Page 60 of Play Fake
I shake my head, fighting the tug at my lips. “Always so tough, huh?”
“Something like that.” His eyes glint, but it fades quickly, his shoulders sinking just a little deeper.
The teasing edge slips away, and before I can stop myself, the truth blurts out. “I didn’t come in here for a water bottle.”
His brows lift slightly, waiting.
“I came in here because I wanted to check on you. To make sure you were okay.” My voice drops lower, barely carrying over the chaos of the locker room. “You don’t look okay, Beck.”
For a moment, silence stretches between us, the noise of his teammates clattering around fading into the background.
And then his gaze softens—steady and unflinching, like he’s reallyseeingme.
“You shouldn’t worry about me,” he says quietly.
For a second, I think he’s going to brush me off again. But instead, Beck exhales slowly, dragging a hand over his face.
“It’s just the same from earlier this week,” he admits with a low voice, meant only for me. “Thought I was past it, but I guess not.”
My heart twists. “So, that’s why you’ve looked so…” I trail off, not wanting to say pale or miserable out loud.
He smirks faintly, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah. Not exactly my best game face.”
“You shouldn’t even be out here,” I whisper, biting my lip.
“Probably not.” He tilts his head toward me, and there’s something almost gentle in his expression. “But I’ll be fine.”
And for some reason, I believe him—because he says it confidently, like he’s carried worse before.
Before I can say anything else, the door to the locker room swings open. Logan appears, already tugging at his gloves, scanning the benches until his eyes land on us.
“You good?” he asks Beck, then flicks a look at me, brows arching like he knows exactly what he’s walked in on.
Beck just nods, pushing himself to his feet with more effort than he probably wants me to notice. “Yeah. Ready.”
Beck adjusts his helmet under his arm, but his eyes linger on me. For a second, he looks like he might brush it all off again—but instead, his hand finds mine, giving it a brief squeeze.
“Thanks, Soph,” he says quietly.
It’s simple, but the weight in his tone makes my chest ache.
Movement catches my eye, and I realize Logan’s been standing just inside the doorway, watching. He doesn’t say anything, just quirks a smile, then tips me a quick wink before clapping Beck on the shoulder and steering him toward the tunnel.
I wait a few minutes before slipping back out to the field.
Ava’s waiting near the sideline with her pom-poms tucked under one arm, brows raised. “Took you long enough. What’d you do, get lost on the way to grab your water bottle? Because, newsflash—it’s literally been sitting right here the whole time.”
Heat rushes up my neck, but before I can come up with a comeback, her grin turns sly. “Is he good?”
I nod, swallowing the knot in my throat. “Yeah. He’s good.”
Ava turns back to the field, raising her pom-poms, and I follow suit, falling back into line with the squad.
But my head is still spinning.
Beck’s hand was warm, even when he looked like he could barely hold himself upright. And that simplethanks—quiet, sincere—lingers louder in my mind than the roar of the crowd.
I don’t really know what to make of how I’m feeling. I just know that I really care for Beck, as a friend. A very attractive, calming, friend.
