Page 43 of Play Fake
And just like the first night he stood beside me at the party, I don’t feel like I’m standing alone.
Mom’s eyes narrow, her smile just a little too tight. “And what is it you do, Beck? Besides…football, I mean.”
Her tone makes football sound like a hobby, not the grueling commitment it actually is.
Beck doesn’t so much as blink. “I’m a senior. Psychology major. Still deciding between grad school and the draft.”
Dad lets out a low grunt, like he’s testing the words for cracks. “NFL, huh?”
“Possibly,” Beck says. Calm. Even. No bragging, no flinching. “But I’ve always been more interested in working with people than chasing numbers. Counseling, maybe teaching. We’ll see.”
The look Mom gives me is sharp, like she’s trying to gauge whether I had any idea about this. I fight to keep my face neutral, even as something inside me twists.
Because it’s the first time I’ve heard him talk about his future like that. And he says it like it’s no big deal, when it feels like everything.
“Well,” Mom says finally, smoothing her blazer. “I suppose we’ll have to trust your judgment.”
Her words don’t fool me. She doesn’t trust me at all.
Dad checks his watch, already moving the conversation along. “We’ll talk more at Claire’s rehearsal dinner.”
Panic spikes in my chest at the thought of dragging Beck into that disaster, but I force a bright smile before he can reply.
“Actually,” I cut in, gripping Beck’s arm tighter, “we really have to get going. Class doesn’t wait, and Professor Nelson locks the door if you’re late.”
It’s a stretch, but they don’t know that.
Mom’s lips press together like she wants to argue, but she nods once. “We’ll be in touch.”
“Of course,” I say quickly, already steering Beck toward the psych building before either of them can ask another question.
My heart pounds as we put distance between us, my face aching from the fake smile I’ve been holding. The moment we’re out of earshot, I let out a shaky breath, finally daring to look up at him.
His expression is unreadable—but his calm steadiness hasn’t wavered once.
By the time we reach the psych building steps, my pulse still hasn’t slowed. My parents are dots in the distance now, but the weight of what I just did hangs heavy in my chest.
I stop just short of the door, forcing myself to face him. “Beck—” My voice cracks. I swallow, then try again. “I know I owe you an explanation. That was…I shouldn’t have dragged you into it like that.”
He studies me for a beat, his expression curious, but not angry or even annoyed. Just…waiting.
Then he shakes his head once. “We’ve got class,” he says quietly. “We’ll talk after.”
Relief and dread slam into me at the same time. Relief that he isn’t walking away, dread over what comes next.
“Okay,” I whisper, hugging my notebook tighter to my chest.
And then he’s pulling the door open, holding it for me like nothing about this morning has rattled him at all—while inside, I’m nothing but frayed edges.
Class feels endless, my notes an absolute disaster of half-thoughts and scribbles. Every time I risk a glance at Beck beside me, he’s just…calm. Focused. Like nothing happened this morning at all. Meanwhile, my insides are knotted so tight I can barely breathe.
When the lecture finally ends, I take my time packing up, bracing myself for him to walk out without a word. But when I glance up, Beck is waiting for me near the aisle and my chest squeezes.
We step into the sunlight, the quad buzzing with students heading to their next classes. The words tumble out of me in a rush. “I’m sorry. About this morning. My parents cornered me, and I didn’t know what else to say, and I panicked, and?—”
Beck cuts in, voice easy. “Relax, Sophie. I survived.”
I blink at him. He’s actually smiling, just a little, the corner of his mouth kicking up.
