Page 12 of Play Fake
BECK
The pounding comes first. Heavy, steady thuds that don’t belong in a dream.
Then the voice that most definitely doesn’t belong in my dreams. Not a pleasant one anyways. “Harrison! Get your ass up—you’ve got class in thirty minutes!”
I groan, rolling onto my back and squinting at the red numbers glowing on the alarm clock.Shit.
Logan doesn’t wait for me to answer. He pushes the door open like he owns the place, smacking the frame with his hand. “I swear, man, you’re a machine on the field, but off it? Helpless. You didn’t even set an alarm, did you?”
I scrub a hand over my face, trying to shake the fog out of my head. “I set it.”
“Uh-huh.” He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, that smug grin plastered on his face. “And you slept right through it. Professor Nelson doesn’t play. He’ll roast you alive if you’re late.”
That gets me moving. I swing my legs out of bed, shove my hair back, and stumble toward the bathroom. The shower’s quick and scalding, steam filling the room while I mutter cursesunder my breath. I don’t have time to shave, barely have time to towel off before I’m dragging on jeans and a plain black T-shirt, tugging my backpack over one shoulder.
When I cut through the kitchen, Logan’s already at the counter with a bowl of cereal, his feet kicked up on the empty chair across from him. He eyes me like I’m a charity case.
“No breakfast?” he asks around a mouthful of Frosted Flakes.
“Don’t have time.”More like didn’t prepare and make sure I had something ready that was safe.
“Don’t have time, or don’t have the stomach?” His smirk sharpens, and I glare at him.
“Not hungry.” The lie tastes as stale as it sounds, but it shuts him up.
“Suit yourself.” He shovels another spoonful, milk dripping down his chin. “Just don’t faint in class. I’m not carrying your linebacker ass across campus.”
I grab my keys from the hook by the door, ignoring him. My truck’s waiting in the driveway, sunlight glinting off the hood.
Logan calls after me as I head out, “Hey, maybe today’s the day you actually talk to someone besides me and the team! You know, branch out. Make a friend!”
I flip him off without looking back, which only makes him laugh harder.
The drive to campus is short, the air still cool enough that I crack the window. Normally, I’d walk to class, but today doesn’t allow for that. I tap the steering wheel, jaw tight. Being late isn’t me. I’m the guy who shows up early, the guy who doesn’t screw around. But one late morning, and Logan’s never going to let me live it down, ever.
I pull into the student lot, grab my backpack, and head for the psych building.
First day of classes.
The lot’s already packed, clusters of students moving toward the quad with coffee cups in hand and earbuds jammed in. I sling my backpack higher and fall into step, the sun catching on the red tile roofs and sandstone walls.
“Hey, Beck!”
A girl in a sundress waves from a bench by the fountain, her voice pitched sweet. I give her a nod, polite but nothing more, and keep moving.
Another pair crosses my path a few yards later, giggling as one of them calls out, “Linebacker Harrison—you going to win us another game this weekend?”
“Working on it,” I say with a half-smile, stepping aside so they can pass.
They laugh harder, whispering as I walk away.
It’s always like this. Eyes following, whispers trailing after me. I don’t blame them—it comes with the jersey, with the team. But I’ve learned the hard way that attention isn’t the same as care. And I don’t give pieces of myself away to anyone who doesn’t know how to hold them. Not anymore.
Before, I was friendly to everyone, not just kind. I was loyal to an absolute fault, as proven by getting back with Angela every time she would find someone she liked better for the time being. Eleven years total; the final four were a mess of on again, off again, until finally she forgot to turn us off before she turned someone else on, and I walked in on it.
I’m not saying I’m not kind now, but I have a wall about thirty feet thick that most wouldn’t even attempt to get through. Throw in the food challenges I’m facing, and it doesn't make the best recipe for making new friends or growing any type of friendships I already had. To say I’m not interested in anything even remotely romantic would be the understatement of the century.
Not after her.
