Page 20 of Play Fake
Her lips curve into that small smile again, almost like she’s trying not to let it grow.
“Well, thank you,” she says, turning back to her notebook.
I let it drop, eyes shifting to the professor who’s moving toward the board. But I can still feel the quiet hum of her presence beside me, sharper now, like she’s filed my answer away for later.
“You ready for the game this weekend?”
“Yeah,” I say, keeping my tone even. “We’re ready. Lots of pressure, but nothing new.”
Her smile softens. “You don’t sound nervous.”
“I honestly don’t really get nervous at this point,” I tell her, then after a beat, add, “Just focused.”
She studies me for a moment, like she’s trying to decide if I’m serious or just posturing. Then she nods, jotting something in her notebook.
Before either of us can say more, the professor clears his throat at the front of the room, launching straight into today’s lecture. Pens start scratching, laptops tapping, and the conversation is over—at least for now.
But I can still feel it. The small thread of curiosity stretched between us.
By the time the lecture ends, my notebook is filled with dates and definitions, half of which I’ll need to review again later if I want them to stick. Sophie slides her pen into her bag and stands when I do, falling into step beside me as we follow the stream of students out the door.
“Think you’re ready for the quiz next week?” she asks, glancing up at me.
“Working on it,” I admit. “Guess I’ll be spending most of Sunday with my nose in the textbook.”
She smiles faintly. “Same.”
We push through the doors into the sunlight, the campus alive with chatter and the clang of the bell tower overhead.Logan’s leaning against a railing a few feet away, arms crossed, looking like he’s been waiting.
But before we reach him, Sophie tips her head, eyes sharp with curiosity. “How did you know I’ve been going here for three years?”
I freeze for half a beat, pulse kicking faster.
Shit.
I keep my expression neutral, forcing a shrug. “Just a guess.”
Her lips twitch, like she doesn’t quite believe me, but she doesn’t press. Instead, she steps back, adjusting the strap of her bag. “Well…good luck tomorrow.”
I shift my backpack higher on my shoulder, already turning toward Logan, who’s waiting with that trademark smirk of his.
“Was that the girl you were cyberstalking earlier this week?” he asks, one brow raised.
I shoot him a look. “I wasn’t stalking anyone.”
He lets out a low whistle. “Sure didn’t look that way. Her pictures are pretty, but damn. Real thing is even better.”
I snort, shaking my head. “She’s pretty. No denying that. But lots of girls are pretty, Logan. Doesn’t mean I’m looking for anything.”
Logan studies me for a beat, then nods once, grin easing. “Fair enough.”
“Football, school. That’s it,” I add, more to myself than to him.
“Then let’s hit the weights before Coach thinks we’re wussy’s,” he says, clapping me on the shoulder.
I fall into step beside him, grateful for the shift back to routine.
Pretty or not, distractions aren’t part of the plan.
