Chapter 2
SOPHIE
The night air is cool against my skin, sharp with the faint bite of early fall. I suck in a breath, filling my lungs, trying to shake the stale mix of beer and sweat from the house off me.
God, what a mess.
Not just tonight—though walking in on Zach with another girl will probably top my list of humiliations for a while—but the last year. The whispered warnings I ignored. The nights I convinced myself that loyalty meant sticking it out, even when I knew better.
All because my parents cared more about appearances than how I actually felt.
Zach looked good on paper. His family name, his connections, the way my mom would smile at him across the dinner table like he was already part of the family. I let that pressure box me in until I couldn’t tell where my choices ended and theirs began.
And look where that got me.
I press my palms against the porch railing, grounding myself. The music inside is muffled now, laughter and shouting blurring into background noise. I should leave. Crawl back to my dorm and pretend this night never happened.
“Hey.”
The voice is deep but not pushy, carrying easily through the quiet.
I glance over my shoulder. The guy from inside—broad shoulders, messy brown hair, green eyes that had cut straight through Zach like it was nothing—steps onto the porch. He doesn’t crowd me, just leans against the other end of the railing, leaving space.
“You okay?” he asks.
“I’m fine.” The answer comes out too fast, too sharp. I exhale, softer the second time. “Embarrassed, mostly. Should’ve known better.”
He studies me, not like he’s judging, but like he’s listening. Really listening. “Doesn’t make it your fault.”
I huff a laugh. “Tell that to my parents. They think he walks on water.”
His brow furrows. “Parents don’t always know what they’re talking about.”
Something about the way he says it—steady, certain—makes my chest tighten.
For a moment, we just stand there in the cool night, silence stretching but not uncomfortable. He doesn’t push, doesn’t ask for details.
I shift, wrapping my arms tighter around myself. “Thank you, though. For stepping in back there.”
He shrugs. “Didn’t like the way he was speaking to you and figured you deserved someone in your corner.”
I don’t know what to do with that, so I look away, my gaze fixed on the sidewalk.
“You live on campus?” he asks after a beat.
“Yeah. Emerson Hall.”
“I’m headed that way. Want me to walk you?”
My first instinct is to say no, to insist I can handle myself. But something about the night—the stares, Zach’s voice still ringing in my ears—makes the offer feel less like pity and more like protection.
I nod once. “Sure.”
He smiles, small and genuine, before pushing off the railing.
And as we start down the steps together, I realize I don’t even know his name.
Falling into step, I glance at him again, trying to place his face. He looks familiar, but not in the way Zach ever did. More like someone I’ve seen from a distance but never close enough to study.
I clear my throat. “So…what’s your name? I don’t think we’ve officially met and you know what they say about talking to strangers.”
“Beck.” He laughs easily, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Beck Harrison.”
The name clicks immediately. I’ve heard it shouted from the student section, seen it printed across the back of a jersey when the announcer’s voice boomed through the stadium. Linebacker. One of the big names this season, if the chatter around campus is right.
My brows lift. “You play for the football team.”
His mouth quirks like he’s used to that being the first thing people say. “Yeah. Linebacker.”
I nod once, hugging my bag closer. “I’m Sophie Prescott. I’m actually on the cheer squad.”
That earns me a grin. “Figures.”
I narrow my eyes. “Figures?”
“Just…you’ve got the posture. And the smile.” His tone is light, but his gaze lingers a beat too long.
I scoff, tugging my cardigan tighter around me. “It’s called doing my job.”
“Doing it a little too well, maybe,” he says, and I can’t tell if it’s meant as a compliment or just an observation.
Either way, it makes my stomach flip, and I’m not sure I like that.
He kicks at a crack in the sidewalk, like the conversation doesn’t matter either way. “So, what’s it like? Cheer, I mean. You actually like it, or are you just doing it for the uniform?”
I glance at him, surprised he even asked. Most people just assume. “Depends on the day.”
“That’s a no,” he says, grinning.
“It’s not a no.” I chew my lip, considering. “It’s just…complicated. My parents think it looks good. Makes the family proud. But I actually like parts of it. Being out there. The rush when a stunt hits clean. For a few minutes, nothing else matters.”
His grin softens. “That’s not nothing.”
I shrug, tugging my jacket tighter around me. “Still feels like I didn’t exactly choose it.”
He hums low in his throat, thoughtful. “Parents have a way of doing that. Choosing for you.”
There’s something in his voice that makes me glance over. He’s not joking anymore. His eyes are on the pavement, his jaw tight, like the words dug up something he didn’t mean to share.
I should leave it, but instead I ask, “Football wasn’t your choice?”
He gives a little laugh, but it doesn’t sound amused. “Depends who you ask. My dad thinks it’s the only option I’ve ever had. NFL or bust.”
“And you?”
He pauses, then shrugs one shoulder. “I love the game. I really do. But sometimes I think about what comes after, and it’s like…” His voice trails off, leaving the thought unfinished.
I nod slowly. “Like the script’s already written.”
His eyes cut to mine, sharp. “Yeah. Exactly like that.”
For a second, it feels like the air between us shifts. Like he really sees me. Not the smiling cheerleader version, but the girl who stayed too long in a relationship because it kept her parents happy. The girl who’s still trying to figure out if she belongs to herself or to them.
My stomach twists, and I force myself to look ahead. “That’s kind of why I stayed with Zach,” I admit, the words scraping on the way out. “He was perfect on paper. The kind of guy my parents wanted me to be with. And I was…good at pretending. At smiling through it.”
Beck’s brow furrows. “Even if he treated you like crap?”
I let out a bitter laugh. “Especially then. They don’t care about that part. They just care about what people see.”
He shakes his head, muttering, “That’s messed up.”
The simple conviction in his tone makes something in my chest tighten. No one ever says that out loud. Not Ava, not even my sister. They just tiptoe around it, like maybe if we don’t name it, it won’t sting so bad.
We pass under another streetlight, and for a moment the glow catches on his profile—sharp jaw, steady eyes, a line drawn too deep for someone who’s supposed to be coasting through college with the world at his feet.
“Sorry,” I murmur, hugging my arms around myself. “I don’t usually dump all that on strangers.”
“Guess I’m not a stranger anymore.”
The words are light, almost teasing, but they land heavy anyway.
I clear my throat. “So, Beck Harrison, linebacker…is the playboy thing true?”
That earns me a bark of laughter. “Wow. Straight to it.”
I smirk. “Just curious.”
He tilts his head, grin tugging at his lips. “Some of it. People like their stories. Makes it easier than asking for the truth.”
“And what’s the truth?”
His gaze lingers on me for a long moment, then he shakes his head. “You’ll have to stick around to find out.”
I roll my eyes, but heat creeps up my neck all the same.
We fall into silence again, but it’s different this time. Not heavy. Not uncomfortable. Just…there.
When Emerson Hall comes into view, my stomach dips. I should be relieved—I’m almost home, safe behind a locked door, and out of the chaos of tonight. But part of me wishes the walk were longer. That I had more time to peel back the layers he keeps tossing out one at a time.
We stop at the bottom of the steps. I fumble for my keycard. “This is me.”
He nods, rocking back on his heels. “You good?”
“Yeah.” My voice is steadier than I feel. “Thanks again. For…all of it.”
His mouth curves, softer than before. “Don’t worry about it. Good night, Sophie. I hope this term gets better for you.”
The words shouldn’t make my heart stutter. But they do.
I swipe my card, the lock clicks, and I slip inside before he can see how rattled I am.
Leaning against the cool glass of the door, I watch him turn back down the sidewalk, hands in his pockets, shoulders broad and steady under the glow of the streetlights.