Chapter 24 Beck
BECK
The parking lot’s already packed when I pull in, vendors setting up along the outer fence like it’s a festival instead of a football game. It’s one of those mornings where the air feels electric—thick with anticipation.
I kill the engine, grab my duffel from the passenger seat, and sling it over my shoulder.
A few early tailgaters call my name as I make my way toward the players’ entrance, but I just lift a hand in acknowledgment, keeping my pace consistent.
Street clothes, hoodie pulled over my head, sunglasses on.
I like this part—the quiet before the storm.
Inside, the stadium smells like turf and cleaning solution. The fluorescent lights hum overhead as my footsteps echo down the tunnel toward the locker room. It’s routine. Familiar. But the second I step through the doorway, Coach’s voice cuts through the air.
“Harrison. My office. Now.”
He’s standing just outside his door, arms crossed, that look on his face that usually means bad news or something big.
I drop my duffel on the bench and follow him in, shutting the door behind me.
“Take a seat,” he says, gesturing to the chair across from his desk.
The office is cramped—file cabinets stacked in the corner, game balls lining the shelves—but the folder on his desk grabs my attention. My name is written across the top in bold black marker.
He doesn’t waste time. “You’ve got people watching you, Beck.”
My brow furrows. “Scouts?”
He nods once, flipping the folder open. “NFL reps. A few teams reached out this week, asking for more game tape. You’ve been on their radar for a while, but after the season you’re putting together, interest is heating up.
And if you play the way I know you can tonight, it’s only going to get louder. ”
My pulse jumps. Hearing it out loud hits different.
Coach leans forward, forearms on his desk. “Which is why I’m asking—have you made a decision about the draft yet?”
The question lands heavy, even though I knew it was coming.
I stare down at my hands, fingers flexing against my knees. “No,” I say quietly. “Not yet.”
He nods slowly, like he expected that. “I’m not gonna tell you what to do. You’ve got a real shot at the League, but if your head’s split in two places, that’ll show too. This isn’t a decision you can put off forever, Harrison. You need to start thinking—really thinking—about what you want.”
Not what Dad wants.
Not what everyone assumes.
Me. What I want.
“I know,” I manage.
“Good.” He leans back. “For now, put it aside. Go get ready. Big game tonight.”
“Yes, sir.”
I push to my feet, heart thudding a little too hard as I step back into the hallway. The noise of the locker room swells—music thumping, guys joking, cleats scraping the floor—but it feels distant.
Because suddenly, the future doesn’t feel like some far-off thing. It’s standing right on the other side of tonight.
The moment I push through the locker room doors, the noise hits like a wave. Music’s already blasting from someone’s speaker in the corner—old-school rap mixed with whatever hype playlist Logan’s decided is mandatory this week.
Guys are scattered everywhere—some sitting on benches lacing up cleats, some pacing like caged animals, others laughing loud enough to hurt your ears. The energy is wild, the kind of restless buzz that only happens on game day.
“Look who finally decided to show up,” Logan calls from across the room, grinning as he tosses a roll of tape at my chest. “Thought you were gonna skip out and let the JV squad take your spot.”
I catch the tape one-handed and toss it back. “Yeah, figured I’d give you the spotlight for once.”
He clutches his heart like I’ve mortally wounded him. “Wow. Hurtful and untrue.”
A couple of guys nearby laugh, and the tension that’d been sitting in my chest since Coach’s office eases a notch. This part—the noise, the chirping, the ritual—is grounding.
Logan’s halfway through wrapping his wrists when he glances at me. “You good, man? You’ve got that face like you’re about to solve world hunger or something.”
“I’m fine,” I say automatically, peeling off my hoodie and shoving it in my locker.
He raises a brow but doesn’t push, just smirks. “All right, brooding linebacker. Just don’t zone out on the field. I don’t feel like working extra to make up for your ass all night.”
I chuckle under my breath, tugging on my compression shirt. “Yeah, because I’m the liability here.”
“That’s what I’m saying,” he fires back, grin widening.
Around us, helmets start clicking into place, pads thump against benches, and the air shifts. It’s subtle—banter giving way to focus, laughter tightening into something sharper. Game mode.
I tape my wrists slowly, methodically, letting the routine settle my thoughts. Every sound becomes part of the rhythm—the music, the clatter, the murmured prayers from the corner.
When I glance up, Logan’s already got his helmet tucked under his arm, bouncing on the balls of his feet like a boxer itching to get into the ring. He catches my eye and grins. “Let’s go make some noise, Harrison.”
“Yeah,” I say, the weight of everything else sliding into the background where it belongs. “Let’s do it.”
The cool evening air hits like a jolt the second we step out of the locker room.
The stadium lights blaze against the darkening sky, washing the field in that sharp, almost electric glow.
The stands are already filling—students in Storm purple and gray, waving flags, faces painted, the drumline pounding out a rhythm that vibrates straight through my chest.
Warm-ups are second nature. Jogging the perimeter with the defense, shoulder rolls, high knees, quick cuts down the sideline to wake up my legs.
My cleats bite into the turf with each stride, grounding me.
For a few minutes, it’s just movement—clean, focused, no thoughts about drafts or scouts or the future hovering over my shoulder.
I catch Logan’s eye across the field. He gives me a quick chin lift and a grin that says, let’s go to war.
By the time we’re lined up in the tunnel, helmets on, the noise from the stands has built to a roar.
The sunset’s just giving way to night, streaks of orange fading behind the bleachers as the lights take over completely.
This is the part I love—the thrum under your skin, the shared heartbeat of the team waiting for that first break through the smoke.
Coach’s voice booms behind us. “Let’s set the tone early. Storm on three. One, two—”
“STORM!”
The smoke machine hisses. The crowd surges. And then we’re running—bursting out of the tunnel, pounding down the field as fireworks crack overhead. The sound swallows everything.
Kickoff happens fast. We defer, so defense goes out first. My heartbeat steadies the second I step onto the turf, helmet snug, chinstrap locked. The opposing offense lines up. I shift my weight, eyes scanning their formation, blocking out the roar of the crowd.
First snap—run play. I read it before the handoff even finishes, slipping between the guard and tackle, meeting the running back head-on for a clean stop at the line. The impact reverberates down my arms, sharp and satisfying.
Second snap—play action. They try to dump it short over the middle. I drop back just enough to get a hand on the receiver’s hip, driving him into the turf before he can turn upfield. Third and long.
Logan smacks my helmet as we reset. “Atta boy, Harrison. You’re locked in.”
Yeah. I am. For now, it’s just the game.
The first quarter blurs into controlled chaos—hits, whistles, the thud of bodies meeting in the trenches. By halftime, we’re up by a touchdown, and the adrenaline hasn’t let go.
As we jog toward the tunnel, I glance briefly across the field. No Sophie on the sidelines tonight, but the thought surprises me by slipping in anyway. I push it down quickly, following the team inside for adjustments.
There’s still another half to finish.
The third quarter kicks off, and we set the tone fast. First drive, they try to stretch us wide on an outside zone. I read the blocking scheme clean, cut inside, and drop their tailback for a two-yard loss. The crowd roars, the band fires up, and the adrenaline spikes in my veins like a live wire.
We rotate through coverage and blitz packages seamlessly, Logan shouting calls like he’s got a bullhorn in his chest. Everything clicks—the kind of night where every hit lands right, every read is sharp.
Late in the third, they’re driving deep in our territory. Third and goal. Quarterback rolls out right. I follow, closing the gap fast. He hesitates—bad move. I plant and explode, wrapping him up clean for a sack that sends the stadium into chaos.
Logan’s the first to reach me, smacking the back of my helmet. “Let’s go, Harrison!”
The offense feeds off the energy. Two possessions later, they punch in another score. Up by ten.
By the fourth quarter, it’s all about discipline. No hero plays. Just execution. They push hard in the final two minutes, no huddle, down the field quick. But with thirty seconds left and no timeouts, it comes down to one final play—fourth and five near midfield.
They line up trips right. My heart thrums. Ball snaps. The QB looks short, then tries to dump a slant over the middle. I break on it like I’ve seen it a hundred times, drive through the receiver, and knock the ball loose before he can secure it. Turnover on downs.
Game.
The whistle blows and the field erupts. Students pour over the railings, storming the turf in a wave of purple and gray. Helmets are flying off, guys are shouting, hugging, jumping like kids. Logan grabs me by the shoulders, shaking me hard. “You’re a damn monster tonight!”
I laugh, breathless, clapping him on the back. The adrenaline’s still buzzing as we make our way toward the locker room, weaving through the chaos.
Inside, the energy is electric—music blaring, helmets clattering against lockers, the sweet burn of victory everywhere. I yank off my pads, sweat soaking through my undershirt, lungs still heaving from the final drive.
Coach barrels in, his voice cutting over the noise. “That’s how you close out a game! That’s how you protect your house!”
The cheers shake the walls.
For a second, standing there with my teammates, my future doesn’t exist. There’s just this—the high, the noise, the win.
But then I catch a glimpse of one of our assistant coaches off to the side, phone in hand, murmuring to someone in a suit. Scouts. Always watching.
The reminder hits like a punch. And just like that, the storm in my chest starts to build again.
The locker room slowly shifts from chaos to cleanup.
Music still thumps faintly from the corner speaker, but most of the guys have either headed out to meet family or started funneling toward the showers.
My pads are already hung, cleats unlaced, the post-game adrenaline ebbing into that familiar bone-deep exhaustion.
The hot water hits my shoulders like a damn blessing.
I stand there longer than I probably should, head tipped forward, letting the steam work its way into every tight muscle.
There’s a particular kind of tired that comes after a game like this—not just physical, but full.
The kind that makes everything else quiet down.
By the time I towel off and change into sweats, the room’s nearly empty. Logan’s still lingering by his locker, talking animatedly with a couple of the younger guys, but I make a beeline for my bag. My phone’s tucked into the front pocket, screen lighting up the second I grab it.
One notification in particular catches my attention.
Sophie: Good game, Harrison!! Congrats on the win.
A grin pulls at my mouth before I can stop it. It’s small, automatic, the kind that hits somewhere low in my chest instead of just my face. I sink down onto the bench, thumbs hovering over the screen for a second longer than I’d like to admit.
She didn’t have to watch. She didn’t have to text. But she did.
I tap out a reply.
appreciate it, Soph. hope the fancy crowd was impressed.
I shove my phone back into my bag, but the grin doesn’t disappear as fast as I’d like. I’m still pulling on my hoodie when Logan strolls over, eyebrows already raised.
“What’s got you looking like that?” he asks, bumping his shoulder against mine.
“Like what?” I sling my duffel over my back.
He gives me a pointed look as we head toward the exit. “Like you just got drafted and kissed your high school sweetheart under the fireworks. You’re grinning like an idiot, man.”
I roll my eyes. “You’re dramatic.”
“I’m observant,” he fires back, pushing open the door that leads toward the players’ lot. The cool night air hits us, still humming with the remnants of the crowd clearing out. “You check your phone, start smiling, and suddenly Mr. Stoic Linebacker’s got dimples. So…who was it?”
I keep my tone even, but my mouth betrays me with another small tug at the corner. “Sophie texted. That’s all.”
Logan lets out a low whistle. “Ah. Sophie.” He draws her name out like he’s savoring it, grinning when I glare at him. “Didn’t realize we were at the ‘game-day texts’ stage of the fake relationship.”
“Logan.”
“All right, all right,” he says, laughing as we approach my truck. “I’m just saying…looks good on you, man.”
I shake my head, but he’s not wrong—the smile’s still there, stubborn. I tug my hoodie up as if that’ll hide it and toss my bag into the backseat before sliding in.
“Let’s just go,” I mutter.
Logan’s still chuckling as I start the engine. “Uh-huh. Whatever you say, Harrison.”