Page 9 of Play Fake
NFL.
The letters feel heavy, like they’ve been carved into me since the day I picked up a football. My dad’s dream, stamped over mine. His voice echoes in my head, sharp and certain.Don’t waste what you’ve got, Beck. Guys would kill for your size, your instincts. You’ve got a shot most kids never even taste. Don’t screw it up.
He’s not wrong. I want it. I do. The roar of the stadium, the rush of the hit, the way the world narrows to a single play—it’s in my blood. But it’s not the only thing in me.
Because when the pads come off, when I’m sitting in class working toward my degree in psychology, something just clicks. Something quieter but just as real. I think about kids who grew up like me, never sure if anyone was really on their side, never quite feeling like you belonged where you were. I thinkabout what it would mean to be that person for someone else. A counselor. A teacher. A steady place when everything else is chaos. Just like Mr. Kay was for me.
I flex my hands against the wheel, knuckles tight. How do you choose between two futures when one feels like destiny and the other feels like purpose?
The truck hums down the road, tires hissing over asphalt. My stomach gives a sharp twist, and I press my lips together. Celiac. The word bites in again, a reminder I can’t shake. What if it costs me everything? What if my body quits before I can prove myself?
I roll the window down a crack, let the cool air rush in, and force my jaw to unclench. I can’t afford to spiral. Not now.
For tonight, the answer stays the same as always: focus on football. Keep my head down. Do the work. One practice, one rep, one game at a time.
The rest—the doubts, the what-ifs, the dreams I don’t dare say out loud—they can wait.
I turn onto my street, headlights sweeping across the small rental house I share with two teammates. The porch light glows dim, one bulb already burned out. Normal. Predictable.
I park, kill the engine, and sit there for a moment in the dark cab, the ticking of the cooling engine loud in the silence. My reflection stares back at me in the windshield, eyes shadowed, jaw set.
Guarded. Just the way it has to be.
Tomorrow, I’ll wake up and do it all over again.
Because if football doesn’t come first, nothing else will matter. At least, according to my dad.
My hands stay on the wheel, knuckles turning white, like if I let go everything I’ve been holding back might just slip out with it.
The house is right there—warm light in the window, laughter faint through the walls. Easy. Normal. But my chest feels tight, like I’m caught between two plays and the clock’s already running.
NFL. Counselor. Two futures pulling in opposite directions, both demanding pieces of me I’m not sure I can give.
I should go inside. I should let it go for the night.
Instead, I sit there in the quiet, heart pounding steady against the weight of everything I haven’t decided.
Balanced on the edge, and stuck at the crossroads without knowing which way to go.
4
SOPHIE
The stone pathways of the quad glow under the pale morning light, the sun just starting to come up. Most of campus seems to still be sleeping, and I enjoy the walk in the closest thing to silence you’ll find at college, listening to the birds and the faint noise of muffled traffic in the distance.
Packing four years of college into just three has been nothing short of a challenge, but entering my final year here at PCU, it feels like I can finally see the light at the end of the tunnel. Between the cheer squad, clinicals, and extra volunteer time, I have minimal to no extra time in my days.
Some might look at my schedule and think I’m slightly insane. They wouldn’t be completely wrong, but I thrive in chaos and do my best when I’m busy.
Adjusting my bag strap on my shoulder, I press my phone closer to my ear as my sister, Claire, continues on. Sidewalks bring me from the gym, down to the Student Services Center with its tall windows reflecting the morning’s peach and pink light, past a library with polished stone steps and a fountain tucked to one side, the water soft and familiar. I pass posters forthe surf club, environmental justice group, social work society—all pinned to cork boards outside classrooms.
“Tell me you’re not still taking classes that start at eight a.m.,” Claire groans in my ear.
“Gym first, of course.” I smile. “Then yes, eight a.m. is Abnormal Psych. I need it to graduate. Not exactly optional.”
“You and your serious planner brain,” Claire teases. “Remind me again why you didn’t just major in business like mom wanted?”
“Because I don’t want to spend my life in boardrooms, wearing heels I can’t walk in,” I say, stepping out of the athletics center, heading toward the cafe where I’m supposed to be grabbing a coffee before class with my best friend.
