Page 80 of Play Fake
Her eyes soften, curiosity flickering there, but she doesn’t pry. Instead, she shakes her head in mock disbelief. “Remind me never to underestimate you in a psych trivia contest.”
“Duly noted,” I say, trying to match her light tone.
The tension that had crept between us earlier loosens, replaced by something quieter, warmer. She smiles as she writes down what I said, then looks back up at me.
“You’re really good at this,” she says. Not teasing. Sincere.
And that throws me more than any question she’s asked today.
I shrug again, but it doesn’t come out nearly as casual as I want. “I think anyone can be good if they apply themselves or take a true interest into something.”
“Yeah,” she says softly, like she doesn’t quite buy that.
For a moment, all the noise of the quad fades. It’s just the two of us at this table, sunlight fading through the trees, and her eyes on mine like she’sseeingme, not just looking.
It’s disarming.
So, I clear my throat, glance down at the packet, and say, “We should probably get through the rest of this section before we run out of daylight.”
She laughs quietly, flipping another page. “Fine. But I’m officially nominating you as our trivia champ.”
We push through the last page of the packet, trading questions and scribbling notes until the sun dips low enough that the shadows stretch long across the quad. Sophie finally closes her notebook with a dramatic sigh.
“Okay, that’s my brain tapped out for the day,” she says, tucking her pen behind her ear. “If I look at one more diagnostic criterion, I might actually start diagnosing random students walking by.”
I chuckle as I pack up my stuff. “You’d probably get at least a few right.”
She grins, slinging her bag over her shoulder as we head toward the athletic complex. The air is cooler now, that soft in-between light just before sunset. She tells me a story about Ava almost face-planting during a cheer stunt last week as we walk, and I find myself laughing more easily than I have in a long time.
When we reach the split where the cheer practice field branches off from the weight room, we both stop. There’s a small pause—nothing awkward, but lingering. She’s looking up at me with that bright, open expression that always throws me off balance.
I don’t even think about it. My hand lifts, finding her waist, and before I can talk myself out of it, I pull her in.
It’s not a long hug. Just a few seconds. But it’s firm, warm, and completely unplanned.
I feel her breath catch against my chest. Her hands hover like she’s startled, then settle lightly against my sides.
When I pull back, she’s blinking up at me, eyes a little wide, and cheeks flushed. Honestly, I feel just as thrown. I’m not a spontaneous hugger. That’s not me.
“Uh,” I say, clearing my throat and shoving my hands into my hoodie pocket. “See you after practice.”
She nods, still looking a little dazed. “Yeah. See you.”
She turns toward the cheer field, glancing back once with a soft, surprised smile that hits me square in the chest.
As I walk toward the weight room, I can’t shake the warmth lingering where she pressed against me—or the thought that, for the first time in a long time, I didn’t hesitate.
By the time Coach finally blows the last whistle, the field lights have fully taken over the sky, and sweat clings to me like a second skin. My shirt is plastered to my back, my legs feel like lead, and my lungs burn in the best kind of way.
Logan jogs up beside me as we make our way toward the sideline, both of us still breathing hard. He pulls his helmet off, hair sticking up in a dozen directions, and gives me a knowing side-eye.
“You’ve been real quiet tonight, man,” he says, bumping his shoulder against mine. “That usually means one thing.”
I grab a water bottle and take a long drink, trying to play it off. “Yeah? What’s that?”
He grins. “A certain blonde cheerleader.”
I choke slightly on the water, coughing into my elbow. “Jesus, Logan.”
