My body’s tired, but my mind won’t shut off.
Two futures roll around in my head like coins I can’t stop flipping.
NFL. The dream everyone sees when they look at me—stadium lights, packed crowds, the path carved by my dad’s expectations as much as my own ability. Seeing the pride on my dad’s face whenever I give my all out on the field never gets old, but sometimes I think there’s more for me out there.
Or grad school. Counseling. A different kind of grind, quieter but no less demanding. One that would make sense of all thehours I’ve spent buried in psychology texts instead of highlight reels.
Both roads are hard. Both roads demand everything.
And standing at the crossroads, I don’t know which one is really mine.
The bass downstairs rattles the dresser, laughter echoing faintly up the stairs. I turn up the sound machine, to the point where it’s just me and the weight of two futures pressing down.
I close my eyes, bar still half-finished in my hand.
For tonight, all I can do is breathe.
9
SOPHIE
The morning air is cool as I hurry across the quad Wednesday morning, crisp enough to raise goosebumps on my arms, but not quite to the point of needing a jacket. My stomach’s been in knots since last night, twisting tighter with every step that brings me closer to the psych building.
First quiz of the semester.
Most people would shrug it off, but not me. I can’t. My brain doesn’t let me. I’ve already color-coded my notes, made flash cards, and stayed up late reviewing every disorder we’ve covered so far. Still, the what-ifs spiral. What if I forget everything the second the paper hits my desk, what if I blank, what if my GPA starts slipping here, in the one class I can’t afford to tank.
