Page 49 of Play Fake
Then comes the moment.
The final minute. The opposing team surging downfield, the scoreboard too close for comfort. The air feels heavier, every fan on their feet, screaming.
Beck lines up at the center of the defense, crouched low, coiled like a spring. The snap echoes, the quarterback hands off, and the runner charges straight for the gap—straight for Beck.
And Beck is there.
He reads it perfectly, crashing through the line, arms locking around the runner and driving him into the turf with a force that shakes the stadium.
The whistle blows. Game over.
The field erupts—players shouting, helmets tossed in the air, fans storming past security onto the turf. I barely realize I’m moving until I’m sprinting across the grass, my pom-poms abandoned somewhere behind me.
And then I see him.
Helmet off, sweat dripping, eyes bright under the lights. Beck Harrison, standing tall in the middle of the chaos.
“Beck!”
He turns just in time for me to crash into him, arms wrapping tight around his waist. His laugh is low, surprised, before his arms come around me and—without hesitation—he lifts me clean off the ground.
For a heartbeat, it’s like the noise fades. Just me in his arms, weightless, his strength solid around me. I get completely lost in the moment and go to quickly kiss his cheek. But at the last second, he turns his head, causing me to miss my original target and land with my lips half against his dimple and half covering his lips.
My shocked gaze meets his, and his cheeks are turning a shade of red I’ve never seen on him before. He clears his throat and sets me back down. I can feel my own cheeks flaming, and my smile falters as my gaze skims past his shoulder—straight into the stands.
Zach.
Watching.
The smirk on his face makes my stomach drop. My breath stutters, nerves tangling with the high of victory.
Before I can pull away completely, Beck shifts. One hand comes up, firm but gentle, tilting my chin until my eyes meet his. His gaze is unmoving, cutting through the noise around us.
“We’ll talk,” he says quietly, just for me. “Preferably after I shower.”
Heat rushes through me—part nerves, part something I don’t want to name yet. I nod once, unable to look anywhere but him.
Then he releases me, teammates crowding in to slap his back, lifting him up in the swell of celebration. And I stand frozen in the middle of the chaos, heart pounding harder than it had all game.
The chaos of the field carries me all the way to the sideline, where the cheer squad finally pulls back, coaches waving us toward the tunnel. My legs feel shaky as I jog inside, the roar of the crowd muffled by concrete walls.
In the locker room, it’s a flurry of ponytails and laughter as the girls peel off uniforms and slip into sweats and sneakers. Everyone’s buzzing, giddy from the win, voices echoing against the tiled walls.
I tug on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt, fingers fumbling just a little. My reflection in the mirror shows flushed cheeks, hair escaping my braid, eyes still too bright. I look like I just won the game myself.
Except it isn’t just the win making me feel this way.
By the time I step back into the hall, the stadium noise is a dull hum in the distance. The corridor outside the football locker room is quieter, though a few fans linger, hoping for a glimpse of their favorite players. I hover near the wall, tugging at the hem of my sweatshirt, trying not to look like I’m…waiting.
But that’s exactly what I’m doing.
Every time the door creaks open, my heart kicks. Players spill out in groups, laughing and shouting, smelling like cologne layered over sweat. None of them are him.
I fold my arms, shifting my weight from one foot to the other. The longer I stand here, the more ridiculous I feel. What am I even expecting? He saidwe’ll talk, but maybe he didn’t mean it the way I’m clinging to.
Then the door opens again, and he’s there.
Beck.
