Page 30 of Play Fake
I shrug like it’s no big deal, even though it feels like one. “Yeah. Why not?”
Her laugh is soft, disbelieving. “Because your schedule’s insane? Practice, weights, film…Beck, you barely have time to breathe.”
She’s not wrong. And yet, something in me tightens at the thought of her sitting up late, stressing herself sick over quizzes when I could make it easier.
“We’ll figure it out,” I say.
Her smile flickers, hesitant but real. “Okay. Well, outside of classes, not Tuesday or Thursday mornings. I volunteer then.”
I nod. “And I’m booked on Wednesday afternoons. Sundays too. Film and prep.”
She huffs a laugh, shaking her head. “See? Impossible.”
I wince, because she’s probably right. Still, I hear myself say, “Monday. We’ll start Monday and go from there.”
She studies me for a second, like she’s trying to puzzle out why I’d offer when I’m already stretched thin. Truth is, I don’t have an answer for that myself.
“Good luck at the game tomorrow,” she says finally, voice lighter as she turns toward her next class.
“Thanks.”
I watch her go for a moment before heading toward the athletic complex, my bag heavy on my shoulder.
I’ve got enough on my plate—football, school, my future hanging in the balance. Offering to help her wasn’t part of the plan.
And yet, I did.
11
SOPHIE
“Five minutes until warm-ups!” Jordan calls, clapping her hands.
I tug my ponytail tighter and smooth the flyaways by my temple. My stomach buzzes with the usual game-day nerves, but it’s not the same brand of anxiety I get before tests. This feels electric, humming under my skin, like the whole campus is about to explode, and we’re part of what sets it off.
When we jog out toward the field, the late afternoon sun stretches long over the stadium, the stands already filling with purple and gray. The marching band blares, students stream in with painted faces, and for a second I have to catch my breath. Even after three years, the energy of game day still hits me like a wave.
We take our spots along the sideline for warm-ups, running through our stretches in sync while the football team storms the field. Pads crack, whistles shrill, cleats bite into turf.
A certain number, fifty-four, catches my attention. He’s completely zoned in, helmet in hand, head bent in concentration as he adjusts his wrist tape.
I shouldn’t notice. I shouldn’t care. But my eyes find him anyway, pulled almost like a magnet. Maybe it’s because I know him now, at least a little—the way he held the door open for me on Wednesday, the quiet certainty when he promised we’d figure out time to study, even when his schedule is just as impossible as mine.
We’re not friends, exactly. Not yet. But he’s a grounding presence in a way that makes me feel like I can breathe easier just being near him.
I shake the thought away as Jordan calls out the next formation.
“Eyes up, Sophie!” she teases with a grin. “Don’t get distracted by the view.”
Heat rushes to my cheeks as she bursts into laughter. I force myself to focus on the routine, arms snapping sharp and legs pumping as we hit the motions.
But even when I turn my eyes back to the stands, even when I cheer with the rest of them, part of me is aware of the tall figure in the number fifty-four jersey lining up on defense.
The whistle blows. The game begins.
The stadium erupts, and I lose myself in the rhythm of chants, jumps, and cheers. Still, between the shouts and the sound of the crowd, my gaze keeps darting back to the field—back to Beck—like my brain is keeping track of him, even when I tell myself not to.
Not because I’m interested. Not like that, anyway.
