Chapter 15 Beck
BECK
The Thursday sun is brutal, baking the turf as I stretch out with the rest of the defense. Helmets glint under the late afternoon light, whistles sharp in the air. Coach is already barking about intensity, about keeping our heads in it with another game coming up Saturday.
I roll my shoulders back, tuning in—until a blur of movement catches my eye near the edge of the field.
Sophie.
She’s jogging across the track, gym bag bouncing against her hip, ponytail swishing. Definitely late, definitely in a hurry. Her cheer uniform is half on, half not, sweatshirt sleeves shoved up as she fumbles with a water bottle.
The corner of my mouth twitches before I can stop it.
“Yo.”
Logan’s voice cuts in. He’s beside me, helmet tucked under one arm, smirking like he’s already seen too much. “What’s up with that?”
I frown. “What?”
He tilts his chin toward where Sophie’s joined the cheer squad, still a little breathless, still adjusting her shoes. “That.”
I shake my head, standing to grab my helmet. “Nothing. Just saw someone running late. That’s all.”
Logan doesn’t look convinced, but the whistle blows again, calling us into formation. His grin widens. “Sure, Harrison. Whatever you say.”
I ignore him, locking my focus back on the line, on the play we’re about to run.
Because I don’t need distractions. Not from cheerleaders, not from anyone.
And yet, when we break the huddle, my gaze flicks back once—just once—before I shove it down and dig into the turf.
Coach’s whistle slices the air, pulling us back to focus. I shake off the distraction, crouching into position. The rhythm of practice takes over—calls, hits, the crunch of pads colliding, sweat dripping down my back under the late-afternoon sun.
Football is simple like this. Direct. No lies, no traps. Just plays, strength, and focus. I can trust that.
Still, every so often, my eyes drift toward the sideline. Sophie’s with her squad now, movements sharp as they cycle through routines. She laughs at something one of the other girls says, the sound carrying just faintly across the field.
I push harder into the next drill, determined to shove the image out of my head.
By the time practice winds down, the sun is dipping low, creating shadows stretching across the turf. Coach dismisses us with a final round of instructions, already chewing out a freshman who lagged on conditioning.
Helmets come off, chatter rises as the guys peel away in clumps. A couple of them—Kyle and Trey, always the same culprits—veer toward the cheerleaders, tossing grins and lines that make the girls giggle and roll their eyes in equal measure.
Logan nudges me. “C’mon, Harrison. We could use another wingman.”
I sling my helmet under my arm, shaking my head. “I’ll pass.”
He smirks. “Course you will.”
I don’t rise to the jab. Instead, I head toward the locker room, the weight of my pads settling heavier with each step.
The showers hiss to life, steam filling the air as the guys joke and talk about the weekend. I strip down, letting the hot water pound against my sore muscles, their laughter fading into a dull hum.
I’m not here for parties or girls or distractions. I’m here for the game. For school. For figuring out which path is mine before time runs out.
And yet, as I scrub sweat and turf dust from my skin, one image slips back uninvited—Sophie running late across the track, flushed and breathless, smiling at her friends like the weight of the world doesn’t even touch her.
I close my eyes, shaking it off.
Focus, Harrison. Focus.
Friday mornings usually start the same—weights, shower, psych. Today should’ve been no different. But by the time I hit the steps to Nelson’s building, hair still damp at the ends, my phone buzzes with an email.
CLASS CANCELED.
I’m not sure whether to be annoyed or relieved. A free hour sounds good, but I’ve already got my head set for lecture.
“Canceled?”
I know who the voice belongs to before I even look up. Sophie’s standing a few steps ahead, screen lifted like proof. There’s a tension in her shoulders, like she’d worked herself up to be here and now doesn’t know what to do with it.
“Yeah,” I respond. “No class today.”
She turns to see me standing behind her.
I slide my phone back into my pocket. “Guess that’s one way to start a Friday.”
We stand there too long, the silence stretching. Then she blurts, “Coffee?”
Her tone makes me want to smile, but I don’t. I just nod. “Coffee.”
We head across the quad together, quiet. She’s buzzing—nervous energy rolling off her—but I keep my pace even, like it’s just another morning.
The café is crowded and loud. We grab drinks then slide into a small table near the back. For a while, we don’t talk. Just sip. She’s wound tight, I can tell. Eventually, she sets her cup down, eyes darting to me.
“So…about Monday. I didn’t mean to blindside you. I really am sorry.”
Her apology tugs something in my chest. I don’t want her thinking she wronged me. My mouth twitches. “You said that already. And I told you—I’m not mad. Still the most interesting wake-up I’ve had in a while.”
Color creeps up her neck. “Not exactly how I wanted to make an impression.”
“You did.” I shrug. “Between that and your hoodie attacking you, you’re starting to become someone I’m finding it hard to forget.”
The words slip out before I can think better of them, but it’s the truth.
She blinks, caught between a smile and something else, but then the café door opens, and a familiar shadow falls over our table.
Zach.
Of course.
He doesn’t hesitate, just strides right for us, smirk locked in place. “Well, well. Didn’t think I’d see you slumming it in the café, Soph.”
Her fingers tighten around her cup. “Go away, Zach.”
He ignores her, gaze sliding to me. “What’s this? Trading up already? Or just trying to make me jealous?”
The café goes quiet, too many ears pricking at once. I feel her tense, panic rising off her like heat.
So I shift—not toward him, not to rise. Just enough to angle toward her. My eyes meet hers.
Your call, I tell her without a word. I’ll follow your lead.
Zach smirks sharper, leaning in. “You know, your mom stopped by my place Monday. Told me you’d moved on.
Got yourself a new boyfriend. Funny thing, though—I hadn’t heard a word.
Until now.” His gaze drags back to me, slow and deliberate.
“So this the guy? Really? From the party at the football house?”
I don’t flinch. Just keep my eyes on Sophie, giving her the choice.
Her throat works once. Then, with a confident tone to her voice, she replies, “Yes. Beck’s my boyfriend.”
Zach laughs, sharp and ugly. “You’re kidding me.”
She doesn’t budge. “No. I’m not.”
Something flickers in his expression—like he didn’t expect her to hold ground. His jaw ticks. He looks at me again, waiting for me to crack, but I just sit there, calm and unreadable.
“Guess mommy dearest wasn’t lying after all,” he mutters, voice bitter. Then, louder, “Enjoy the charity case while it lasts, Soph.”
The words sting, but I don’t move. Don’t let them touch me. Don’t let him see an inch of reaction. If he wants a rise, he won’t get it here.
He finally straightens, smirk back in place. “See you around.”
When he’s gone, the café fills with noise again. But Sophie remains stiff, her fingers trembling around her cup.
“I’m sorry,” she blurts, eyes fixed on the swirl of her coffee. “I didn’t mean for this to spiral. First my parents, now Zach—you didn’t sign up for any of this, and I keep dragging you in deeper.”
I lean forward, bracing my arms on the table, catching her eyes. “You don’t owe me an apology.”
She blinks. “But—”
“You were standing your ground. He pushed, and you handled it. I just happened to be sitting here.”
Her brow furrows, like she doesn’t quite believe me. I shake my head. “Look, Sophie, if pretending I’m your boyfriend keeps people like that off your back?” My mouth quirks just slightly. “I can deal with it. It’s not the end of the world.”
The tightness in her face softens, just barely.
“You make it sound easy,” she whispers.
“Sometimes it is.”
I let the silence stretch a moment, then tip the corner of my mouth up. “Besides…I told you before. Wakes me up better than coffee.”
It takes her a second, then she laughs—surprised but real. The sound makes something in me pause.
“You’re ridiculous,” she says, shaking her head.
“Maybe.” I lean back, grin tugging deeper. “But you’re not apologizing anymore, are you?”
“Touché.” Her smile breaking free. “So, should we actually study? Maybe move to the library where it’s a little quieter?”
“Library works.” I stand, sliding my bag strap over my shoulder.
She grabs her cup, still smiling faintly as she falls into step beside me. The café noise fades behind us, replaced by the hum of campus—footsteps, voices, the late-morning buzz.
We walk in silence for a bit, the kind that doesn’t press this time. The kind that feels…almost comfortable.
At the library, we find a spot near the windows. She spreads out her notes with surgical precision—highlighters lined up by color, pages stacked neat. I set mine down across from hers, a mess of block handwriting and arrows that only I can follow.
Her eyes flick to my notebook, then back to hers, and she hides a small smile.
“What?” I ask, brow raised.
“Nothing.” She shakes her head, amused. “Just…yours look like chaos compared to mine.”
“They work,” I say simply, flipping to a fresh page.
She hums, still smiling, and for the next hour, we settle into rhythm. She quizzes me, I quiz her. When she stumbles, I don’t rush in—I wait until she finds the answer herself. Each time she does, her shoulders ease a little more.
And I catch myself noticing the same little things as last time. The way she chews her lip when she’s thinking. The tiny crease between her brows when she second-guesses herself. The quiet spark in her eyes when she finally nails an answer.
I shove it down, focusing on the page in front of me. Because this is studying. That’s all it is.
Still, when she laughs at one of my dry comments about the textbook wording—“who writes this stuff?”—the sound lingers longer than I expect.
By the time we pack up, the tension from earlier feels like it’s shifted. Lighter. Easier.
She tucks her notes into her bag, glancing at me. “Thanks. For…all of this.”
I shake my head. “Don’t thank me. You’re the one doing the work.”
Her smile softens, and for a second, I feel it catch somewhere I don’t want to name.
I clear my throat, standing. “I should get going. We’ve got final film review before tonight.”
Her mouth curves, knowing. “Rival week. Coach must be on edge.”
I huff out a laugh. “You have no idea.”
She raises a brow. “I think I might.”
Fair point.
We fall into step across the quad, sunlight warming the path between us. At the corner where our routes split, I nod once. “I’ll see you tonight.”
She hesitates, shifting her bag higher on her shoulder. Then, before she can catch herself, she blurts, “Guess I’ll be cheering a little harder for you. You know, since you’re my ‘boyfriend,’ and all that.”
The words hang there, softer than she probably meant, and her cheeks flush almost instantly.
For a moment, neither of us moves. Her eyes lift to mine, blue and searching, and something in my chest tightens.
I let the silence stretch just long enough to feel it, then give a small, easy smile. “I’ll do my best to make it worth it.”
Her lips part, like she wasn’t expecting me to answer that way. She looks away quickly, heat creeping up her neck as she mutters something about practice. Then she turns down her path, steps brisker than before.
I watch her go for half a beat longer than I should, then shake it off and head toward the athletic building.
That’s when I see him.
Zach, leaning against the brick near the entrance, arms folded like he’s been waiting.
His smirk sharpens as our eyes meet. “Good luck tonight, Harrison. I’ll be watching. Should be a pretty interesting game.”
The way he says it makes the words feel less like support and more like a challenge.
I don’t rise to it. “Good,” I say evenly, pushing past him toward the doors. “Should be a game worth watching.”
I don’t look back, don’t give him the satisfaction.