Page 4 of Play Fake
Zach’s still slouched on the couch, but the second my eyes lock on his, his posture stiffens. I don’t raise my voice. I don’t move toward him. I just take a step closer, enough that the crowd around us goes quiet.
“You say that to her again,” I tell him, voice low and even, “you and I are going to have a real fucking problem. Do you understand me?”
His Adam’s apple bobs. He glances at the guys sitting nearby, none of them meeting his eyes, then mutters, “Yeah.”
“Good.”
I turn back to Sophie, holding the door open for her. She slips outside without looking back, and I follow, letting the door close on the stale beer-and-sweat air behind us.
Out on the porch, the night is cool, and the quiet feels almost startling. She takes a slow breath, her shoulders loosening just a fraction.
I lean against the railing, giving her space, my own breath steadying.
An hour ago, I was inside with the guys, trying not to think about how fast this year’s already moving—about the draft, life after football, whether I’m even ready for any of it.
Now, I’m standing out here with a girl whose face, just minutes ago, held the exact same gut-punched expression I saw in the mirror last year.
I don’t know how I got from there to here.
But here I am.
2
SOPHIE
The night air is cool against my skin, sharp with the faint bite of early fall. I suck in a breath, filling my lungs, trying to shake the stale mix of beer and sweat from the house off me.
God, what a mess.
Not just tonight—though walking in on Zach with another girl will probably top my list of humiliations for a while—but the last year. The whispered warnings I ignored. The nights I convinced myself that loyalty meant sticking it out, even when I knew better.
All because my parents cared more about appearances than how I actually felt.
Zach looked good on paper. His family name, his connections, the way my mom would smile at him across the dinner table like he was already part of the family. I let that pressure box me in until I couldn’t tell where my choices ended and theirs began.
And look where that got me.
I press my palms against the porch railing, grounding myself. The music inside is muffled now, laughter and shoutingblurring into background noise. I should leave. Crawl back to my dorm and pretend this night never happened.
“Hey.”
The voice is deep but not pushy, carrying easily through the quiet.
I glance over my shoulder. The guy from inside—broad shoulders, messy brown hair, green eyes that had cut straight through Zach like it was nothing—steps onto the porch. He doesn’t crowd me, just leans against the other end of the railing, leaving space.
“You okay?” he asks.
“I’m fine.” The answer comes out too fast, too sharp. I exhale, softer the second time. “Embarrassed, mostly. Should’ve known better.”
He studies me, not like he’s judging, but like he’s listening. Really listening. “Doesn’t make it your fault.”
I huff a laugh. “Tell that to my parents. They think he walks on water.”
His brow furrows. “Parents don’t always know what they’re talking about.”
Something about the way he says it—steady, certain—makes my chest tighten.
For a moment, we just stand there in the cool night, silence stretching but not uncomfortable. He doesn’t push, doesn’t ask for details.
