Chapter 19 Sophie
SOPHIE
Ava is sprawled across my narrow dorm bed like she owns the place, one hand absently scratching behind Snickers’ ears. My cat’s purring like a motorboat, legs stretched out like she hasn’t a care in the world.
“I still don’t get how you managed this,” Ava says, flicking her gaze from the cat to me as I swipe mascara over my lashes in the mirror. “Pets aren’t allowed in dorms. Yet, here you are with a full-time furry roommate.”
“Correction,” I say, leaning closer to fix a smudge. “Emotional support animal. Totally different.”
Ava snorts. “Yeah, but how did you talk the housing office into actually approving it? I couldn’t even get them to fix my leaky shower head.”
I grin at her reflection, setting my mascara down. “Snickers is special. She keeps me grounded. And technically, they couldn’t say no once I submitted the paperwork. Federal law and all that.”
Ava stretches, rubbing Snickers’ belly as her paws twitch happily. “Well, I guess she’s the most spoiled ESA on campus. Do you think she even knows you pay tuition to keep her here?”
I laugh, tugging my cheer bow into place. “She knows she runs the place. That’s enough.”
“True,” Ava says, settling back into the pillows like she might nap. “Meanwhile, I’m still single and pet-less. At least one of us has unconditional love.”
I roll my eyes but my heart squeezes a little, watching her play with her so easily. Snickers has been my constant since freshman year, padding across textbooks, curling up against me on nights when the world feels too heavy. She’s more than a cat. She’s home.
And right now, home feels good.
Because in less than an hour, I’ll be on the field again, the stadium lights blazing, the Storm roaring into another game. And somewhere in that chaos, Beck will be lining up across the line of scrimmage.
And I can’t help but admit—I’m looking forward to seeing him.
Ava props her chin in her hand, giving me a look that’s far too sly for someone lounging in sweatpants. “So…are you going to admit it, or do I have to drag it out of you?”
I blink at her in the mirror. “Admit what?”
“That you’ve got a thing for Beck Harrison.”
My eyes go wide and I can’t help the faint blush that creeps into my cheeks. “What? No, I don’t.”
Ava smirks, scratching Snickers’ chin. “Please. I’ve seen the way you perk up when he walks into a room, or how you’re suddenly very interested in extra study sessions for psychology. And don’t think I missed that little side hug at the party last weekend.”
Heat creeps up my neck, and I grab my lip gloss just to have something to fiddle with. “That wasn’t—it was nothing. He was just being nice.”
“Mm-hmm.” Ava’s grin widens. “If that’s what you want to call it. Honestly, Soph, I don’t blame you. The guy’s basically a six-foot-two wall of linebacker with green eyes and dimples. You could do a lot worse.”
I roll my eyes, but my pulse betrays me, thudding harder at the word dimples. “You’re imagining things.”
“Sure I am.” Ava stretches, scooping Snickers into her lap. “But just so you know, if you keep insisting you don’t like him, it only makes it more obvious that you do.”
I toss my gloss back into my bag and turn away before she can see my cheeks flaming. “We’re going to be late if you don’t get up.”
Ava chuckles, clearly pleased with herself, and sets Snickers back on the bed. “Fine, fine. But just wait. One of these days, you’re going to admit I was right.”
I shake my head, but a smile tugs at the corner of my mouth as I sling my bag over my shoulder.
Because maybe…just maybe…she is.
By the time we reach the stadium, the sun’s bright and the temperature is bliss. Not too hot. Not too cold. The air hums with that pregame buzz—students filing in with painted faces, the marching band warming up with booming drum lines, and vendors shouting over the growing crowd.
Ava loops her arm through mine as we weave through the gate toward the locker rooms. “Smell that?” she says, inhaling dramatically. “Popcorn, hot football players, and impending victory.”
I laugh, shaking my head, but the nerves are already starting in my stomach. Game days never get old—the adrenaline, the noise, the way the whole campus feels like it’s holding its breath until kickoff.
Inside the cheer locker room, it’s a flurry of bows, uniforms, and glitter spray. Teammates swap lip gloss and last-minute pep talks while our captain claps her hands for attention.
“Let’s go, ladies! Time to bring the energy!”
I tie my shoes tighter, heart pounding, and glance toward the tunnel where the field waits just beyond.
Because in a few minutes, we’ll be out there under the lights. The crowd will roar, the Storm will charge, and somewhere across the turf…Beck will be on the field.
And whether I want to admit it or not, I know I’ll be searching for him.
The tunnel vibrates with noise as the announcer’s voice booms through the speakers.
“And now, your PCU Storm!”
The crowd erupts, and the cheer squad runs out first, pom-poms flashing under the lights, followed by the football team bursting onto the field in a wave of purple and gray.
I search for Beck automatically, and it doesn’t take long for me to find him.
He jogs out with the other players, helmet on, his pads broadening his already massive frame. To anyone else, he probably looks the same as usual. But I see it.
The way his strides aren’t as sharp. The slight slump in his shoulders. Even under the lights, he looks pale.
My throat tightens, but the music swells, and we launch into our opening routine, the crowd roaring us on. By the time we finish and the game starts, Beck is on the sidelines, arms crossed, helmet still on. He doesn’t move much, just watching, focused but withdrawn.
Play after play, he stays there. Logan’s out there leading tackles, the defense grinding against the rival offense, and Beck—he doesn’t step onto the field once.
Until the last two minutes of the half.
The rival quarterback lines up, third and long, crowd screaming as the Storm digs in. And then I see it—Beck stepping onto the field, lining up with the rest of the defense.
The snap cracks through the air. The play unfolds in a blur of bodies and noise, and Beck moves—fast, sharper than he’s looked all night. He bursts through the line, wrapping the running back and bringing him down before he can gain more than a yard.
The stadium roars.
I leap with the others, pom-poms flashing. Relief surges through me—until Beck jogs back to the sideline.
Helmet off now, he bends over, bracing his hands on his knees. Even from across the field, I can see the color drained from his face, the tight line of his jaw.
He sinks onto the bench, and Logan is instantly at his side, crouching, saying something I can’t hear.
The halftime whistle blows, and the team heads toward the locker room. Beck doesn’t look back.
When our captain calls us back to regroup on the sideline, I murmur something about needing water and slip toward the tunnel before anyone can question it. My heart pounds harder with each step, half from nerves at sneaking off and half from what I’ll find when I reach the players’ area.
The locker room doors loom ahead, staff and trainers bustling in and out. I hover just outside, biting my lip, straining for a glimpse past the crowd.
And then I see him.
Beck, sitting on a bench just outside, shoulders slumped, his face pale and drawn under the harsh fluorescent lights. He’s tugging at the tape on his wrist like he wants to focus on anything except how bad he feels.
I take a step closer, the noise of the halftime routine fading behind me.
I shouldn’t be here. I know that. But watching him like this—seeing him fight to hold himself together when it’s so obvious he’s running on fumes—I can’t just stand by.
I take a step closer, nerves buzzing under my skin.
And then his head lifts.
Green eyes find mine instantly. Almost like he knew I was here.
I freeze, caught.
His brows draw together slightly, not angry, just questioning. Then his mouth tips into the smallest curve, like he’s almost amused.
I finally make myself cross the last few steps toward him.
I close the distance, my sneakers squeaking faintly against the concrete. His gaze stays locked on mine, sharp even through the exhaustion.
“What are you doing here, Sophie?” His voice is low, rough around the edges but still threaded with something that sounds almost amused.
My mind scrambles for an excuse. “I, um—needed my water bottle.”
One dark brow ticks up, and for the first time tonight, his face seems to relax the slightest bit. “In the men’s locker room?”
Heat rushes up my neck. “It could’ve…rolled in here.”
His grin deepens just slightly, though it doesn’t quite hide how pale he is, how heavy his shoulders still sit. “Right. Lucky for you, I’m on water-bottle patrol today.”
I bite back a laugh, shaking my head. “You’re ridiculous.”
I fold my arms, narrowing my eyes at him. “You’re awfully smug for someone who looks like he’s about to keel over.”
That earns me a soft huff of laughter, his grin lingering as he leans back against the bench. “Takes a lot more than that to knock me out.”
I shake my head, fighting the tug at my lips. “Always so tough, huh?”
“Something like that.” His eyes glint, but it fades quickly, his shoulders sinking just a little deeper.
The teasing edge slips away, and before I can stop myself, the truth blurts out. “I didn’t come in here for a water bottle.”
His brows lift slightly, waiting.
“I came in here because I wanted to check on you. To make sure you were okay.” My voice drops lower, barely carrying over the chaos of the locker room. “You don’t look okay, Beck.”
For a moment, silence stretches between us, the noise of his teammates clattering around fading into the background.
And then his gaze softens—steady and unflinching, like he’s really seeing me.
“You shouldn’t worry about me,” he says quietly.
For a second, I think he’s going to brush me off again. But instead, Beck exhales slowly, dragging a hand over his face.
“It’s just the same from earlier this week,” he admits with a low voice, meant only for me. “Thought I was past it, but I guess not.”
My heart twists. “So, that’s why you’ve looked so…” I trail off, not wanting to say pale or miserable out loud.
He smirks faintly, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah. Not exactly my best game face.”
“You shouldn’t even be out here,” I whisper, biting my lip.
“Probably not.” He tilts his head toward me, and there’s something almost gentle in his expression. “But I’ll be fine.”
And for some reason, I believe him—because he says it confidently, like he’s carried worse before.
Before I can say anything else, the door to the locker room swings open. Logan appears, already tugging at his gloves, scanning the benches until his eyes land on us.
“You good?” he asks Beck, then flicks a look at me, brows arching like he knows exactly what he’s walked in on.
Beck just nods, pushing himself to his feet with more effort than he probably wants me to notice. “Yeah. Ready.”
Beck adjusts his helmet under his arm, but his eyes linger on me. For a second, he looks like he might brush it all off again—but instead, his hand finds mine, giving it a brief squeeze.
“Thanks, Soph,” he says quietly.
It’s simple, but the weight in his tone makes my chest ache.
Movement catches my eye, and I realize Logan’s been standing just inside the doorway, watching. He doesn’t say anything, just quirks a smile, then tips me a quick wink before clapping Beck on the shoulder and steering him toward the tunnel.
I wait a few minutes before slipping back out to the field.
Ava’s waiting near the sideline with her pom-poms tucked under one arm, brows raised. “Took you long enough. What’d you do, get lost on the way to grab your water bottle? Because, newsflash—it’s literally been sitting right here the whole time.”
Heat rushes up my neck, but before I can come up with a comeback, her grin turns sly. “Is he good?”
I nod, swallowing the knot in my throat. “Yeah. He’s good.”
Ava turns back to the field, raising her pom-poms, and I follow suit, falling back into line with the squad.
But my head is still spinning.
Beck’s hand was warm, even when he looked like he could barely hold himself upright. And that simple thanks—quiet, sincere—lingers louder in my mind than the roar of the crowd.
I don’t really know what to make of how I’m feeling. I just know that I really care for Beck, as a friend. A very attractive, calming, friend.
I tell myself it doesn’t mean anything. That it can’t.
But some part of me knows I might already be in trouble.