Chapter 8 Beck
BECK
Game day.
My helmet rests at my feet, gleaming under the fluorescent lights of the rowdy locker room. I sit on the bench, taping my wrists slowly, making sure they’re supported, the noise fading into the background.
Logan’s voice cuts through the chaos, louder than the rest. “Defense wins games, boys! Don’t let them forget it!”
The guys around him whoop, banging helmets together. My lips twitch, but I keep my head down, finishing the last strip of tape.
Coach Harding pushes through the door, face carved into that serious game-day scowl he always wears. “Listen up!”
The room instantly snaps to attention.
“They’re fast,” he says, pacing in front of us. “They’ll try to wear you down, keep the tempo high, but they’re not tougher than us. Linebackers”—his eyes sweep to me, sharp, deliberate—“I expect you to control the middle. Nothing gets past you.”
“Yes, sir,” I say, voice even.
A hand claps my shoulder—Logan. “Lock it down, Harrison.”
I nod once, sliding my helmet on. The world narrows to black padding and a metal face mask. My breathing steadies as my heart kicks a little harder.
By the time we line up in the tunnel, the roar of the crowd is already rattling the walls. Students chant, the marching band blasts, the cheer squad shouts over the noise. My pulse thrums in time with the stomp of cleats against concrete.
The announcer booms our names as we take the field, but I don’t pay much attention to it. Not really. I’m already locking onto the other team, their jerseys lined up across the grass like targets.
The game is a grind from the start. Their offense comes out swinging—fast tempo, quick routes, and running backs who dart like they’ve got rockets strapped to their shoes.
But this is my territory.
We adjust. We hit harder. We hold the line.
By halftime, the score’s tight, and the stadium is buzzing with restless energy. Coach huddles us in, voice sharp and cutting through the chaos. “They’re getting desperate. Stay disciplined. Harrison, you call the reads.”
I nod, helmet tucked under my arm, sweat running down my temples. My lungs burn, my muscles ache, but none of that matters. This is where I live—on the edge of exhaustion, where every choice is instinct and training.
When we break from the huddle, I catch a flash of movement near the sideline. The cheer squad lines up at the edge of the field, pom-poms catching the stadium lights. For half a second, my gaze snags on Sophie—smile bright, eyes locked on the crowd as she chants.
I drag my focus back to the field before it can linger. Not the time. Definitely not the place.
The second half is a blur of collisions and calls, whistles slicing through the air. Third quarter, I read the quarterback’s eyes before he even sets his feet. He launches the pass over the middle, and I’m already there, leaping high. Fingers close around leather, the ball ripped out of the air.
Interception.
The roar shakes the ground as I tuck the ball and drive forward, jerseys lunging at me. Ten yards. Fifteen. Someone clips my ankle, and I hit the turf hard, the ball still cradled tight.
The sideline erupts. Teammates swarm, pounding my helmet, shouting over the deafening crowd. I hand the ball off, jaw tight, adrenaline burning hot.
Defense doesn’t usually get glory. But right now?
The stadium belongs to us.
Fourth quarter, two minutes left, we’re up by a touchdown. They line up, desperate, no timeouts left. Their quarterback drops back, scanning, but our coverage holds. He tucks the ball, tries to run.
Big mistake.
I close the gap fast, lowering my shoulder. The hit lands solid, driving him into the turf. The ball pops loose. One of the other defensemen scoops it up, sprinting the other way as the whistle screams.
Game over.
The crowd is thunder, the band blaring victory songs, the cheer squad shaking the sideline. Helmets fly off, guys shouting, hugging, pounding backs.
I tug my helmet off, air cool against my sweat-soaked hair, lungs burning in the best way. Across the chaos, my eyes flick once more to the sideline.
Pretty blue eyes meet mine as she cheers, and I feel a slight twinge in my chest. I can’t help but smile back at Sophie before turning toward my team.
“Hell of a game.”
Logan’s voice cuts through the noise. He strides over, helmet in hand, grin wide, and claps me hard on the shoulder pad. “That pick? That hit? You were everywhere tonight.”
I exhale, a small nod all I give him, though something in my chest eases at his words. “Just doing my job.”
He smirks, shaking his head. “Nah, man. That was more than a job. That was a statement.”
I let the noise wash over us, the celebration swelling around the team, but keep my focus steady. Helmet under my arm, feet planted firm on the turf.
It feels good. Not the cheers. Not the spotlight. Just knowing I did exactly what I came here to do.
We won.
Tomorrow, it’s back to work. But tonight?
We celebrate.
By the time we’ve showered, changed, and sat through Coach Harding’s postgame rundown, the adrenaline has shifted into exhaustion. But Saturday nights at PCU always end the same way, with a party.
I check my phone before we pull in, seeing notifications from a group chat.
Even though Carter Hayes and Jaxon Montgomery both graduated last year and went to the NFL, they’re pretty solid dudes and even better friends, always checking in and watching our games when their schedules allow.
Carter: ok. I’m awake, someone explain how you actually pulled off that win.
because we’re better than you, old man.
Jaxon: lol “better”?? I saw those first half stats. y’all looked scared.
Logan: that was strategy. let them get cocky, then crush their dreams.
Carter: dreams, huh? did the new QB finally learn how to throw a good spiral or did Logan just run it himself every play
funny. keep talking from your bench, pro-boy.
Jaxon: hey, Carter, remember when we used to have stamina? before the NFL chewed us up?
Carter: shut up, Jaxon. you play most of the game and you barely sweat.
Logan: meanwhile, I’m here icing everything, but worth it.
Logan’s limping. I think he sprained his ego.
Logan: joke’s on you—my ego is indestructible.
Jaxon: proud of you guys. seriously. but don’t let it go to your heads.
Carter: yeah, congrats. but enjoy it, because next year you’re playing against us. or at least Jaxon lol.
ah, your pretty face will be off the bench by then, grandpa.
“Carter’s gonna roast you for that one next time he’s in town.” Logan bumps my shoulder as we climb the steps. “Ready to celebrate, hero?”
I shake my head, lips twitching. “Just don’t let me get stuck babysitting you again.”
He smirks. “No promises.”
Inside, the air is hot and thick with sweat, beer, and too much perfume. Lights flash, music pounds, people are pressed shoulder-to-shoulder. The kitchen’s packed, counters lined with bottles and half-empty cases, while the living room’s turned into a dance floor.
“Defense!” someone shouts when we walk in, clapping me on the back hard enough to rattle my teeth. Another guy shoves a cup toward me, but I wave it off.
I’ve decided against drinking now that the season is in full swing. One wrong swig, and I’d miss at least one game if not more. Not worth it. But Logan, of course, takes two.
I drift toward the edge of the chaos, leaning against the wall where I can see the room without being swallowed by it. Teammates swarm, girls laugh a little loud, and the whole house buzzes like it might lift off the ground.
It’s the same every week. Victory celebrated in sweat and spilled beer, or a loss consoled in the same way.
And yet, somehow, it feels different tonight.
Because across the room, slipping through the crowd with a cup in her hand and her hair loose around her shoulders, is Sophie.
She’s laughing at something one of her cheer friends says, her smile easy and brighter than it was in class. For a second, my gaze catches on her—unexpected, unguarded.
I drag it away, jaw tight.
She’s pretty. Sure, but so are a hundred other girls here. And I’m not here for that.
I’m here to play football, finish school, and figure out what I actually want for my future.
Still, when she glances up and her eyes skim across the room, finding mine for the briefest heartbeat…I don’t look away.
Not immediately, anyway.
The crowd shifts, breaking the line of sight between us, but a minute later Sophie threads her way across the room. Her cheer friends peel off toward the kitchen, leaving her with her cup in hand and that same steady look in her eyes.
“Hey,” she says, voice raised just enough to cut through the music. “Good game tonight.”
“Thanks.” My reply is simple, even, but genuine.
“You were…everywhere.” She tilts her head, a smile tugging at her lips. “That interception? Whole place was losing it. You acted fast once you saw their quarterback tuck it and try to run.”
My mouth twitches, the closest thing to a grin I’ll allow. She definitely knows football and was paying close attention. I wonder if she was watching everyone that closely? Or maybe just me? “Glad it was worth the ticket for everyone who showed up.”
She laughs softly, shifting the cup between her hands. For a second, she looks like she might say more, but someone calls her name from the other side of the room.
Her gaze flicks toward the sound, then back to me. “Guess I should go before they send a search party.”
“Don’t let me stop you.”
She nods, her smile still there, and slips back into the crowd.
I exhale, leaning heavier against the wall, scanning the chaos again.
Just a conversation. Nothing more.
Logan appears a second later, two fresh cups in hand, grinning like an idiot. “What’d I miss?”
“Nothing,” I say, pushing off the wall. “Absolutely nothing.”
The music thumps harder as the crowd thickens, the living room pulsing with bodies. I shift toward the edge again, the heat of the house pressing down heavy.
“Beck Harrison, right?”
I glance over. A brunette in a tight red top is smiling up at me, her nails curled around a cup as she steps closer. She tilts her head, eyes bright. “You were insane out there tonight. That interception you got? Highlight reel material.”
“Appreciate it,” I say, polite but even, not giving her much more. I definitely didn’t get an interception. I caused a fumble. Very big difference.
She lingers, biting her lip like she’s waiting for me to add something. When I don’t, she leans in, voice a little softer. “So…you celebrating big tonight or just hiding over here?”
Before I have to answer, Logan reappears with a fresh drink and sweat on his brow like he’s just come back from the dance floor. His grin is wide, already half amused at the scene he’s walking into.
I shift slightly, nodding toward him. “You know Logan, right?”
Her eyes flick to him, recognition sparking. Logan’s smirk grows.
“Logan Brooks,” he says, giving her a little bow with his cup. “But I’ll answer to anything you want to call me.”
She laughs, turning her attention to him like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Logan slides easily into the conversation, his charm cranked up to full blast.
I take the opportunity to step back, leaning against the wall again.
Not my lane. Not what I’m here for.
The music and shouting follow me up the stairs, bass rattling the walls as I push past a couple making out in the hallway. My room is quieter, the noise muffled once the door clicks shut.
I kick off my shoes and sit on the edge of the bed. My body aches from the game—shoulders sore, legs heavy, the adrenaline finally fading.
I turn on my sound machine, and it instantly starts to blur out the chaos from downstairs.
Reaching into the nightstand, I pull out a box of granola bars. The wrapper crinkles under my fingers as I peel one free. Before I tear it open, I flip it over, scanning the label like I haven’t already checked it a dozen times before.
Gluten-free.
I chew slowly, leaning back against the headboard, letting the sugar ease some of the postgame crash. My body’s tired, but my mind won’t shut off.
Two futures roll around in my head like coins I can’t stop flipping.
NFL. The dream everyone sees when they look at me—stadium lights, packed crowds, the path carved by my dad’s expectations as much as my own ability. Seeing the pride on my dad’s face whenever I give my all out on the field never gets old, but sometimes I think there’s more for me out there.
Or grad school. Counseling. A different kind of grind, quieter but no less demanding. One that would make sense of all the hours I’ve spent buried in psychology texts instead of highlight reels.
Both roads are hard. Both roads demand everything.
And standing at the crossroads, I don’t know which one is really mine.
The bass downstairs rattles the dresser, laughter echoing faintly up the stairs. I turn up the sound machine, to the point where it’s just me and the weight of two futures pressing down.
I close my eyes, bar still half-finished in my hand.
For tonight, all I can do is breathe.