Chapter 7 Beck
BECK
On Friday morning, something burnt overwhelms my sense of smell as I walk into the kitchen. I tug open the pantry door, scanning past boxes of cereal and half-empty chip bags until my eyes land on the one shelf that’s mine.
The box sits right where I left it—plain cardboard, Sharpie scrawled across the front in thick block letters: HARRISON ONLY.
I slide it out carefully, setting it on the counter. Inside, everything is sealed, separate. My own cutting board. My own spatula. Ziploc bags of gluten-free oats, pasta, bread. Supplies I can trust. Supplies that won’t wreck me.
It’s a system I started last spring, when the doctors finally put a name to years of stomach pain, immune flare-ups, and bone-deep exhaustion that I thought was just football wearing me down.
Celiac definitely isn’t the badge of toughness you want to wear as a linebacker. But it’s the only way forward now—clean cooking, zero slip-ups. One crumb of someone else’s toast, and I’m sidelined for days.
I can hear Logan moving around upstairs, probably getting ready for class. He’ll be down in a minute, rolling his eyes when he sees me disinfecting the counter, acting like I’m obsessive.
But he doesn’t get it. None of them really do, even if they try.
This isn’t about preference. It’s about survival. About control in a world where control’s already slipping.
I set my pan on the stove, hand steady, even though my chest is tight. Eggs this morning. Safe. Predictable. No risk of contamination.
It’s not much. But it’s enough.
I’d normally add in some toast, but I don’t have time to let the toaster cool down completely before I could put it away, so this will have to do for now.
Thankfully, I’ve already set aside time on Sunday to meal prep for the week.
I think getting ahead is honestly the only way forward if I want to keep my performance at the level it needs to be.
Logan stumbles into the kitchen, hair sticking up at odd angles, wearing sweats that look like they’ve seen better days. He makes a beeline for the coffee pot, not even glancing at me before filling a mug to the brim.
“Morning to you too,” I say, leaning against the counter.
He grunts, lifting the mug to his lips like it’s the only thing keeping him alive.
“You good?” I ask, brow raised.
Another grunt. This one lower, more annoyed.
“Solid communication skills as always,” I mutter, stirring my eggs.
Logan finally drops into a chair at the table, one hand rubbing at his temple. “Didn’t sleep. Too much on my mind.”
I don’t push. That’s the thing about guys like us—you wait until someone’s ready to say it, and if they’re not, you let it be.
Instead, I change the subject. “You ready for tomorrow?”
His head lifts, eyes sharpening a little at that. Football always gets through.
“Yeah,” he says, voice rough but more awake now. “We’re gonna kill it.”
I nod, sliding my bowl onto the counter. “Damn right we are.”
For a second, the kitchen is quiet except for the clink of his spoon against the mug and the low crackle of the eggs on the stove. The weight in his shoulders doesn’t vanish, but it eases. Just a little.
I sit down across from him with my bowl, steam curling up between us. Logan’s already halfway through his coffee, staring at the table like it’s personally offended him.
“You got plans Sunday?” I ask, spooning some of the eggs into my mouth.
He shrugs, eyes still on his mug. “Yeah. Probably hanging out with Cam. He’s only back for a bit before he heads out for NBA training camp.”
Cameron. His best friend since forever. I raise a brow. “That involve his little sister too?”
Logan’s head snaps up, glare sharp enough to cut. “Don’t start.”
I hold up a hand, smirking. “Didn’t say anything.”
“You implied.”
“Maybe.”
His jaw tightens, and he stands, dumping the last of his coffee in the sink. “Grab your stuff. Let’s go.”
I glance at the half-finished eggs. “I’ve got, like, five bites left.”
“Finish it in the car,” he says, already heading for the door. “Unless you wanna walk or drive yourself.”
I shake my head, biting back a laugh as I snap the lid onto my bowl.
Logan’s easy to rile up, but he’s loyal as hell.
We have the same schedule on most days, spending the majority of our time in the athletics building, so we switch off on driving.
I grab my backpack and follow him out, the air outside cool against my still-warm skin.
Whatever’s eating at him, he’ll tell me when he’s ready. Until then? We’ve got football.
The drive to campus is quiet except for the radio humming low. Logan drums his fingers against the steering wheel, jaw tight like he’s still chewing on whatever had him grumpy earlier. I don’t press. Some things work themselves out better on the field than in words.
We pull into the lot, engines and voices carrying across campus as students make their way toward morning classes.
“I’ll meet you back here,” I say as we shoulder our bags. “Head over to weights with you after class.”
Logan nods, already scanning the path toward his building. “Don’t be late.”
I smirk. “You sound like my dad.”
“Yeah, well,” he mutters, shoving his hands into his pockets as we split at the corner. “Somebody’s gotta keep you on track.”
I shake my head, but a grin tugs at my mouth as I head toward the psych building.
Inside, the hallways hum with voices and the smell of coffee. I take the stairs two at a time, my boots heavy against the tile. When I step into the lecture hall, there are still plenty of empty seats.
But my eyes find her immediately.
She’s bent over her notebook, pen moving fast across the page, hair pulled into a loose ponytail that sways when she shifts. The seat beside her is open.
I don’t hesitate.
Climbing the steps, I head straight for the seat next to her. “Morning, Sophie.”
She looks up, blue eyes catching mine. That small smile flickers again, quick and sure.
“Good morning,” she says softly, tucking a loose hair behind her ear.
I slide into the seat, dropping my backpack at my feet.
I flip open my notebook, clicking my pen, but the quiet between us feels charged. Finally, I glance her way.
“You know,” I say, leaning back a little, “We’ve both gone to school here for the last three years, yet I haven’t seen you until now. How is that possible? Especially since you’re literally on the sidelines of every home game.”
She tilts her head, a small smile tugging at her mouth.
“Well, for one, you’d have to be looking for something to see it.
And from what you’ve told me, you weren’t looking.
It’s also because I’m usually buried in classes, volunteering, at the library, or cheer practice.
My schedule doesn’t leave much room for anything else. ”
“Fair enough,” I murmur, jotting the date at the top of the page.
Her pen hovers, then she glances at me again, curiosity sparking in her eyes. “So…why’d you come over after practice the other night?”
I blink, caught off guard by how direct she is. “What do you mean?”
“You didn’t have to,” she says, voice softer now but steady. “Most guys would’ve just grabbed their stuff and left. But you made a point to say hi.”
I pause, considering her. She’s not accusing—just genuinely asking.
Finally, I shrug. “Seemed polite. You worked just as hard as we did. Figured it deserved acknowledgment.”
Her lips curve into that small smile again, almost like she’s trying not to let it grow.
“Well, thank you,” she says, turning back to her notebook.
I let it drop, eyes shifting to the professor who’s moving toward the board. But I can still feel the quiet hum of her presence beside me, sharper now, like she’s filed my answer away for later.
“You ready for the game this weekend?”
“Yeah,” I say, keeping my tone even. “We’re ready. Lots of pressure, but nothing new.”
Her smile softens. “You don’t sound nervous.”
“I honestly don’t really get nervous at this point,” I tell her, then after a beat, add, “Just focused.”
She studies me for a moment, like she’s trying to decide if I’m serious or just posturing. Then she nods, jotting something in her notebook.
Before either of us can say more, the professor clears his throat at the front of the room, launching straight into today’s lecture. Pens start scratching, laptops tapping, and the conversation is over—at least for now.
But I can still feel it. The small thread of curiosity stretched between us.
By the time the lecture ends, my notebook is filled with dates and definitions, half of which I’ll need to review again later if I want them to stick. Sophie slides her pen into her bag and stands when I do, falling into step beside me as we follow the stream of students out the door.
“Think you’re ready for the quiz next week?” she asks, glancing up at me.
“Working on it,” I admit. “Guess I’ll be spending most of Sunday with my nose in the textbook.”
She smiles faintly. “Same.”
We push through the doors into the sunlight, the campus alive with chatter and the clang of the bell tower overhead. Logan’s leaning against a railing a few feet away, arms crossed, looking like he’s been waiting.
But before we reach him, Sophie tips her head, eyes sharp with curiosity. “How did you know I’ve been going here for three years?”
I freeze for half a beat, pulse kicking faster.
Shit.
I keep my expression neutral, forcing a shrug. “Just a guess.”
Her lips twitch, like she doesn’t quite believe me, but she doesn’t press. Instead, she steps back, adjusting the strap of her bag. “Well…good luck tomorrow.”
I shift my backpack higher on my shoulder, already turning toward Logan, who’s waiting with that trademark smirk of his.
“Was that the girl you were cyberstalking earlier this week?” he asks, one brow raised.
I shoot him a look. “I wasn’t stalking anyone.”
He lets out a low whistle. “Sure didn’t look that way. Her pictures are pretty, but damn. Real thing is even better.”
I snort, shaking my head. “She’s pretty. No denying that. But lots of girls are pretty, Logan. Doesn’t mean I’m looking for anything.”
Logan studies me for a beat, then nods once, grin easing. “Fair enough.”
“Football, school. That’s it,” I add, more to myself than to him.
“Then let’s hit the weights before Coach thinks we’re wussy’s,” he says, clapping me on the shoulder.
I fall into step beside him, grateful for the shift back to routine.
Pretty or not, distractions aren’t part of the plan.