Page 45 of Play Fake
I push harder into the next drill, determined to shove the image out of my head.
By the time practice winds down, the sun is dipping low, creating shadows stretching across the turf. Coach dismisses us with a final round of instructions, already chewing out a freshman who lagged on conditioning.
Helmets come off, chatter rises as the guys peel away in clumps. A couple of them—Kyle and Trey, always the same culprits—veer toward the cheerleaders, tossing grins and lines that make the girls giggle and roll their eyes in equal measure.
Logan nudges me. “C’mon, Harrison. We could use another wingman.”
I sling my helmet under my arm, shaking my head. “I’ll pass.”
He smirks. “Course you will.”
I don’t rise to the jab. Instead, I head toward the locker room, the weight of my pads settling heavier with each step.
The showers hiss to life, steam filling the air as the guys joke and talk about the weekend. I strip down, letting the hot water pound against my sore muscles, their laughter fading into a dull hum.
I’m not here for parties or girls or distractions. I’m here for the game. For school. For figuring out which path is mine before time runs out.
And yet, as I scrub sweat and turf dust from my skin, one image slips back uninvited—Sophie running late across the track, flushed and breathless, smiling at her friends like the weight of the world doesn’t even touch her.
I close my eyes, shaking it off.
Focus,Harrison.Focus.
Friday mornings usually start the same—weights, shower, psych. Today should’ve been no different. But by the time I hit the steps to Nelson’s building, hair still damp at the ends, my phone buzzes with an email.
CLASS CANCELED.
I’m not sure whether to be annoyed or relieved. A free hour sounds good, but I’ve already got my head set for lecture.
“Canceled?”
I know who the voice belongs to before I even look up. Sophie’s standing a few steps ahead, screen lifted like proof.There’s a tension in her shoulders, like she’d worked herself up to be here and now doesn’t know what to do with it.
“Yeah,” I respond. “No class today.”
She turns to see me standing behind her.
I slide my phone back into my pocket. “Guess that’s one way to start a Friday.”
We stand there too long, the silence stretching. Then she blurts, “Coffee?”
Her tone makes me want to smile, but I don’t. I just nod. “Coffee.”
We head across the quad together, quiet. She’s buzzing—nervous energy rolling off her—but I keep my pace even, like it’s just another morning.
The café is crowded and loud. We grab drinks then slide into a small table near the back. For a while, we don’t talk. Just sip. She’s wound tight, I can tell. Eventually, she sets her cup down, eyes darting to me.
“So…about Monday. I didn’t mean to blindside you. I really am sorry.”
Her apology tugs something in my chest. I don’t want her thinking she wronged me. My mouth twitches. “You said that already. And I told you—I’m not mad. Still the most interesting wake-up I’ve had in a while.”
Color creeps up her neck. “Not exactly how I wanted to make an impression.”
“You did.” I shrug. “Between that and your hoodie attacking you, you’re starting to become someone I’m finding it hard to forget.”
The words slip out before I can think better of them, but it’s the truth.
She blinks, caught between a smile and something else, but then the café door opens, and a familiar shadow falls over our table.
