Page 81 of Play Fake
“What?” He lifts his hands innocently. “Don’t ‘Jesus Logan’ me. I saw that little moment before practice. You pulled her in like a guy would in some romance book.”
I shoot him a look, but his grin only widens.
“Relax,” he says. “I’m not giving you crap. Honestly? It’s about time.”
“About time for what?” I mutter, shoving my gloves into my helmet.
He shrugs. “For you to stop acting like your heart’s made of steel. It wasn’t before, and it’s not now. She’s a good one, Beck. You don’t have to tell me how you feel, but I see the way you look at her. And I saw her face when you hugged her too.”
I look down, jaw tightening. I don’t know how to explain it—not even to myself. The hug wasn’t planned. It simply…happened. But the way it felt? The way she looked up at me after? That’s what’s messing with me.
Logan elbows me again, less teasing this time, more brotherly. “I’m not saying go plan a wedding. Don’t run from something good because you’re scared it’ll hurt again.”
I huff out a quiet laugh. “Since when did you become Dr. Phil?”
“Since I stopped watching you mope around like a fucking seventy-year-old man who’s sworn off love,” he fires back with a grin.
I shake my head, but a small smile creeps in anyway. That’s Logan for you—never subtle, always hitting closer to the truth than I’d like.
“Come on,” he says, tossing his helmet toward the bin. “Let’s shower before Coach makes us run extra just for standing here like smelly idiots.”
27
SOPHIE
The stadium lights burn bright against the night sky, chasing away every shadow. The stands are buzzing—packed with students in PCU Storm purple, faces painted, cowbells ringing like we’re on the edge of something big.
I bounce on my toes at the sideline, the October air warm but breezy, just enough to lift the ends of my ponytail. My heart hammers in rhythm with the marching band’s drumline as the second half kicks off.
Beck jogs back onto the field with the defense, helmet on, shoulders set. Even from where I’m standing, I can see the focus in the way he moves—unwavering, deliberate, all business. That quiet intensity of his always gets to me.
“All right, let’s bring it home,” Jordan yells, rallying the squad into formation.
The other team’s offense comes out swinging, fast and ruthless. Our boys hold them for a while—Beck’s there in every pileup, reading plays like he was born to do this—but momentum starts to tilt in the wrong direction. Penalties stack up. A bad snap costs us field position.
My stomach tightens as the clock ticks down.
Fourth quarter. Two minutes left. PCU clinging to a three-point lead. One defensive stand away from closing this out.
The opposing QB takes the snap. For a heartbeat, everything slows—Beck drops into coverage, eyes locked on the field like a hawk—but then a receiver breaks free down the sideline. A perfect throw. A missed tackle.
Touchdown.
The visiting stands erupt.
Ours deflate.
I bite the inside of my cheek as the cheer squad launches into the fight song anyway, trying to keep the energy up, but it’s like shouting into the wind. The boys scramble for a last-minute drive, but time bleeds away too fast.
When the final whistle blows, the scoreboard reads 24–20, their side lit up in victory.
I keep my smile plastered on through the closing cheer, but inside, my chest aches watching the team. Players rip off their helmets, some hanging their heads, others just staring at the field in stunned silence.
Beck’s at the center of it all, helmet in hand, breathing hard. He’s not throwing anything, not yelling—he just stands there, shoulders squared, jaw tight. But even from here, I can see the frustration simmering beneath the calm. He gave everything out there. They all did.
The announcer’s voice echoes over the speakers, wrapping up the game. The stands start to empty.
Around me, the girls start chatting, but my eyes keep finding Beck. He finally turns toward the tunnel with Logan at his side, their jerseys streaked with grass and sweat.
