Page 72 of Play Fake
“It was.” I sink back into the chair, gaze drifting to the dark vineyards through the window. “And I kept telling myself that if I just held on long enough, maybe he’d become the person they thought he was. But he didn’t. He got worse. And I finally…couldn’t do it anymore.”
The room goes quiet for a beat, softer now. Even Claire looks a little misty-eyed, though she covers it by shoving a chocolate truffle into her mouth.
“Good for you,” Jules says finally. “Seriously. That takes guts.”
My chest loosens at the unexpected solidarity. “Yeah,” I say softly. “I guess it does.”
My room is quiet when I push the door open, the soft lamp by the bed casting a golden pool of light over the crisp white sheets. I close the door behind me and lean against it for a second, letting out a slow breath.
The vineyard beyond the window is wrapped in darkness, only a few scattered lights dotting the landscape. It’s peaceful here, almost too peaceful.
I peel off my robe and crawl into bed, the sheets cool against my skin. My phone sits face-up on the nightstand, Beck’s name near the top of my messages list. I pick it up, staring at the blank text box for a good thirty seconds.
What do I even say?
I type:
Good luck at your game tomorrow!
My thumb hovers over send. It’s just a text. Friendly. Normal. Except it doesn’tfeelnormal, not when my heart is suddenly beating way too fast for a handful of words.
I hit send before I can overthink it, then immediately lock my phone and set it down like it’s a ticking bomb.
Two seconds later, it vibrates.
Beck: thanks, Soph. how’s the bachelorette party?
It’s good. I think we’ve gone through about ten bottles of champagne already today, but it’s been fun.
Beck: aren’t these the things that normally involve strippers of some sort?
I can’t hold back the laugh that escapes my mouth.
Maybe some do, but definitely not my sister. Those aren’t really her style. Or mine, for that matter.
Beck: noted. so what is your style? can’t be the Pierce guy.
You.
That thought takes me by complete surprise, and I have to pause before typing out a reply that completely evades the real question.
Hmm. I don’t know. Probably a night in, cooking a meal together and eating it while watching a show. How about you?
Beck: that honestly sounds right up my alley too. I have to get to bed, but I hope you enjoy your weekend with your sister. night, Soph.
Goodnight.
I slide deeper under the covers, phone still in my hand, rereading the message like a total idiot. Finally, I tuck it undermy pillow, turn off the lamp, and stare up at the dark ceiling with a warm, fluttery feeling in my chest.
24
BECK
The parking lot’s already packed when I pull in, vendors setting up along the outer fence like it’s a festival instead of a football game. It’s one of those mornings where the air feels electric—thick with anticipation.
I kill the engine, grab my duffel from the passenger seat, and sling it over my shoulder. A few early tailgaters call my name as I make my way toward the players’ entrance, but I just lift a hand in acknowledgment, keeping my pace consistent. Street clothes, hoodie pulled over my head, sunglasses on. I like this part—the quiet before the storm.
Inside, the stadium smells like turf and cleaning solution. The fluorescent lights hum overhead as my footsteps echo down the tunnel toward the locker room. It’s routine. Familiar. But the second I step through the doorway, Coach’s voice cuts through the air.
