Page 31 of Play Fake
Kickoff thunders across the field, the crowd roaring as the ball arcs high into the sky. The rhythm of the game takes over fast—defense, offense, whistles, cheers. We keep up on the sidelines, chants rolling off our tongues, bodies moving in sync with every surge of energy from the stands.
Still, my eyes keep tracking number fifty-four.
Beck commands the defense like he was born for it, low and steady, reading plays before they unfold. Every time he crashes through the line, the sound of the hit echoes all the way to the sideline, making my breath catch.
“Damn,” one of the girls mutters between cheers. “He’s a machine.”
She’s not wrong.
Second quarter, third down—he intercepts a pass like he plucked it straight out of the air. The stadium erupts, fans leaping to their feet. I scream with the rest of the squad, pom-poms flashing as we tumble into our victory routine, but underneath the chants, my chest hums with something different.
Pride? Admiration?
I don’t know.
By halftime, sweat sticks to the back of my neck, and my throat is raw from shouting. Tessa cracks a joke about the defensive line carrying us to glory, and I laugh, but my gaze drifts back to where Beck is walking off the field, helmet tucked under his arm, jaw sharp under the bright stadium lights.
When the band takes over, I sip from my water bottle, trying not to think too hard about why I keep noticing.
The second half is even louder. The other team pushes hard, trying to claw their way back, but Beck shuts them down again and again. Fourth quarter, two minutes left—he sacks the quarterback so hard the ball pops loose, and Logan scoops it for the turnover.
The place goes feral.
We jump into our final cheer, voices breaking, the crowd a tidal wave of sound around us. Victory tastes like sweat and adrenaline, like a whole campus holding its breath together, then letting it out in one deafening roar.
When the final whistle blows, I drop onto the bench for a second, chest heaving, hair sticking to my temples. The team surges the field, helmets high, the cheer squad hugging and screaming beside me.
And through the chaos, my eyes find him again. Beck, standing tall in the middle of it all, teammates clapping his back, Logan shouting something in his ear.
He doesn’t bask in it, doesn’t play to the crowd. He just looks focused. Grounded. Like this is exactly where he’s supposed to be.
I swallow hard, my pulse still racing.
It’s silly, probably. He’s just another player on the team. Another face in the crowd.
But somehow, out of everyone on that field, he’s the one I can’t seem to stop watching.
The stadium begins to empty in waves. Fans flood toward the exits, the band blaring one last round before packing up. Our squad lingers, catching our breath, makeup smudged but spirits high.
“That interception was insane,” one of the girls gushes as we gather our bags. “The football house is gonna be packed tonight.”
“Obviously,” Tessa says with a grin. “We should all go celebrate!”
There’s a round of agreement, chatter sparking about outfits, rides, who’s already texting with players.
I force a smile, but my chest is still buzzing with leftover adrenaline of a different kind. “I think I’m gonna head back. I’ve got studying to catch up on tomorrow.”
Cue the groans.
“Sophie,” Tessa whines, dragging out my name. “Come on. One night won’t kill you.”
“Maybe not, but falling behind will,” I say lightly, hoisting my bag onto my shoulder. “I’ll see you guys Monday.”
They roll their eyes but don’t press, too busy making plans.
The night air is cool as I step out of the stadium, quieter now that the crowd has thinned. The path to Emerson Hall stretches long and familiar, lamplight pooling in golden circles across the pavement.
Up ahead, I catch sight of two figures breaking off from the steady stream of students—broad shoulders, easy stride. Beck and Logan.
