Page 38 of Play Fake
“How’s school going?” she asks, voice gentle.
“Fine,” I answer, too fast.
Her brow arches, the same way Alyssa’s does when she’s about to argue with Joey. “Fine, orfine?”
I sigh, leaning back against the counter. “Classes are challenging, for sure. Psych’s heavier than I thought, but…I love it. It feels like I’m learning something I could actually use.”
Caroline wipes her hands on a towel, watching me carefully. “And that matters more to you than football sometimes, doesn’t it?”
I don’t answer right away, staring at the stack of plates instead. Finally, I nod. “Yeah. It does.”
She steps closer, lowering her voice like she knows my dad could walk in any second. “Mark just wants what he thinks is best for you. But that doesn’t mean you can’t want something different, Beck.”
The knot in my chest loosens, just a little. She says it like she means it, like she wouldn’t think less of me if I chose the classroom over the stadium.
“Thanks,” I murmur.
She pats my arm lightly, already turning back to the stove. “Now, grab those rolls before I burn them, will you? I’m still not a pro at this gluten-free cooking thing.”
I obey, pulling the tray from the oven while she sets out the rest of the food. And for a moment, with Alyssa’s laughter floating in from the other room and Joey’s dinosaur sound effects echoing through the house, I almost believe that maybe I really do have more than one path forward.
By the time Caroline pulls the roast chicken from the oven, the table is already set, and Alyssa is bouncing in her chair while Joey sneaks bites of bread when he thinks no one’s looking. I take my seat, Caroline across from me, and Dad at the head.
For a while, it’s easy—Caroline asking Alyssa about her spelling test, Joey announcing that his dinosaurs are going to live in the backyard when he grows up. I laugh, listening, letting the noise soak in.
Then my dad clears his throat, setting his fork down. “So. Word is a couple scouts were at yesterday’s game.”
The knot in my stomach tightens immediately.
“They’re watching you, Beck. Stats are looking good—solid sacks, clean tackles. You keep that up, you’ll be in the conversation for draft day.” His voice carries that same matter-of-fact certainty, like he’s already picturing it, like it’s not a question but a destination.
I focus on cutting my chicken, chewing slowly, buying myself some time. Caroline’s eyes flick to me, warm and welcoming, like she’s telling me without words I don’t have to answer.
“I’m just trying to do my best,” I say finally, my voice low. “One game at a time.”
Dad nods, satisfied, like that’s the right answer, then spears another bite. But just when I think the conversation will drift back to Alyssa’s spelling or Joey’s dinosaurs, he looks up again. “I’m proud of you, son. It takes a lot of focus and determination to not only excel on the field, but also really focusing in on a hard line-up of classes. How are those going, by the way? I know you were a little hesitant on Abnormal Psych for this term.”
I grin, happy that he’s getting more and more onboard with my other potential career path. “They’re going well. I think it’ll definitely be more challenging as it goes on, and we have a big project that we will be getting paired up for, but hopefully nothing I can’t handle.”
He clears his throat as he puts his glass back down on the table after taking a drink. “Speaking of. You been to see your mom lately?”
The fork stalls in my hand. The clatter of plates and chatter quiets, Alyssa and Joey both pausing.
Caroline clears her throat softly, reaching for the serving bowl. “Mark?—”
“What?” he says, not harsh but direct. “It’s a fair question. She’s still his mother. I’m not pushing him or telling him he has to, I’m just curious after how things played out last time.”
I swallow hard, the food suddenly like gravel in my throat. Memories flash quick—familiar walls that felt like anything but safety, voices too loud, nights too long.
I set my fork down, my jaw tight. “Not recently.”
The silence that follows says enough.
Caroline is the one who rescues the moment, turning to ask Joey about his latest LEGO masterpiece. The conversation slowly picks back up, Alyssa chattering again, Joey roaring like his T-Rex, but the weight of Dad’s question lingers, pressing in no matter how much I try to push it away.
The rest of the meal passes in bits of conversation—Alyssa proudly spelling out words she’s memorized, Joey sneaking peas under the table to the family dog, Caroline keeping everything moving with a quiet smile. I answer when I’m asked, laugh when the kids do something goofy, but Dad’s questions stick like burrs, scratching every time I shift.
When we’re done, I help Caroline gather plates, carrying them into the kitchen while Alyssa and Joey dart off to the living room to finish their “fortress.” The sink fills with warm, soapy water, and Caroline hums softly as she rinses. I dry, stacking the dishes neatly on the counter.
