Page 50 of Play Fake
Hair damp, gray Storm hoodie stretched across his shoulders, duffel slung low. He spots me instantly, eyes catching mine like he knew I’d be here all along.
My pulse stumbles, and I straighten, every ounce of bravado gone.
“Hey,” I say, my voice softer than I mean it to be. “Good job out there.”
The corner of his mouth tips up. “You didn’t look too bad yourself.”
A laugh bubbles out of me before I can stop it. “Pretty sure you did more heavy lifting than I did.”
He shrugs like it’s nothing, eyes staying fixed on mine. “Different kind of work. Crowd wouldn’t have been half as loud without you guys revving them up.”
I shake my head, smiling despite the heat creeping into my cheeks. He always says things so simply, like they’re just facts, and somehow that makes them hit harder.
We stand there a moment, the noise from the stadium drifting faint through the concrete. Then his gaze dips, softer now.
“By the way—earlier. On the field.” His voice drops, low and deliberate. “I didn’t hug you back because of him.”
My breath catches, pulse stumbling.
“I hugged you because I wanted to.”
The words settle between us, quiet but certain, and I feel them all the way to my fingertips. My mouth opens, but for once I don’t have anything to say.
He doesn’t push. Just lets the silence sit, comfortable in a way that makes me feel seen instead of exposed.
And that’s somehow worse—because it makes me want more.
The silence lingers just long enough to make my cheeks burn hotter, so when he shifts and starts walking, I fall into step beside him, grateful for the excuse to move. The hallway spills us out toward the lot, the night air cool against my overheated skin.
I tug my sweatshirt tighter. “You headed to the party at the football house?”
His mouth tips into that small, easy almost-smile. “Yeah. Tradition and all that.”
“Right.” I nod, glancing down at my sneakers as we fall into the rhythm of our steps. “I’m gonna run home and change first.” I hesitate, then add, trying to sound casual, “Maybe I’ll see you there.”
He looks over, the stadium lights catching the damp edges of his hair, and nods once. “Yeah. Maybe.”
It’s simple, comfortable—like everything with him—but it’s enough to send a flutter low in my stomach.
We reach the edge of the lot, where the players’ cars are scattered in tight rows. He lifts a hand in a quiet goodbye before heading toward his truck, and I watch him go for a beat longer than I should before turning toward my own place, pulse still humming from more than just the win.
“Hey, Beck?” I yell across the lot. He pauses, hand on the door of his truck, confusion evident on his face even from this far away. “I wanted to hug you too.”
17
BECK
The house is already packed when I get there—music thumping through the walls, the smell of cheap beer and pizza hanging heavy in the air.
Damn, I really miss normal pizza.
I grab a bottle of water from the cooler in the kitchen before finding a spot along the wall near the living room, where Logan’s holding court with a couple of the guys.
“Look at this,” he says the second I join them, clapping me on the shoulder hard enough to slosh water onto my hand. “Beck Harrison, actually showing his face at a party. What’s the occasion? Did hell freeze over?”
I shake my head, deadpan. “You’re hilarious.”
He grins, unbothered. “I mean, last season you came home after games to ice your knees and be a grandpa, not to mention turning me in for being too loud. Now, suddenly you’re out here with the cool kids.” He makes a sweeping gesture at the crowded living room, where a group is already dancing on the coffee table.
