Page 25 of Play Fake
I tighten my grip on my coffee, forcing myself to breathe.
Halfway up the path, movement catches at the edge of my vision. A familiar figure falls into stride beside me—broad shoulders, messy brown hair, calm in the way that makes my nerves stand out even more.
Beck.
“Morning,” he says, voice low enough that it doesn’t cut into the rush of footsteps around us.
“Morning,” I echo, though mine comes out thinner, nerves bleeding through.
We reach the psych building at the same time. He pulls ahead by half a step, catches the door, and holds it open without hesitation.
“Thanks,” I murmur, brushing past, careful not to spill coffee down my front.
“No problem.” He follows me in, the door shutting with a heavy thud behind us.
Students are already clustering near the classroom door. My pulse stutters, and I shift the cup from one hand to the other.
Beck glances at me then, not in a nosy way—just steady, like he actually sees me. “You look like you’re about to sprint a marathon.”
“Feels like it,” I admit, a laugh catching in my throat. “I hate quizzes.”
“Yeah?” His mouth tips up, the smallest grin. “They’re just warm-ups.”
Easy for him to say. But somehow, hearing it out loud makes my chest loosen just a fraction.
We fall into step toward the lecture hall, the buzz of students thick in the air. Beck doesn’t rush, doesn’t fidget—he just walks calmly, like nothing could throw him off. I envy that more than I want to admit.
Inside, the room is already filling up, backpacks slung across chairs, laptops glowing. I head for the row we’ve unofficially claimed since day one. The seat beside mine is still open, and sure enough, Beck slides into it a second later.
He drops his notebook onto the desk, flipping it open with no fanfare. I set my coffee down carefully, fingers tapping against the cup.
“You actually study for this?” I ask, half teasing, half desperate to make conversation that distracts me from the panic simmering under my skin.
He arches a brow, pen clicking in his hand. “Yeah. Why wouldn’t I?”
“I don’t know. You’ve got…a lot going on. Football. Practice. The whole campus depending on you to win games.”
His jaw twitches like he wants to laugh but doesn’t. “Doesn’t mean I don’t care about grades.”
I blink. “So you actually like psych?”
He nods once. “It’s the only thing that makes sense off the field.” His eyes flick to mine, steady, unreadable. “Helps me understand people.”
Something in my chest stutters, but before I can respond, the professor clears his throat at the front, holding up a stack of papers.
“All right, everyone. Quiz one. Five short answer, five multiple choice. You’ll have twenty-five minutes. No notes.”
The room groans, students shifting nervously, and my stomach clenches so tight it hurts.
Beck leans back in his chair, casual, like he’s completely unfazed. He glances at me once, catching the way I’m gripping my pen too tight.
“Hey,” he murmurs, low enough for only me. “You’ll do great.”
I swallow hard, nodding like I believe him, and slide my notebook to the corner of the desk as the papers start making their way down the rows.
Fine?Right.
Here goes nothing.
