Chapter 16 Sophie
SOPHIE
The sky bleeds orange and pink at the edges, fading fast into indigo as the stadium lights flicker to life. First night game of the season, and the whole place feels electric—like the air itself is charged, buzzing through the stands, rattling in my chest.
The Storm student section is already a wall of sound, painted faces and waving flags, every shout and chant bouncing off the concrete.
I grip my pom-poms tighter, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with my squad at the edge of the field.
My smile is wide, practiced, but underneath it my pulse thunders, nerves dancing under my skin.
The announcer’s voice booms, low and commanding. “Your PCU Storm!”
The tunnel explodes with smoke and music as the team rushes the field, helmets gleaming under the lights. The ground vibrates with their cleats pounding against turf, the crowd’s roar deafening.
As the players take the field, one in particular has my focus as green eyes meet mine.
Helmet strapped, visor catching the last streak of sunset, shoulders squared like he owns every inch of this field. I can’t fully see his mouth, but his head tilts just slightly my way, enough that I know a grin would be there if I could see it.
And maybe it’s my imagination, but the way he lifts his hand in a small, subtle gesture before jogging to join the huddle—it’s like a signal just for me.
I throw my pom-poms higher, voice sharper, louder than the rest, and when his gaze flicks briefly to the sidelines, I catch it. Just a flash. Enough to send a shiver down my arms.
Then he’s gone, swallowed by the huddle, and I’m left buzzing like the rest of the stadium, pretending it’s only the game making my heart race.
The whistle shrieks, the ball sails, and the first quarter is underway.
Our cheer squad launches into motion—chants, kicks, pyramids, all choreographed to the thrum of drums from the band and the echo of the crowd. I’m moving, smiling, every inch of me trained to look polished. But every time the Storm’s defense takes the field, my eyes stray.
Beck moves differently than the others. Controlled.
Calculated. Every hit is clean, sharp, and when he drops their running back for a loss, the entire student section goes wild.
I feel it in my bones—the shift of momentum, the surge of pride—and my voice cracks from shouting his name along with everyone else’s.
“Defense! Storm defense!” we chant, and when he jogs back to the line, helmet tilted toward us, I swear it’s not just the crowd he hears.
By the second quarter, sweat slicks down my back from stunting, and my legs ache from endless jumps. Still, I can’t stop noticing him. The way he calls to his teammates, the way he sets the line, hard as stone. He doesn’t waver, doesn’t falter.
And when the other team finally breaks a run wide, I watch him close the gap like it’s nothing, wrapping the guy up and driving him straight into the turf. The stadium erupts, and even though I’m supposed to be locked into my routine, my grin is too real, too sharp, too proud.
The half winds down with the Storm up by a touchdown, the student section deafening. Our captain waves us into formation, and the butterflies in my stomach double.
Because now it’s our turn.
The halftime routine. Center stage, all eyes on us.
We jog to the middle of the field as the band clears, lights glaring bright against the turf. I shake out my arms, my smile snapping into place, but my chest still hums from everything I’ve just seen.
“Storm! Let’s go, Storm!” The music kicks in, and we launch into flips, lifts, and high kicks, our formation slicing through the noise of the stadium.
I toss, spin, and land, every move drilled to perfection—but when the crowd roars on the last beat, my heart isn’t just pounding from the routine. It’s pounding from knowing who’s watching from the sideline, helmet in hand, sweat dripping under the glow of the lights.
The second half kicks off under a sky gone deep navy, the stadium lights burning against the dark. My voice is hoarse and my muscles are aching, but the adrenaline never fades.
The game is tight—hit after hit, stop after stop. Every chant feels louder, every stunt sharper, like the whole squad is feeding off the same current buzzing through the stands.
Then comes the moment.
The final minute. The opposing team surging downfield, the scoreboard too close for comfort. The air feels heavier, every fan on their feet, screaming.
Beck lines up at the center of the defense, crouched low, coiled like a spring. The snap echoes, the quarterback hands off, and the runner charges straight for the gap—straight for Beck.
And Beck is there.
He reads it perfectly, crashing through the line, arms locking around the runner and driving him into the turf with a force that shakes the stadium.
The whistle blows. Game over.
The field erupts—players shouting, helmets tossed in the air, fans storming past security onto the turf. I barely realize I’m moving until I’m sprinting across the grass, my pom-poms abandoned somewhere behind me.
And then I see him.
Helmet off, sweat dripping, eyes bright under the lights. Beck Harrison, standing tall in the middle of the chaos.
“Beck!”
He turns just in time for me to crash into him, arms wrapping tight around his waist. His laugh is low, surprised, before his arms come around me and—without hesitation—he lifts me clean off the ground.
For a heartbeat, it’s like the noise fades.
Just me in his arms, weightless, his strength solid around me.
I get completely lost in the moment and go to quickly kiss his cheek.
But at the last second, he turns his head, causing me to miss my original target and land with my lips half against his dimple and half covering his lips.
My shocked gaze meets his, and his cheeks are turning a shade of red I’ve never seen on him before. He clears his throat and sets me back down. I can feel my own cheeks flaming, and my smile falters as my gaze skims past his shoulder—straight into the stands.
Zach.
Watching.
The smirk on his face makes my stomach drop. My breath stutters, nerves tangling with the high of victory.
Before I can pull away completely, Beck shifts. One hand comes up, firm but gentle, tilting my chin until my eyes meet his. His gaze is unmoving, cutting through the noise around us.
“We’ll talk,” he says quietly, just for me. “Preferably after I shower.”
Heat rushes through me—part nerves, part something I don’t want to name yet. I nod once, unable to look anywhere but him.
Then he releases me, teammates crowding in to slap his back, lifting him up in the swell of celebration. And I stand frozen in the middle of the chaos, heart pounding harder than it had all game.
The chaos of the field carries me all the way to the sideline, where the cheer squad finally pulls back, coaches waving us toward the tunnel. My legs feel shaky as I jog inside, the roar of the crowd muffled by concrete walls.
In the locker room, it’s a flurry of ponytails and laughter as the girls peel off uniforms and slip into sweats and sneakers. Everyone’s buzzing, giddy from the win, voices echoing against the tiled walls.
I tug on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt, fingers fumbling just a little. My reflection in the mirror shows flushed cheeks, hair escaping my braid, eyes still too bright. I look like I just won the game myself.
Except it isn’t just the win making me feel this way.
By the time I step back into the hall, the stadium noise is a dull hum in the distance.
The corridor outside the football locker room is quieter, though a few fans linger, hoping for a glimpse of their favorite players.
I hover near the wall, tugging at the hem of my sweatshirt, trying not to look like I’m… waiting.
But that’s exactly what I’m doing.
Every time the door creaks open, my heart kicks. Players spill out in groups, laughing and shouting, smelling like cologne layered over sweat. None of them are him.
I fold my arms, shifting my weight from one foot to the other. The longer I stand here, the more ridiculous I feel. What am I even expecting? He said we’ll talk, but maybe he didn’t mean it the way I’m clinging to.
Then the door opens again, and he’s there.
Beck.
Hair damp, gray Storm hoodie stretched across his shoulders, duffel slung low. He spots me instantly, eyes catching mine like he knew I’d be here all along.
My pulse stumbles, and I straighten, every ounce of bravado gone.
“Hey,” I say, my voice softer than I mean it to be. “Good job out there.”
The corner of his mouth tips up. “You didn’t look too bad yourself.”
A laugh bubbles out of me before I can stop it. “Pretty sure you did more heavy lifting than I did.”
He shrugs like it’s nothing, eyes staying fixed on mine. “Different kind of work. Crowd wouldn’t have been half as loud without you guys revving them up.”
I shake my head, smiling despite the heat creeping into my cheeks. He always says things so simply, like they’re just facts, and somehow that makes them hit harder.
We stand there a moment, the noise from the stadium drifting faint through the concrete. Then his gaze dips, softer now.
“By the way—earlier. On the field.” His voice drops, low and deliberate. “I didn’t hug you back because of him.”
My breath catches, pulse stumbling.
“I hugged you because I wanted to.”
The words settle between us, quiet but certain, and I feel them all the way to my fingertips. My mouth opens, but for once I don’t have anything to say.
He doesn’t push. Just lets the silence sit, comfortable in a way that makes me feel seen instead of exposed.
And that’s somehow worse—because it makes me want more.
The silence lingers just long enough to make my cheeks burn hotter, so when he shifts and starts walking, I fall into step beside him, grateful for the excuse to move. The hallway spills us out toward the lot, the night air cool against my overheated skin.
I tug my sweatshirt tighter. “You headed to the party at the football house?”
His mouth tips into that small, easy almost-smile. “Yeah. Tradition and all that.”
“Right.” I nod, glancing down at my sneakers as we fall into the rhythm of our steps. “I’m gonna run home and change first.” I hesitate, then add, trying to sound casual, “Maybe I’ll see you there.”
He looks over, the stadium lights catching the damp edges of his hair, and nods once. “Yeah. Maybe.”
It’s simple, comfortable—like everything with him—but it’s enough to send a flutter low in my stomach.
We reach the edge of the lot, where the players’ cars are scattered in tight rows. He lifts a hand in a quiet goodbye before heading toward his truck, and I watch him go for a beat longer than I should before turning toward my own place, pulse still humming from more than just the win.
“Hey, Beck?” I yell across the lot. He pauses, hand on the door of his truck, confusion evident on his face even from this far away. “I wanted to hug you too.”