Page 47 of Play Fake
“Touché.” Her smile breaking free. “So, should we actually study? Maybe move to the library where it’s a little quieter?”
“Library works.” I stand, sliding my bag strap over my shoulder.
She grabs her cup, still smiling faintly as she falls into step beside me. The café noise fades behind us, replaced by the hum of campus—footsteps, voices, the late-morning buzz.
We walk in silence for a bit, the kind that doesn’t press this time. The kind that feels…almost comfortable.
At the library, we find a spot near the windows. She spreads out her notes with surgical precision—highlighters lined up by color, pages stacked neat. I set mine down across from hers, a mess of block handwriting and arrows that only I can follow.
Her eyes flick to my notebook, then back to hers, and she hides a small smile.
“What?” I ask, brow raised.
“Nothing.” She shakes her head, amused. “Just…yours look like chaos compared to mine.”
“They work,” I say simply, flipping to a fresh page.
She hums, still smiling, and for the next hour, we settle into rhythm. She quizzes me, I quiz her. When she stumbles, I don’t rush in—I wait until she finds the answer herself. Each time she does, her shoulders ease a little more.
And I catch myself noticing the same little things as last time. The way she chews her lip when she’s thinking. The tiny crease between her brows when she second-guesses herself. The quiet spark in her eyes when she finally nails an answer.
I shove it down, focusing on the page in front of me. Because this is studying. That’s all it is.
Still, when she laughs at one of my dry comments about the textbook wording—“who writes this stuff?”—the sound lingers longer than I expect.
By the time we pack up, the tension from earlier feels like it’s shifted. Lighter. Easier.
She tucks her notes into her bag, glancing at me. “Thanks. For…all of this.”
I shake my head. “Don’t thank me. You’re the one doing the work.”
Her smile softens, and for a second, I feel it catch somewhere I don’t want to name.
I clear my throat, standing. “I should get going. We’ve got final film review before tonight.”
Her mouth curves, knowing. “Rival week. Coach must be on edge.”
I huff out a laugh. “You have no idea.”
She raises a brow. “I think I might.”
Fair point.
We fall into step across the quad, sunlight warming the path between us. At the corner where our routes split, I nod once. “I’ll see you tonight.”
She hesitates, shifting her bag higher on her shoulder. Then, before she can catch herself, she blurts, “Guess I’ll be cheering a little harder for you. You know, since you’re my ‘boyfriend,’ and all that.”
The words hang there, softer than she probably meant, and her cheeks flush almost instantly.
For a moment, neither of us moves. Her eyes lift to mine, blue and searching, and something in my chest tightens.
I let the silence stretch just long enough to feel it, then give a small, easy smile. “I’ll do my best to make it worth it.”
Her lips part, like she wasn’t expecting me to answer that way. She looks away quickly, heat creeping up her neck as she mutters something about practice. Then she turns down her path, steps brisker than before.
I watch her go for half a beat longer than I should, then shake it off and head toward the athletic building.
That’s when I see him.
