Page 48 of Play Fake
Zach, leaning against the brick near the entrance, arms folded like he’s been waiting.
His smirk sharpens as our eyes meet. “Good luck tonight, Harrison. I’ll be watching. Should be a prettyinterestinggame.”
The way he says it makes the words feel less like support and more like a challenge.
I don’t rise to it. “Good,” I say evenly, pushing past him toward the doors. “Should be a game worth watching.”
I don’t look back, don’t give him the satisfaction.
16
SOPHIE
The sky bleeds orange and pink at the edges, fading fast into indigo as the stadium lights flicker to life. First night game of the season, and the whole place feels electric—like the air itself is charged, buzzing through the stands, rattling in my chest.
The Storm student section is already a wall of sound, painted faces and waving flags, every shout and chant bouncing off the concrete. I grip my pom-poms tighter, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with my squad at the edge of the field. My smile is wide, practiced, but underneath it my pulse thunders, nerves dancing under my skin.
The announcer’s voice booms, low and commanding. “Your PCU Storm!”
The tunnel explodes with smoke and music as the team rushes the field, helmets gleaming under the lights. The ground vibrates with their cleats pounding against turf, the crowd’s roar deafening.
As the players take the field, one in particular has my focus as green eyes meet mine.
Helmet strapped, visor catching the last streak of sunset, shoulders squared like he owns every inch of this field. I can’t fully see his mouth, but his head tilts just slightly my way, enough that I know a grin would be there if I could see it.
And maybe it’s my imagination, but the way he lifts his hand in a small, subtle gesture before jogging to join the huddle—it’s like a signal just for me.
I throw my pom-poms higher, voice sharper, louder than the rest, and when his gaze flicks briefly to the sidelines, I catch it. Just a flash. Enough to send a shiver down my arms.
Then he’s gone, swallowed by the huddle, and I’m left buzzing like the rest of the stadium, pretending it’s only the game making my heart race.
The whistle shrieks, the ball sails, and the first quarter is underway.
Our cheer squad launches into motion—chants, kicks, pyramids, all choreographed to the thrum of drums from the band and the echo of the crowd. I’m moving, smiling, every inch of me trained to look polished. But every time the Storm’s defense takes the field, my eyes stray.
Beck moves differently than the others. Controlled. Calculated. Every hit is clean, sharp, and when he drops their running back for a loss, the entire student section goes wild. I feel it in my bones—the shift of momentum, the surge of pride—and my voice cracks from shouting his name along with everyone else’s.
“Defense! Storm defense!” we chant, and when he jogs back to the line, helmet tilted toward us, I swear it’s not just the crowd he hears.
By the second quarter, sweat slicks down my back from stunting, and my legs ache from endless jumps. Still, I can’t stop noticing him. The way he calls to his teammates, the way he sets the line, hard as stone. He doesn’t waver, doesn’t falter.
And when the other team finally breaks a run wide, I watch him close the gap like it’s nothing, wrapping the guy up and driving him straight into the turf. The stadium erupts, and even though I’m supposed to be locked into my routine, my grin is too real, too sharp, too proud.
The half winds down with the Storm up by a touchdown, the student section deafening. Our captain waves us into formation, and the butterflies in my stomach double.
Because now it’s our turn.
The halftime routine. Center stage, all eyes on us.
We jog to the middle of the field as the band clears, lights glaring bright against the turf. I shake out my arms, my smile snapping into place, but my chest still hums from everything I’ve just seen.
“Storm! Let’s go, Storm!” The music kicks in, and we launch into flips, lifts, and high kicks, our formation slicing through the noise of the stadium.
I toss, spin, and land, every move drilled to perfection—but when the crowd roars on the last beat, my heart isn’t just pounding from the routine. It’s pounding from knowing who’s watching from the sideline, helmet in hand, sweat dripping under the glow of the lights.
The second half kicks off under a sky gone deep navy, the stadium lights burning against the dark. My voice is hoarse and my muscles are aching, but the adrenaline never fades.
The game is tight—hit after hit, stop after stop. Every chant feels louder, every stunt sharper, like the whole squad is feeding off the same current buzzing through the stands.
