Page 33 of Play Fake
But skipping reps isn’t an option.
This is the price of balance—trying to be everything at once: student, cheerleader, volunteer, sister, daughter.
And maybe, just maybe, a little bit of a friend, too.
The thought catches me off guard, Beck’s face flashing in my mind. His steady voice, promising,We’ll figure it out.
I grit my teeth, pushing through the last rep, shaking it off.
Racking the weights, I wipe down the bench, and force myself into finishing my workout with a twenty minute run on the treadmill.
I’m still damp from the world’s fastest workout as I jog down the hallway of the athletic building. My backpack thumps against my shoulder, and I’m half-wrestling with the sweatshirt I’m trying to tug over my sports bra before stepping outside.
Of course, the sleeve catches. My elbow jams, and I end up with the neckline twisted across my face like a straitjacket.
“Seriously?” I mutter, yanking harder as I speed-walk.
That’s when I smack into something solid.
My bag slides off my shoulder, the water bottle clattering across the tile. The sweatshirt’s still halfway over my head, trapping me in cotton darkness.
“Whoa—easy there.”
The voice is deep and just a little too familiar.
I finally wrench the sweatshirt down, blinking up through damp lashes—straight into a broad chest, then green eyes that narrow just slightly with amusement.
Beck, of course.
Heat rushes up my neck, not just from the workout. “Sorry,” I blurt, reaching for my bag. “I wasn’t looking.”
He bends smoothly, scooping up my water bottle before I can, handing it back without comment.
“You’re fine,” he says. “In a hurry?”
“Always,” I admit, shouldering my bag again. My sweatshirt’s twisted, one sleeve still halfway inside out, and I tug at it uselessly.
The corner of his mouth twitches, like he’s trying not to laugh.
Great. Exactly the impression I wanted to make—looking like I just lost a fight with my own clothes.
I tug at the twisted sleeve again, muttering under my breath, but the fabric just bunches worse around my elbow.
“Here,” Beck says simply, his hand reaching out.
Before I can protest, he straightens the sleeve with a practiced tug, the cotton sliding easily into place. His fingers brush my forearm for barely a second—firm and sure, unbothered.
To him, it’s nothing. Just helping.
But a rush of goosebumps prickles up my arms anyway, traitorous and impossible to ignore.
“Thanks,” I manage, tugging the hem into place like that’ll settle my nerves.
He nods once, already slinging his backpack higher on his shoulder. “Happens to the best of us.”
We fall into step toward the doors, his stride easy, mine quick to match.
“Heading to class?” he asks as we push out into the cool morning air.
