Chapter 41 Beck
BECK
The sky’s still streaked with pale blue and gold when I finally make it out of the locker room. The sun’s already dipping lower, casting long shadows across the parking lot. Sophie’s waiting by the gate in her cheer jacket, pom-poms tucked away, hair loose now.
The second she spots me, she lights up, her grin making those blue eyes sparkle even more than normal.
“Nice game, Harrison,” she says when I reach her, bumping my shoulder lightly.
“Not bad yourself,” I tease. “I saw those back handsprings in the third quarter. Might’ve been the highlight of the day.”
She laughs, shaking her head. “Smooth.”
Normally, after a win, the team heads to some packed house party where the music’s loud, the beer’s warm, and someone inevitably ends up jumping into a pool fully clothed. But as soon as she slips her hand into mine, I know I don’t want any of that tonight.
“Wanna skip the party?” I ask.
Her brows lift. “Yeah?”
I nod toward the lot. “Yeah. Let’s go for a drive.”
We end up on a quiet back road just outside of town, windows cracked, music low. The early evening light filters through the trees, golden and soft. Sophie’s kicked off her white sneakers and has her feet propped up on the dash, humming along to whatever’s playing on my phone.
It’s easy—just the two of us talking about nothing and everything. Her day, the game, the wedding coming up next weekend. She starts listing off all the things she and Ava still need to finish for her sister, and I just listen, stealing glances at her when I can.
Eventually, I pull off onto a small gravel path that opens into an empty field.
It’s quiet out here—just the sound of wind brushing through dry grass and a few birds settling in for the evening.
I park the truck, turn the engine off, and for a moment, we just sit there watching the sky fade from blue to orange.
“This is nice,” she says softly.
“Yeah,” I say, taking in nothing about the field around us, but everything about her. “It is.”
I hop out of the cab and open the back. The bed of my truck’s empty, perfect for what I have in mind. I grab my phone, scrolling for a second until a soft, easy song fills the air.
Sophie leans against the side, curious. “What are you doing?”
I grin and hold out my hand. “Practicing.”
She laughs. “Practicing what?”
“Dancing,” I say. “Figured I should get a little practice in before the wedding so I don’t embarrass myself in front of your entire family.”
Her eyebrows arch as a small smirk makes its way across her lips. “Oh, come on now. You did fine at the party. Don’t you just love dancing?”
“Absolutely not,” I deadpan. “Which is exactly why I need you.”
She shakes her head, but she’s smiling as she takes my hand. I help her climb into the bed of the truck, and we stand there together, the music drifting through the fading light.
I rest one hand at her waist, and she loops hers around my shoulders. It’s awkward for about two seconds, me counting under my breath, her stifling a laugh, and then it just clicks. We sway slowly, the truck rocking gently beneath us, the sky turning pink at the edges.
Her head eventually rests against my chest, right over my heartbeat. I breathe her in and everything else fades out.
“You’re not half bad,” she murmurs.
“Don’t sound so surprised,” I say. “I’ve got moves.”
She tilts her head back to give me a look, eyes sparkling. “We’ll see about that at the wedding.”
“Hey,” I say softly. “Worst case, I step on your toes in front of everyone and give them a story to tell.”
She laughs, the sound soft and easy. “Worth it.”
We fall back into the slow rhythm, the world narrowing down to the truck bed, the music, and the fading light.
The song drifts through the quickly cooling air. Sophie’s hands are looped behind my neck, mine settled at her waist, and we sway in the back of my truck like the rest of the world doesn’t exist. The sky’s streaked in pink and orange, the edges fading into deep blue.
She tilts her head back to look at me, eyes catching the last bit of light. There’s a smile tugging at her lips, soft and a little shy. I can’t help myself as I lean down and kiss her.
It’s slow. Unhurried. Her fingers curl into my hair, pulling me closer as the music plays on. The truck creaks beneath us, and when we break apart, we’re both left a little flushed.
“Hi,” she whispers.
“Hi,” I say back, grinning like an idiot.
She’s perfect.
Sophie’s perched on a little bench outside the dressing rooms, legs crossed, ponytail swishing as she scrolls through her phone. She looks way too entertained for someone who’s not the one getting stuffed into layers of formal wear.
I tug at the collar of the first tux they put me in—classic black. It fits well, clean lines, nothing over the top. When I step out, Sophie looks up from her phone, and her jaw actually drops a little before a slow smile spreads across her face.
“Okay,” she says, standing up, eyes dragging over me. “That’s…yeah. That’s unfair. You look really good.”
I smirk. “Don’t sound so surprised.”
“I’m not surprised,” she says, stepping closer. “I’m just appreciating the view.”
I roll my eyes, but my grin gives me away.
The tailor fusses with the sleeves for a second, nods, and then wheels over another rack. “Try the others too,” he says.
I head back into the dressing room and come out in a bright PCU-purple tux. The second I step out, Sophie absolutely loses it.
She claps a hand over her mouth, shoulders shaking. “Oh my God. You look like…like a grape that got invited to prom.”
I stare down at myself, deadpan. “Fantastic.”
She’s crying with laughter now. “Wait—stand there, I need a picture.”
“Not a chance.”
She leans back against the wall, still giggling. “Okay, fine. But seriously, go back to the black one. Because that?” Her voice lowers slightly, eyes glinting with mischief. “Maybe I’ll show you just how much I like that one later.”
My brain short-circuits.
She knows exactly what she’s doing. The way her voice drops, the way her eyes linger as she drags her gaze down my frame. My pulse jumps, heat creeping up the back of my neck.
“Uh, yeah,” I manage.
She bursts out laughing again when I spin around and beeline back into the dressing room, muttering under my breath.
A few rounds later, we circle right back to the black tux. Tailored properly, it fits like it was made for me. Sophie’s smile softens when I step out again.
“Yeah,” she says quietly. “That’s the one.”
I’m not sure if she’s talking about the tux or something else entirely, but either way, it sticks with me as we head out to the truck, fingers laced together, sunlight spilling across the pavement.
Sophie’s leaning her head back, laughing so hard she can barely catch her breath as my dad gets to the punchline.
“And he’s seven years old,” Dad says, hands animated, voice carrying through the dining room. “He picks off the quarterback—first interception of his little league career—and the whole sideline erupts. And what does he do?”
Sophie’s already giggling, shaking her head. “Oh no…”
“He takes off,” Dad says, grinning. “Full sprint. Perfect form. Straight to the wrong end zone.”
The entire table bursts into laughter. Caroline covers her smile with her hand, Joey and Alyssa are practically falling out of their chairs, and Sophie? She’s laughing so hard there are tears in her eyes.
“Dad,” I groan, dragging a hand down my face. “We don’t need to relive this.”
“Oh, we absolutely do,” he says, clapping me on the shoulder. “You should’ve seen his face when his own teammates tackled him. He thought he’d broken some kind of record.”
Sophie wipes at her eyes, breathless. “I—oh my God, Beck!” She turns to me, grinning wide. “You ran the wrong way?”
“I was seven,” I mutter.
She leans toward me, eyes sparkling. “I bet you looked so proud.”
“Oh, he did,” Dad says. “Spiked the ball and everything. Right there in the wrong end zone.”
The whole table loses it again, and I just shake my head, but honestly? Watching Sophie doubled over in laughter, cheeks flushed and happy; it’s hard to be annoyed.
Dinner settles into its usual rhythm after that—Caroline bringing out dessert, Joey and Alyssa competing for Sophie’s attention, Dad tossing in occasional teasing jabs at my expense.
Sophie fits in so easily it almost knocks the wind out of me. Alyssa ends up on her lap, showing her drawings from school; Joey’s trying to impress her with soccer stories; Dad’s already decided she’s his new favorite audience.
And through it all, Sophie keeps smiling like she belongs here.
I’m really starting to think she does.
Later, as we walk out to the truck under a star-scattered sky, Sophie slips her hand into mine, still laughing softly.
“You didn’t tell me about that interception,” she teases.
“Yeah,” I say dryly. “Shocking that I left that part out.”
She bumps my shoulder playfully. “You were cute.”
I groan. “You’re never going to let me live this down, are you?”
“Not a chance,” she says, blue eyes twinkling with mischief.
By the time we pull into her dorm lot, the campus is quiet. A few scattered windows glow, but most of the building is dark, the Sunday night lull settling over everything.
She reaches for the door handle, and before she can grab it, I slide out and jog around to open it for her.
She gives me a half amused look as she steps out. “You don’t have to do that every time, ya know.”
“I know,” I say, shrugging. “But I want to.”
Her smile deepens, and she slips her hand into mine as we walk toward her building. I press the door open for her before following her down the hall, the familiar hum of the radiator kicking on somewhere above us.
When we step inside her room, it’s warm and quiet. She tosses her bag onto the chair in the corner, kicks off her boots with a small sigh, and turns to me.
“You want to stay?” she asks. Her voice isn’t shy, but it’s soft—like she already knows the answer.
I nod once. “Yeah. I do.”
We move around each other easily in her tiny space, like we’ve done this a hundred times before.
She heads to the bathroom to wash her face while I dig through the small overnight bag I keep stashed in the corner of her room now—something that started out as a just-in-case thing and has slowly become… normal.
I pull out a clean T-shirt and some athletic shorts. When I look up, she’s standing by her dresser, hair tied up messily on top of her head in just a sports bra and shorts, one of my shirts dangling from her fingers, a dark gray one with soft, worn fabric.
She lifts her brows, a teasing smile playing on her lips. “You weren’t planning on wearing this one, were you?”
I lean back against the wall, crossing my arms. “You’re stealing my shirt.”
“Borrowing,” she corrects, already tugging it over her head. It swallows her, the hem hitting mid-thigh, sleeves slipping past her hands.
“Yeah,” I say, voice low. “Definitely stealing.”
She spins once, like she’s modeling it, a shade of red coloring her cheeks. “It’s comfy and smells like you.”
And, honestly? Watching her standing there, hair up, bare legs peeking out from under my T-shirt, face clean from washing off her makeup, I clear my throat. “You look better in it than I do anyway.”
She grins and pads over to the bed, climbing in like she’s claimed the whole thing, and maybe my shirt too. Permanently.
When I finally crawl in beside her, she curls into me like she always does, head resting on my chest, one hand fisting lightly in the fabric of the shirt she stole.
The room is dark except for the faint glow from the streetlight outside. My fingers trace slow, lazy circles on her back. Her breathing evens out, warm and steady against me, and I realize just how right this feels.
“This was a good weekend,” she murmurs, already half-asleep.
“Yeah,” I whisper into her hair. “It was.”