Page 44 of Play Fake
“It was…unexpected,” he admits. “Woke me up better than coffee ever has.”
A startled laugh bursts out of me, the tension loosening in my chest. “You’re not mad?”
He shakes his head, amused. “Mad? No. Confused, sure. But I’ve been through worse mornings.”
The relief that floods me is so strong it’s dizzying. “I shouldn’t have dragged you into it. I know that.”
He glances down at me, his expression softening. “You were backed into a corner. You did what you had to do. Don’t beat yourself up over it.”
Something hot prickles behind my eyes, because no one ever gives me that kind of grace. Not my parents. Not Zach. Not anyone.
Before I can say anything, he adds with a small smirk, “Just maybe a little warning next time.”
I nod quickly, a shaky smile tugging at my lips. “Deal.”
We reach the split in the path, where he veers toward the athletic building, and I go toward the library. He adjusts his bag strap, giving me one last look.
“See you Wednesday,” he says simply, his grin faint but real.
And then he’s gone, leaving me standing in the sun, lighter than I’ve felt in months.
15
BECK
The Thursday sun is brutal, baking the turf as I stretch out with the rest of the defense. Helmets glint under the late afternoon light, whistles sharp in the air. Coach is already barking about intensity, about keeping our heads in it with another game coming up Saturday.
I roll my shoulders back, tuning in—until a blur of movement catches my eye near the edge of the field.
Sophie.
She’s jogging across the track, gym bag bouncing against her hip, ponytail swishing. Definitely late, definitely in a hurry. Her cheer uniform is half on, half not, sweatshirt sleeves shoved up as she fumbles with a water bottle.
The corner of my mouth twitches before I can stop it.
“Yo.”
Logan’s voice cuts in. He’s beside me, helmet tucked under one arm, smirking like he’s already seen too much. “What’s up with that?”
I frown. “What?”
He tilts his chin toward where Sophie’s joined the cheer squad, still a little breathless, still adjusting her shoes. “That.”
I shake my head, standing to grab my helmet. “Nothing. Just saw someone running late. That’s all.”
Logan doesn’t look convinced, but the whistle blows again, calling us into formation. His grin widens. “Sure, Harrison. Whatever you say.”
I ignore him, locking my focus back on the line, on the play we’re about to run.
Because I don’t need distractions. Not from cheerleaders, not from anyone.
And yet, when we break the huddle, my gaze flicks back once—just once—before I shove it down and dig into the turf.
Coach’s whistle slices the air, pulling us back to focus. I shake off the distraction, crouching into position. The rhythm of practice takes over—calls, hits, the crunch of pads colliding, sweat dripping down my back under the late-afternoon sun.
Football is simple like this. Direct. No lies, no traps. Just plays, strength, and focus. I can trust that.
Still, every so often, my eyes drift toward the sideline. Sophie’s with her squad now, movements sharp as they cycle through routines. She laughs at something one of the other girls says, the sound carrying just faintly across the field.
