Chapter 13 Beck
BECK
By the time I pull into the driveway, my body still feels like lead from the game and the long bus ride back. But the second I step out of the truck, Alyssa’s squeal cuts through the quiet, and she comes barreling down the steps, blonde braid flying.
“Beck!”
I scoop her up before she can trip over her sandals, spinning her once until she giggles so hard she hiccups. Joey follows at a slower pace, carrying a plastic dinosaur in each hand. He grins when I crouch down to his level, ruffling his hair before letting Alyssa slide down.
“You bring the T-Rex this time?” I ask him.
“Yeah,” he says proudly, holding it up. “And the raptor. They’re gonna fight.”
“Of course they are.” I nod solemnly. “Classic matchup.”
Inside, the house smells like roast chicken and garlic, the kind of Sunday comfort that always makes me pause at the door. Caroline waves from the kitchen, apron already dusted with flour.
Dad comes out of the den as I’m dropping my bag by the stairs. He claps my shoulder, firm as ever. “Good game yesterday, son. That sack in the fourth was something else.”
“Thanks,” I say quietly.
“NFL teams like seeing that.” His tone is matter-of-fact, already turning toward the back door. “Gotta go turn off the water out back really quick. Just refilled the kids’ pool and don’t need it all over the place again.”
Just like that, he’s gone, screen door creaking shut behind him.
I stand there a moment, the weight of his words heavier than his hand on my shoulder.
“Beck?” Caroline’s voice pulls me back. She’s balancing a bowl in one hand, a wooden spoon in the other. “You want to give me a hand in here?”
“Yeah,” I say, grateful for the excuse.
The kitchen is warm, sunlight spilling across the counters. I grab plates from the cabinet without needing to ask where they go, setting them neatly on the island.
“You’re good with them,” Caroline says after a moment, nodding toward the living room where Alyssa is already trying to braid Joey’s hair. “Alyssa and Joey—they light up the second you walk in the door.”
“They’re easy to love,” I say honestly, stacking the plates tighter.
Her smile softens. “So are you, you know.”
I shake my head, but she doesn’t let it slide.
“How’s school going?” she asks, voice gentle.
“Fine,” I answer, too fast.
Her brow arches, the same way Alyssa’s does when she’s about to argue with Joey. “Fine, or fine?”
I sigh, leaning back against the counter. “Classes are challenging, for sure. Psych’s heavier than I thought, but…I love it. It feels like I’m learning something I could actually use.”
Caroline wipes her hands on a towel, watching me carefully. “And that matters more to you than football sometimes, doesn’t it?”
I don’t answer right away, staring at the stack of plates instead. Finally, I nod. “Yeah. It does.”
She steps closer, lowering her voice like she knows my dad could walk in any second. “Mark just wants what he thinks is best for you. But that doesn’t mean you can’t want something different, Beck.”
The knot in my chest loosens, just a little. She says it like she means it, like she wouldn’t think less of me if I chose the classroom over the stadium.
“Thanks,” I murmur.
She pats my arm lightly, already turning back to the stove. “Now, grab those rolls before I burn them, will you? I’m still not a pro at this gluten-free cooking thing.”
I obey, pulling the tray from the oven while she sets out the rest of the food. And for a moment, with Alyssa’s laughter floating in from the other room and Joey’s dinosaur sound effects echoing through the house, I almost believe that maybe I really do have more than one path forward.
By the time Caroline pulls the roast chicken from the oven, the table is already set, and Alyssa is bouncing in her chair while Joey sneaks bites of bread when he thinks no one’s looking. I take my seat, Caroline across from me, and Dad at the head.
For a while, it’s easy—Caroline asking Alyssa about her spelling test, Joey announcing that his dinosaurs are going to live in the backyard when he grows up. I laugh, listening, letting the noise soak in.
Then my dad clears his throat, setting his fork down. “So. Word is a couple scouts were at yesterday’s game.”
The knot in my stomach tightens immediately.
“They’re watching you, Beck. Stats are looking good—solid sacks, clean tackles. You keep that up, you’ll be in the conversation for draft day.” His voice carries that same matter-of-fact certainty, like he’s already picturing it, like it’s not a question but a destination.
I focus on cutting my chicken, chewing slowly, buying myself some time. Caroline’s eyes flick to me, warm and welcoming, like she’s telling me without words I don’t have to answer.
“I’m just trying to do my best,” I say finally, my voice low. “One game at a time.”
Dad nods, satisfied, like that’s the right answer, then spears another bite.
But just when I think the conversation will drift back to Alyssa’s spelling or Joey’s dinosaurs, he looks up again.
“I’m proud of you, son. It takes a lot of focus and determination to not only excel on the field, but also really focusing in on a hard line-up of classes.
How are those going, by the way? I know you were a little hesitant on Abnormal Psych for this term. ”
I grin, happy that he’s getting more and more onboard with my other potential career path. “They’re going well. I think it’ll definitely be more challenging as it goes on, and we have a big project that we will be getting paired up for, but hopefully nothing I can’t handle.”
He clears his throat as he puts his glass back down on the table after taking a drink. “Speaking of. You been to see your mom lately?”
The fork stalls in my hand. The clatter of plates and chatter quiets, Alyssa and Joey both pausing.
Caroline clears her throat softly, reaching for the serving bowl. “Mark—”
“What?” he says, not harsh but direct. “It’s a fair question. She’s still his mother. I’m not pushing him or telling him he has to, I’m just curious after how things played out last time.”
I swallow hard, the food suddenly like gravel in my throat. Memories flash quick—familiar walls that felt like anything but safety, voices too loud, nights too long.
I set my fork down, my jaw tight. “Not recently.”
The silence that follows says enough.
Caroline is the one who rescues the moment, turning to ask Joey about his latest LEGO masterpiece. The conversation slowly picks back up, Alyssa chattering again, Joey roaring like his T-Rex, but the weight of Dad’s question lingers, pressing in no matter how much I try to push it away.
The rest of the meal passes in bits of conversation—Alyssa proudly spelling out words she’s memorized, Joey sneaking peas under the table to the family dog, Caroline keeping everything moving with a quiet smile.
I answer when I’m asked, laugh when the kids do something goofy, but Dad’s questions stick like burrs, scratching every time I shift.
When we’re done, I help Caroline gather plates, carrying them into the kitchen while Alyssa and Joey dart off to the living room to finish their “fortress.” The sink fills with warm, soapy water, and Caroline hums softly as she rinses. I dry, stacking the dishes neatly on the counter.
“Thanks for the help,” she says, bumping her shoulder gently against mine.
“Least I can do,” I answer.
When the last pan is drying, I glance at my phone. The clock reads later than I thought. My stomach knots—not nerves exactly, but anticipation.
Caroline notices. Of course she does. “What’s the rush?” she teases, drying her hands on a towel. “You usually stay until the kids are in bed.”
I hesitate, slipping the phone back into my pocket. “I’ve got to go. Meeting someone to study.”
Her brows lift, amusement soft in her eyes. “A girl?”
“No,” I say quickly, maybe too quickly. “Just…a study date.”
Before she can respond, strong arms wrap around her waist from behind. Dad presses a kiss to her temple, his voice low but teasing. “It’s definitely a girl.”
Caroline laughs, leaning into him, but her gaze flicks back to me, sharp enough to catch the way my ears heat.
I shake my head, muttering as I grab my jacket from the chair. “It’s not like that.”
But the way they’re both smiling makes me wonder if maybe they see something I don’t.
The drive back to campus feels longer than it should. By the time I pull into the lot behind my place, the sun is already sliding low, painting the sky in streaks of gold and pink. I cut the engine, leaning back in the seat for a moment.
That’s when it hits me.
We never actually set a place to study.
And I don’t have her number.
I huff out a quiet laugh, dragging a hand over my jaw. For someone who usually plans three steps ahead, I really dropped the ball on this one.
Inside the house, I grab my backpack, stuff in my psych notes, and sling it over my shoulder. I’m halfway down the front walk, debating between the library or the student center, when my phone buzzes in my pocket.
Unknown number.
I hesitate, then swipe to answer. “Hello?”
“Um—hi. It’s Sophie.”
Her voice is soft, a little rushed, and something in me eases instantly.
“Didn’t recognize the number,” I say. “Guess that’s my fault.”
She laughs under her breath. “I just realized we never decided where to meet, and…I figured wandering the whole campus would be a waste.”
I shake my head, already smiling. “So, you do know how to use my number.”
There’s a pause, like she doesn’t know whether to be offended or amused. “I was going to,” she says quickly. “Eventually.”
“Sure you were,” I murmur, and the smile lingers longer than I expect.
Silence stretches for a beat, not awkward—just easy.
“The library?” she suggests finally.
“Library works,” I agree. “I’ll head that way now.”
“Okay.”
Neither of us hangs up right away. I hear her shifting, probably adjusting her bag, the faint murmur of voices in the background where she is.
“You know we can hang up now, right?” I say, a little amused.
There’s a sharp exhale on her end, like I caught her. “Right. Of course. See you in a few.”
The line clicks off, and I slide the phone back into my pocket, shaking my head.
Still smiling. Which surprises me more than it should.
Sophie shifts her notebook toward me, like she’s letting me into her system. The pages are neat, color-coded with tiny notes in the margins.
“These are good,” I tell her honestly.
She blinks at me, like she doesn’t quite believe it. “They’re…organized. Doesn’t mean they’ll actually help me remember anything when it counts.”
I lean back in my chair, folding my arms loosely. “You’re selling yourself short. Half the battle is already done—you’ve got the info down. You just need someone to run it with you until it sticks.”
Her lips press together, and for a second, she looks almost embarrassed. “That’s the part I hate. I always feel stupid when I mess up.”
“Then don’t call it messing up,” I say, calm and even. “Call it practice. No one gets it perfect on the first try. Not in football, not in class.”
Her pen stills against the page. Slowly, her eyes lift to mine.
I mean it as reassurance, nothing more. But something about the way she looks at me makes the moment heavier than I expected.
So I clear my throat, flip my own notebook open, and push it toward her. “Here. Let’s trade. You quiz me first, then I’ll quiz you. Fair?”
She hesitates, then nods. “Fair.”
For the next half hour, we fall into a rhythm. She reads, I answer. I keep my tone easy, never making a big deal when she trips up or second-guesses herself. When her voice falters, I lean in just enough to remind her, “You know this. Take your time.”
Each time, she breathes through it. Each time, she gets closer.
Just then, a group of students walks by our table, talking among themselves not so quietly.
“Wow, how original. The cheerleader tutoring a struggling jock,” one of them says, causing the rest of the group to laugh.
I raise my hand to rub the back of my neck, not enjoying being looped into such an overrated stigma. Just because some athletes choose to not focus on school, doesn’t mean that others don’t want to excel and make a difference beyond the field.
Trying to refocus on helping Sophie, I shift my book closer to hers, about to ask her the next question when she speaks.
“Actually, he’s helping me. I’m the one struggling in Abnormal Psych with Professor Nelson.
You know, one of the hardest grading professors in the school and the one who absolutely loathes the fact that athletes sometimes do get special treatment,” she says, leaning back in her chair, arms crossing over her chest as she lifts her eyes to look straight at the group of students.
“So, I think you owe Beck here an apology.”
I stare at Sophie, absolutely stunned and honestly speechless.
I don’t think anyone has ever really stood up for me in such a blatant way.
The group of students mutters among themselves, and I barely hear anything, but I assume they apologize, because the way Sophie is looking at them would have me ready to do just about anything she said.
Without another word to them, Sophie looks back at me. Her eyes a little brighter shade of blue than they were a few minutes ago.
“I’m really sorry about them and sorry for overstepping, if you feel I did. I’m just so tired of the whole ‘athletes can’t be smart’ charade and…yeah. You stood up for me when you didn’t even know me, and I thought I’d return the favor.”
Still stunned speechless, I just nod my head, and we get back to work.
Sophie works through each question I give her, and each time, I catch myself noticing little things I shouldn’t—the way she chews her lip when she’s thinking, the faint crease between her brows when she’s trying to remember.
I shake it off. Focus. Because this isn’t about me. It’s about making sure she feels like she can handle this class.
When she finally nails a string of answers in a row, I give a single nod. “See? Told you.”
The smile she gives me then—bright, relieved, proud of herself—sticks somewhere I can’t quite shake.
But I push it down, turning back to the next set of notes. Because this is what I came here to do: help her. Nothing else.
And if it makes her life a little easier, then it’s worth every second.