Page 145 of Play Fake
Beck settles into the chair beside me, his hand still resting on the back of my chair. The warmth of his presence chases away the last trace of Zach’s unwanted energy.
I angle toward him, unable to stop the grin tugging at my lips. “Hi.”
He gives me that half-smile, the one that makes my chest do this ridiculous fluttery thing. “Hi.”
“Did you win?” I ask quietly, knowing how much it means to him, but also because it feels likeusto talk about football in between champagne toasts and string quartets.
His smile falters, just barely.
My stomach drops. “Beck?”
“Yeah,” he says, nodding. “We dominated the second half. Defense was locked in, offense kept rolling. It was a good win.”
The way he says it tells me there’s something more that I missed.
I reach out under the table and squeeze his hand. “What happened?”
He exhales slowly, eyes dropping to the candle flickering between us. “Logan went down right before halftime. Non-contact. His knee twisted, bad. Trainers took him straight to the ER.”
“Oh my God,” I whisper.
He nods once, jaw tightening. “They were talking ACL, maybe more. I haven’t heard anything yet.”
My heart aches for him. For Logan. For the way Beck’s voice goes a little rough when he talks about his best friend.
“Beck…” I squeeze his hand again, a little tighter this time.
There’s worry in his eyes, but also that undeniable strength I’ve come to know, and love, so well.
“I’ll go see him after this,” he says quietly. “If he’ll let me. He told me to come here. Typical Logan, bossing me around, even while he’s being carted off.”
I give a soft laugh, because I can hear Logan saying exactly that.
Beck’s thumb brushes over my hand once before he lets go, sitting back as the room starts to stir with energy.
But the look he gives me lingers, equal parts tired, relieved to be here, and holding something heavy underneath.
And I know without him saying it: tonight, I’m not just his date to a wedding. I’m his anchor.
The servers begin setting plates down not long after Beck sits beside me. The band plays softly in the background, and the tent glows with warm candlelight.
When the server sets a steak dinner in front of Beck, I see the way he automatically leans back, polite but cautious.
“Oh, uh, no thank you,” he says to the server.
I lean in. “Beck—it’s safe.”
He looks at me, unsure.
“Everything’s gluten-free,” I explain. “Certified kitchen. Claire made sure of it. She said there might be a few guests with dietary restrictions, and she didn’t want anyone to stress. The steak dish is completely gluten-free, down to the sauces and butter.”
His expression softens. He picks up his fork, takes a bite, and instantly relaxes. “Damn,” he mutters. “That’s good.”
“Told you,” I grin.
Under the table, his hand finds mine. He squeezes gently. “Thank you,” he says softly, not just for the food. Forthinking of him.
The band’s first slow song starts just after dinner plates are cleared away. The tent is lit with hundreds of soft white lights, casting a warm glow over the dance floor as couples begin to pair up. Claire and her new husband spin in the center of it all, radiant. It’s the kind of moment that makes even the most cynical person believe in fairytales for a few minutes.
