Chapter 5 Beck
BECK
The pounding comes first. Heavy, steady thuds that don’t belong in a dream.
Then the voice that most definitely doesn’t belong in my dreams. Not a pleasant one anyways. “Harrison! Get your ass up—you’ve got class in thirty minutes!”
I groan, rolling onto my back and squinting at the red numbers glowing on the alarm clock. Shit.
Logan doesn’t wait for me to answer. He pushes the door open like he owns the place, smacking the frame with his hand. “I swear, man, you’re a machine on the field, but off it? Helpless. You didn’t even set an alarm, did you?”
I scrub a hand over my face, trying to shake the fog out of my head. “I set it.”
“Uh-huh.” He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, that smug grin plastered on his face. “And you slept right through it. Professor Nelson doesn’t play. He’ll roast you alive if you’re late.”
That gets me moving. I swing my legs out of bed, shove my hair back, and stumble toward the bathroom.
The shower’s quick and scalding, steam filling the room while I mutter curses under my breath.
I don’t have time to shave, barely have time to towel off before I’m dragging on jeans and a plain black T-shirt, tugging my backpack over one shoulder.
When I cut through the kitchen, Logan’s already at the counter with a bowl of cereal, his feet kicked up on the empty chair across from him. He eyes me like I’m a charity case.
“No breakfast?” he asks around a mouthful of Frosted Flakes.
“Don’t have time.” More like didn’t prepare and make sure I had something ready that was safe.
“Don’t have time, or don’t have the stomach?” His smirk sharpens, and I glare at him.
“Not hungry.” The lie tastes as stale as it sounds, but it shuts him up.
“Suit yourself.” He shovels another spoonful, milk dripping down his chin. “Just don’t faint in class. I’m not carrying your linebacker ass across campus.”
I grab my keys from the hook by the door, ignoring him. My truck’s waiting in the driveway, sunlight glinting off the hood.
Logan calls after me as I head out, “Hey, maybe today’s the day you actually talk to someone besides me and the team! You know, branch out. Make a friend!”
I flip him off without looking back, which only makes him laugh harder.
The drive to campus is short, the air still cool enough that I crack the window.
Normally, I’d walk to class, but today doesn’t allow for that.
I tap the steering wheel, jaw tight. Being late isn’t me.
I’m the guy who shows up early, the guy who doesn’t screw around.
But one late morning, and Logan’s never going to let me live it down, ever.
I pull into the student lot, grab my backpack, and head for the psych building.
First day of classes.
The lot’s already packed, clusters of students moving toward the quad with coffee cups in hand and earbuds jammed in. I sling my backpack higher and fall into step, the sun catching on the red tile roofs and sandstone walls.
“Hey, Beck!”
A girl in a sundress waves from a bench by the fountain, her voice pitched sweet. I give her a nod, polite but nothing more, and keep moving.
Another pair crosses my path a few yards later, giggling as one of them calls out, “Linebacker Harrison—you going to win us another game this weekend?”
“Working on it,” I say with a half-smile, stepping aside so they can pass.
They laugh harder, whispering as I walk away.
It’s always like this. Eyes following, whispers trailing after me. I don’t blame them—it comes with the jersey, with the team. But I’ve learned the hard way that attention isn’t the same as care. And I don’t give pieces of myself away to anyone who doesn’t know how to hold them. Not anymore.
Before, I was friendly to everyone, not just kind.
I was loyal to an absolute fault, as proven by getting back with Angela every time she would find someone she liked better for the time being.
Eleven years total; the final four were a mess of on again, off again, until finally she forgot to turn us off before she turned someone else on, and I walked in on it.
I’m not saying I’m not kind now, but I have a wall about thirty feet thick that most wouldn’t even attempt to get through.
Throw in the food challenges I’m facing, and it doesn't make the best recipe for making new friends or growing any type of friendships I already had. To say I’m not interested in anything even remotely romantic would be the understatement of the century.
Not after her.
The ache is sharp and quick, a flash of memory I shove down before it can dig deeper. I tighten my grip on my backpack strap, focusing on the sidewalk under my boots.
Never again.
It’s easier to keep my heart locked up, to let the world see the version of me that hits hard and never hesitates. It’s the only way to keep from breaking all over again.
The psych building comes into view, glass doors gleaming in the sun. I take the steps two at a time, pulling the door open and letting the wave of voices and footsteps swallow me whole.
Time to get through this day. One class at a time.
The lecture hall is already half full when I push open the door. Voices bounce off the high ceiling, a mix of nervous first-day chatter and the rustle of notebooks. I take a second to scan the room, figuring I’ll grab a spot in the back where no one will bother me.
But then something shifts.
A flash of movement pulls my attention, and my eyes catch hers.
Sophie Prescott.
She’s already looking at me, like she knew I was coming before I even stepped inside. The sunlight through the upper windows hits just right, turning her hair into a halo, her eyes a sharp, clear blue that snags me harder than I want to admit.
Her lips curve into a small smile. It’s quick, almost cautious, but it’s there.
I feel mine tug higher in answer—reflex, automatic, not something I planned.
I climb the steps, ignoring the cluster of girls whispering in the corner, and stop at her row. Out of all the open seats in this place, this one feels like the right call.
I nod toward the empty chair beside her. “This seat taken?”
She shakes her head, pen still poised over her notebook.
I slide in, dropping my backpack at my feet, posture easy, even though my pulse is still settling from the run across campus. No big deal. Just a seat. Just a girl I happened to walk home, once.
But as the professor clears his throat at the front of the room, I can feel the weight of her presence beside me, quiet, but hard to ignore.
And for the first time this morning, I don’t mind being here.
The professor is still fiddling with the projector, giving everyone time to settle. I flip open my notebook, click my pen, and catch Sophie sneaking a glance at me from the corner of her eye.
“You surprised?” I ask, low enough that only she can hear.
Her lips twitch. “A little. I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“Here, like this class?”
She nods, shifting in her seat. “Most athletes stick to…you know. The easier options.”
Her voice softens at the end, like she’s already worried she’s offended me.
I huff out a quiet laugh, shaking my head. “Don’t worry. I’ve heard worse.”
Her cheeks flush, but she meets my gaze. “I didn’t mean it like that. Just—most guys on the team don’t exactly scream Abnormal Psych.”
“Fair.” I lean back in my chair, tapping my pen against the desk. “But I’m not most guys. Psychology’s my major.”
Her brows lift. “Really?”
“Really. Planning on grad school. Counseling track, if I can make it work.”
The professor’s voice rises at the front, calling the class to attention, but Sophie’s eyes stay on me for a beat longer, curious.
“That’s…not what I expected,” she admits softly.
I just shrug, turning back toward the board. “Yeah. That’s kind of the point.”
The professor starts his lecture, chalk scratching across the board, but I can still feel her beside me—quiet and thoughtful, like she’s tucking that piece of information away.
And maybe that’s okay.
Before Sophie can respond, the professor clears his throat loud enough to cut through the chatter. The room quiets in an instant, everyone turning forward as he scrawls Abnormal Psychology across the board in block letters.
“This is an advanced course,” he begins, his voice clipped, carrying easily to the back row. “If you’re here because you think it will be an easy elective, you’re in the wrong place. This class requires focus, attention, and a willingness to challenge the way you think about mental health.”
Pens start scratching around me, laptops snapping open. I lean back in my chair, eyes on the board.
“I don’t take it easy on anyone,” he continues, pacing the front of the room. His gaze sweeps over the rows, sharp and assessing, before landing squarely on me.
The pause stretches just a little too long. Like he’s making a point. Like the guy in the jersey must be here to coast.
I keep my expression neutral, jaw tight. Not the first time I’ve felt that stare, and it won’t be the last.
Beside me, Sophie shifts in her seat. I can feel her eyes flicking between the professor and me, probably wondering if I’ll say something.
I don’t. I just nod once, slow and steady, letting the professor move on.
He starts rattling off the syllabus—weekly readings, group discussions, a research project later in the semester. The usual grind. My pen moves automatically, copying down due dates, even though I’ll transfer it all into my planner later.
I don’t need him to believe I belong here. I just need to prove it.
The professor’s voice drones on, but out of the corner of my eye, I catch Sophie watching me again—like she’s seeing something she didn’t expect.
By the time the lecture wraps, half the class looks shell-shocked, already flipping through the syllabus like they’re searching for a loophole. I pack up slowly, sliding my notebook into my backpack. Beside me, Sophie does the same, her movements neat and deliberate.
We fall into step as we head for the door, the stream of students spilling out around us.
“So,” I say, adjusting my strap. “What’s next for you?”
“Another lecture,” she says with a sigh. “Human Behavior in the Social Environment. Then Family Dynamics this afternoon. And cheer practice later.”
I raise a brow. “Full day.”
“That’s every day.” She gives a small shrug, like it’s nothing. “You?”
“Weights.” The answer comes easy. Routine. “Then film study. Practice tomorrow.”
She shakes her head, the corners of her mouth twitching. “Already hit the gym this morning.”
“Of course you did,” I mutter, but there’s no bite in it. Just a flicker of respect.
We reach the split in the walkway—her class to the left, the athletic complex to the right. She shifts her bag higher on her shoulder and gives me a small smile.
“See you Wednesday, then.”
“Yeah.” I nod once. “See you Wednesday.”
She heads off into the crowd, blonde ponytail swaying, and I turn the opposite way, toward the weight room.
Different paths. Same class.
For reasons I don’t bother naming, I don’t mind the overlap.