Play Fake (PCU Storm #3)

Chapter 1

BECK

So you see…there’s this girl.

Or really, I should say there was this girl.

From the first time I saw her in third grade, I knew she’d be my future.

I just didn’t know at the time that she’d shred my heart and stomp all over the pieces in said future.

Walking into my then girlfriend’s place to grab my phone charger when she was supposed to be out of town on a “girls’ trip,” only to see her fucking some other guy, was not on my bingo card for my life.

You’d think after eleven years together, she’d at least have the decency to break up with me first.

It’s been almost a year, yet I still can’t get that image out of my brain.

It’s the official kick off party for the upcoming football season tonight, and it just feels…off.

Don’t get me wrong—the place is packed. Red Solo cups line the kitchen counter like a makeshift trophy display.

Somebody’s already spilled beer on the rug, and whoever’s on aux duty is deep in their 2010s pop punk era, which means the linemen are singing “Mr. Brightside” like it’s the national anthem.

But something is missing.

Or maybe that’s just me.

“Dude.” My teammate, Logan Brooks, claps me on the shoulder, plastic cup in hand. He looks like he’s having a great time. “You’re making that sad puppy face again, my man. You good?”

I arch a brow at him. “That is just my face.”

“Nah.” He grins. “Your face is the one you make when you’re trying to get a girl to ask you if you’re okay so you can scare them off with your tragic backstory.”

“Remind me to never confide in you again.”

“Too late. You already told me you cried during Marley & Me.”

“You’d have to be soulless not to cry in that movie.”

“Whatever you say, man,” Logan says, before getting distracted by someone calling his name from the kitchen and heading that way.

I lean back against the wall, my own drink in hand, watching the room move around me.

It’s weird being one of the old guys now.

Not old-old, but senior-year old. The kind that’s got scouts watching, people surrounding you with huge expectations, and the future looming just past the end zone.

I should be soaking this in—one last fall with the team, one last shot at another championship title, just a few months left before the NFL Draft.

Instead, I’m wondering when I’ll be sure about what I want for my future and if I’ll ever start to feel like me again.

Maybe it’s the breakup. Or it’s that every time I start to let loose, I see that image burned into my brain—her skin tangled up with someone else’s. The girl I loved turning into a stranger in the span of one breathless second.

That’ll kill a vibe real quick.

“Harrison!” someone yells my name, and I glance up just in time to catch a half-inflated beach ball someone’s launched across the room.

“Still got those hands,” one of the freshmen shouts.

I toss the ball back and give him a lazy salute, chuckling as he tries to showboat and nearly takes out a lamp.

Then I feel it. That pull.

Like something shifts in the atmosphere.

I turn my head toward the front door—and there she is.

She steps into the house like she’s not sure she’s allowed to.

She’s fairly average height in her worn sneakers, her legs poured into faded black jeans, a soft gray tee peeking from under a cropped denim jacket.

Honey-blonde hair falls loose and straight around her shoulders, catching in the light every time she moves.

She doesn’t have the kind of beauty you have to work for—no heavy makeup, no try-hard outfit—just an easy, natural gorgeousness that makes you look twice without realizing you’re doing it.

And for a second, I’m not sure what exactly catches my attention.

Not until I see her face.

She goes still, her eyes snapping toward the living room like she’s just been punched in the stomach. Her lips part slightly. Not in surprise, but something closer to disbelief.

And that’s when I follow her gaze.

Some guy is making out with a girl on the couch like he’s trying to win a medal for it. Hands in her hair. Her arms looped around his neck. Oblivious to the world.

Oblivious to her.

The girl in the doorway doesn’t move. She doesn’t speak. But every part of her body screams what her mouth won’t.

I know that look.

Hell, I’ve lived that look.

And before I can think twice, I’m moving. Not out of pity. Not out of curiosity. Just instinct. Something deep in my chest that says, you don’t let someone stand there alone like that.

Not when you know exactly how it feels.

Her hand tightens on the strap of her bag as if it’s the only thing holding her together.

Then she moves.

No hesitation. No weaving through the crowd. She walks straight toward the couch, the sea of people parting around her like they can feel the storm coming.

I trail a few steps behind, not close enough to interfere—yet—but close enough to hear her voice when it cuts through the music.

“Zach.”

The guy’s head jerks up, lips still slick from the girl he’s got sprawled across him. His face goes pale for half a second, then sharpens into that smug, guilty look I know too damn well. The girl in his lap shifts, looking between them like she’s just realized she might be on camera.

“Didn’t take you long.”

Zach has the nerve to smirk. “Sophie…it’s not what it looks like.”

Sophie. A pretty name for a pretty girl.

That earns a short, humorless laugh from her. “Really? Because it looks exactly like what it looked like the last time.”

There’s a beat where no one says anything, but everyone’s listening.

The girl in his lap shifts again, clearly uncomfortable. “Um, maybe I should—”

“Nah, babe. You can have him,” Sophie says, her tone still calm but her eyes bright with that glassy, too-full shine that’s not tears—not yet—but close.

The other girl ignores her, slides off his lap, and disappears into the crowd, and for the first time, Zach actually looks rattled. “You didn’t have to make a scene.”

Sophie leans down just enough to meet his gaze head-on. “Oh, honey, bless your little heart…you haven’t seen a scene yet.”

Damn.

I don’t know her, but I feel my mouth curve into something that’s almost a grin. Not because this is funny—hell, it’s not—but because it takes guts to stand in the middle of a packed house and call someone out like that.

And maybe because I remember the version of me that didn’t.

Zach’s eyes flick past her and land on me for a split second, confusion creasing his forehead. I lift my brows, take a slow sip from my cup, and don’t bother looking away.

This isn’t my fight.

But I’ll be damned if she has to stand in it alone.

Zach shifts on the couch, straightening like he’s suddenly trying to play the victim.

“Look, Soph, you’re overreacting. It’s not like we’re married yet and—”

She lets out a sharp exhale and shakes her head, cutting him off before he can finish whatever excuse he’s scrambling for. “Save it, Zach. I’m done.”

She turns, slipping her bag higher on her shoulder, clearly aiming for the door.

But he doesn’t let her get far.

His hand shoots out, fingers closing around her wrist. Not hard enough to hurt—but firm enough to stop her cold.

“You really want your parents hearing about this?” His voice drops, low and biting. “About you blowing up at me in front of everyone? You know how they already think you can’t keep your emotions in check.”

That’s it.

I don’t even think about it. One second I’m leaning against the wall, the next I’m across the room, my drink abandoned on the nearest table.

“Let go of her. Now.”

Zach blinks up at me, still holding her wrist, his confusion sliding into a glare. “Who the hell are you?”

“Someone who doesn’t like cheating assholes who can’t comprehend the word no.” My voice comes out firm, low enough that it cuts through the music without me having to raise it.

He looks me over, trying to size me up. Bad idea when I’ve got at least thirty pounds on him, most of it muscle I’ve earned in the weight room.

Sophie tugs her arm free, taking a step back toward me without hesitation.

“She told you she’s done,” I say, my eyes locked on his. “So…she’s done.”

For a moment, I think he might push it—say something, stand up, make me really spell it out. But then his jaw flexes, and he slumps back into the couch, muttering something I don’t bother catching.

I glance at Sophie. “You good?”

She hesitates, then gives the smallest nod, her fingers tightening around the strap of her bag.

“Come on,” I say, tilting my head toward the door. “Let’s get you some air.”

She doesn’t argue—just falls into step beside me as we start weaving through the crowd. The music swells again, bodies shifting, conversations resuming like nothing happened.

We’re a few steps from the front door when Zach’s voice cuts through the noise.

“Sophie—”

She keeps walking.

“Soph—”

Still nothing.

Then, louder, “Fucking bitch.”

I stop, the word hitting my back like a slap. Slowly, I turn back toward him.

Zach’s still slouched on the couch, but the second my eyes lock on his, his posture stiffens. I don’t raise my voice. I don’t move toward him. I just take a step closer, enough that the crowd around us goes quiet.

“You say that to her again,” I tell him, voice low and even, “you and I are going to have a real fucking problem. Do you understand me?”

His Adam’s apple bobs. He glances at the guys sitting nearby, none of them meeting his eyes, then mutters, “Yeah.”

“Good.”

I turn back to Sophie, holding the door open for her. She slips outside without looking back, and I follow, letting the door close on the stale beer-and-sweat air behind us.

Out on the porch, the night is cool, and the quiet feels almost startling. She takes a slow breath, her shoulders loosening just a fraction.

I lean against the railing, giving her space, my own breath steadying.

An hour ago, I was inside with the guys, trying not to think about how fast this year’s already moving—about the draft, life after football, whether I’m even ready for any of it.

Now, I’m standing out here with a girl whose face, just minutes ago, held the exact same gut-punched expression I saw in the mirror last year.

I don’t know how I got from there to here.

But here I am.