Page 160 of Play Fake
Something shifts for me then. Quiet. Certain. Permanent.
This isn’t just a moment. It’sthemoment.
I want the roar of the crowd. The game-day adrenaline. The future I’ve been chasing since I was a kid. But I wantherin it. Sophie Prescott. Her laughter, her stubbornness, her hand in mine after every whistle.
For the first time, I know with absolute clarity: I want both worlds. And I want her at the center of it all.
She laughs softly. “Nice game, Harrison.”
“You’re kind of distracting, Prescott,” I murmur, brushing a thumb across her cheek.
She opens her mouth to respond?—
And then Logan clears his throat. Loudly.
We turn to find him parked just a few yards away, Sloane standing behind his chair with her arms crossed and a very unimpressed look that’s hiding a smile.
Logan grins like the devil himself. “So, one time, when we were at an away game, Beck had to shut himself in the?—”
“NOPE,” I cut in immediately, moving behind his chair before he can finish.
“Hey—hey!” he protests as I start wheeling him away from the girls. “Don’t deprive your girlfriend of the greatest story ever told!”
Sloane chuckles, jogging after us and taking over pushing Logan’s chair. Sophie covers her mouth, her shoulders shaking with laughter, her eyes absolutelyglowing.
“Logan,” I warn over my shoulder.
He just leans back in the chair, smug. “You can’t outrun the truth, Harrison.”
“Watch me,” I fire back.
Sophie slips her hand into mine as we walk, still laughing, and somehow, the noise of the crowd and the cool December air fade into the background.
It’s ridiculous. It’s loud. It’s perfect.
And it’sours.
51
SOPHIE
The weeks after the rivalry game blurred together in a rhythm of practice, volunteering, playoff football, and holiday countdowns.
The team fought hard through the first rounds of the playoffs, but without Logan on the field, they fell just short of making it to the championship game. No one said it out loud, but we all felt it—the hole where his presence should’ve been. Even so, they went out swinging, and Beck walked off that field for the last time this season with his head held high.
He hasn’t slowed down, though. Pro Day is in the spring, and he’s been training like a man on a mission—mornings in the weight room, afternoons reviewing film, evenings running drills. But there’s a lightness to him now, like he’s not carrying everything alone anymore.
Somewhere between those long nights studying for finals, Christmas movie marathons in his room, and late-night drives to look at holiday lights, we fell into something that feels…real.
And now it’s Christmas Eve.
The air is sharp and cold as we climb out of his truck, our breath puffing in little clouds. My hands are full—bags ofwrapped gifts stacked carefully, all labeled for the kids at the foster center. Beck reaches over without hesitation and takes half the load, slinging a few bags over his arm like they weigh nothing.
“You don’t have to come with me for this,” I tell him, though my heart warms at the sight of him carrying a giant sack of presents like Santa.
He gives me a look. “Soph. You know I want to.”
And he means it.
