Chapter 11 Sophie
SOPHIE
“Five minutes until warm-ups!” Jordan calls, clapping her hands.
I tug my ponytail tighter and smooth the flyaways by my temple. My stomach buzzes with the usual game-day nerves, but it’s not the same brand of anxiety I get before tests. This feels electric, humming under my skin, like the whole campus is about to explode, and we’re part of what sets it off.
When we jog out toward the field, the late afternoon sun stretches long over the stadium, the stands already filling with purple and gray.
The marching band blares, students stream in with painted faces, and for a second I have to catch my breath.
Even after three years, the energy of game day still hits me like a wave.
We take our spots along the sideline for warm-ups, running through our stretches in sync while the football team storms the field. Pads crack, whistles shrill, cleats bite into turf.
A certain number, fifty-four, catches my attention. He’s completely zoned in, helmet in hand, head bent in concentration as he adjusts his wrist tape.
I shouldn’t notice. I shouldn’t care. But my eyes find him anyway, pulled almost like a magnet.
Maybe it’s because I know him now, at least a little—the way he held the door open for me on Wednesday, the quiet certainty when he promised we’d figure out time to study, even when his schedule is just as impossible as mine.
We’re not friends, exactly. Not yet. But he’s a grounding presence in a way that makes me feel like I can breathe easier just being near him.
I shake the thought away as Jordan calls out the next formation.
“Eyes up, Sophie!” she teases with a grin. “Don’t get distracted by the view.”
Heat rushes to my cheeks as she bursts into laughter. I force myself to focus on the routine, arms snapping sharp and legs pumping as we hit the motions.
But even when I turn my eyes back to the stands, even when I cheer with the rest of them, part of me is aware of the tall figure in the number fifty-four jersey lining up on defense.
The whistle blows. The game begins.
The stadium erupts, and I lose myself in the rhythm of chants, jumps, and cheers. Still, between the shouts and the sound of the crowd, my gaze keeps darting back to the field—back to Beck—like my brain is keeping track of him, even when I tell myself not to.
Not because I’m interested. Not like that, anyway.
Kickoff thunders across the field, the crowd roaring as the ball arcs high into the sky. The rhythm of the game takes over fast—defense, offense, whistles, cheers. We keep up on the sidelines, chants rolling off our tongues, bodies moving in sync with every surge of energy from the stands.
Still, my eyes keep tracking number fifty-four.
Beck commands the defense like he was born for it, low and steady, reading plays before they unfold. Every time he crashes through the line, the sound of the hit echoes all the way to the sideline, making my breath catch.
“Damn,” one of the girls mutters between cheers. “He’s a machine.”
She’s not wrong.
Second quarter, third down—he intercepts a pass like he plucked it straight out of the air.
The stadium erupts, fans leaping to their feet.
I scream with the rest of the squad, pom-poms flashing as we tumble into our victory routine, but underneath the chants, my chest hums with something different.
Pride? Admiration?
I don’t know.
By halftime, sweat sticks to the back of my neck, and my throat is raw from shouting.
Tessa cracks a joke about the defensive line carrying us to glory, and I laugh, but my gaze drifts back to where Beck is walking off the field, helmet tucked under his arm, jaw sharp under the bright stadium lights.
When the band takes over, I sip from my water bottle, trying not to think too hard about why I keep noticing.
The second half is even louder. The other team pushes hard, trying to claw their way back, but Beck shuts them down again and again. Fourth quarter, two minutes left—he sacks the quarterback so hard the ball pops loose, and Logan scoops it for the turnover.
The place goes feral.
We jump into our final cheer, voices breaking, the crowd a tidal wave of sound around us. Victory tastes like sweat and adrenaline, like a whole campus holding its breath together, then letting it out in one deafening roar.
When the final whistle blows, I drop onto the bench for a second, chest heaving, hair sticking to my temples. The team surges the field, helmets high, the cheer squad hugging and screaming beside me.
And through the chaos, my eyes find him again. Beck, standing tall in the middle of it all, teammates clapping his back, Logan shouting something in his ear.
He doesn’t bask in it, doesn’t play to the crowd. He just looks focused. Grounded. Like this is exactly where he’s supposed to be.
I swallow hard, my pulse still racing.
It’s silly, probably. He’s just another player on the team. Another face in the crowd.
But somehow, out of everyone on that field, he’s the one I can’t seem to stop watching.
The stadium begins to empty in waves. Fans flood toward the exits, the band blaring one last round before packing up. Our squad lingers, catching our breath, makeup smudged but spirits high.
“That interception was insane,” one of the girls gushes as we gather our bags. “The football house is gonna be packed tonight.”
“Obviously,” Tessa says with a grin. “We should all go celebrate!”
There’s a round of agreement, chatter sparking about outfits, rides, who’s already texting with players.
I force a smile, but my chest is still buzzing with leftover adrenaline of a different kind. “I think I’m gonna head back. I’ve got studying to catch up on tomorrow.”
Cue the groans.
“Sophie,” Tessa whines, dragging out my name. “Come on. One night won’t kill you.”
“Maybe not, but falling behind will,” I say lightly, hoisting my bag onto my shoulder. “I’ll see you guys Monday.”
They roll their eyes but don’t press, too busy making plans.
The night air is cool as I step out of the stadium, quieter now that the crowd has thinned. The path to Emerson Hall stretches long and familiar, lamplight pooling in golden circles across the pavement.
Up ahead, I catch sight of two figures breaking off from the steady stream of students—broad shoulders, easy stride. Beck and Logan.
I slow without meaning to, watching as they cut across the lot. Beck unlocks a dark truck, the engine rumbling to life. Logan slaps the roof once before climbing in on the passenger side.
I frown, adjusting the strap of my bag. Most of the players live close to campus. Walking distance. Driving seems…unnecessary.
They pull out a moment later, headlights sweeping across the lot before turning in the opposite direction of the dorms.
Probably just an errand. A stop for food. Something simple.
Still, I find myself watching the taillights disappear before I shake my head and turn back toward my dorm.
I’ve got enough to focus on without worrying about where Beck Harrison spends his Saturday nights.
Back in my dorm, the quiet wraps around me like a blanket.
I kick off my sneakers, drop my bag by the desk, and head straight for the shower.
The steam helps wash away the stadium grit—sweat, turf dust, the faint sting of hairspray still clinging to my scalp.
By the time I towel off and tug on an old pair of sweats with a faded PCU tee, I feel more human.
Snickers winds around my ankles as I pass the kitchenette, her soft meow sharp with demand.
“I know, I know,” I say, scooping food into her dish. She purrs the second she’s satisfied, hopping onto the windowsill to watch the shadows flicker across campus.
I settle at my desk with my laptop open after ignoring another attempted phone call from my mother, textbooks spread around me, and notes stacked in their usual color-coded order.
The lamp pools golden light across the page, but before I can dive in, Snicks jumps straight onto the middle of my notebook, curling into a perfect ball.
“Not helpful,” I mutter, nudging her gently aside. She stretches, tail flicking across my arm like she knows exactly what she’s doing.
I force myself to focus, pen in hand, underlining a line in my psych text. But the words blur after a while, my mind drifting back to the stadium, to the electric roar of the crowd, to the number fifty-four jersey anchoring the defense.
Beck Harrison.
I exhale, shaking my head at myself, flipping to another page. He’s just a teammate to half the campus, just a classmate to me. Nothing more.
And yet…
The room feels too quiet, the desk too big for one person. For a second, I imagine someone else here—someone steady, sitting across from me, trading notes, keeping me accountable. Keeping me company.
Snickers yawns, curling closer to my elbow as if to say you’ve got me.
I smile faintly, reaching over to scratch behind her ears. “Guess you’ll do, huh?”
The clock ticks past midnight, and I turn back to my notes, telling myself the only thing I need right now is to focus.
Still, the thought lingers: maybe studying wouldn’t feel so daunting if I wasn’t doing it alone.
When I blink my eyes open Monday morning, the red numbers staring back at me make my stomach drop.
6:42.
Crap.
I was supposed to be out of bed nearly forty minutes ago.
Rolling onto my back, I stare at the ceiling for half a second, tempted to skip the gym and tell myself I’ll make up for it later. But the thought gnaws at me immediately. I hate breaking routine. Even worse, I hate feeling like I didn’t give my best.
So, I’m up in a flash, tugging on leggings and a sports bra, shoving my hair into a ponytail as Snickers blinks at me from the windowsill, her expression a mix between judgment and pity.
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” I mutter, grabbing my water bottle, a sweatshirt, and my bag before hurrying out the door.
The walk across campus is cool, the early morning fog still clinging to the ground, damp against my sneakers.
The gym doors swing open to the familiar scent of rubber mats, chalk, and faint disinfectant.
Music hums low from the overhead speakers, only a handful of early risers scattered between the cardio machines and the weight racks.
I drop my bag in the corner, stretch once, then get to work. Squats. Rows. Planks until my arms shake.
The clock ticks louder in my head with each set. If I don’t wrap up soon, I’ll be sprinting across campus to make it to class on time, sweat still drying on my skin.
But skipping reps isn’t an option.
This is the price of balance—trying to be everything at once: student, cheerleader, volunteer, sister, daughter.
And maybe, just maybe, a little bit of a friend, too.
The thought catches me off guard, Beck’s face flashing in my mind. His steady voice, promising, We’ll figure it out.
I grit my teeth, pushing through the last rep, shaking it off.
Racking the weights, I wipe down the bench, and force myself into finishing my workout with a twenty minute run on the treadmill.
I’m still damp from the world’s fastest workout as I jog down the hallway of the athletic building. My backpack thumps against my shoulder, and I’m half-wrestling with the sweatshirt I’m trying to tug over my sports bra before stepping outside.
Of course, the sleeve catches. My elbow jams, and I end up with the neckline twisted across my face like a straitjacket.
“Seriously?” I mutter, yanking harder as I speed-walk.
That’s when I smack into something solid.
My bag slides off my shoulder, the water bottle clattering across the tile. The sweatshirt’s still halfway over my head, trapping me in cotton darkness.
“Whoa—easy there.”
The voice is deep and just a little too familiar.
I finally wrench the sweatshirt down, blinking up through damp lashes—straight into a broad chest, then green eyes that narrow just slightly with amusement.
Beck, of course.
Heat rushes up my neck, not just from the workout. “Sorry,” I blurt, reaching for my bag. “I wasn’t looking.”
He bends smoothly, scooping up my water bottle before I can, handing it back without comment.
“You’re fine,” he says. “In a hurry?”
“Always,” I admit, shouldering my bag again. My sweatshirt’s twisted, one sleeve still halfway inside out, and I tug at it uselessly.
The corner of his mouth twitches, like he’s trying not to laugh.
Great. Exactly the impression I wanted to make—looking like I just lost a fight with my own clothes.
I tug at the twisted sleeve again, muttering under my breath, but the fabric just bunches worse around my elbow.
“Here,” Beck says simply, his hand reaching out.
Before I can protest, he straightens the sleeve with a practiced tug, the cotton sliding easily into place. His fingers brush my forearm for barely a second—firm and sure, unbothered.
To him, it’s nothing. Just helping.
But a rush of goosebumps prickles up my arms anyway, traitorous and impossible to ignore.
“Thanks,” I manage, tugging the hem into place like that’ll settle my nerves.
He nods once, already slinging his backpack higher on his shoulder. “Happens to the best of us.”
We fall into step toward the doors, his stride easy, mine quick to match.
“Heading to class?” he asks as we push out into the cool morning air.
“Yeah,” I say, adjusting my bag.
“You don’t say,” he replies, glancing down at me with the faintest flicker of a grin. “Looks like we’re going the same way.”
My pulse skips, though I keep my eyes ahead on the stone path winding toward the psych building.
I’m starting to notice that, with the more time that passes, Beck seems to be showing more and more little slivers of whatever he’s hiding behind his guarded eyes.
The real smiles starting to peek through, the way his eyes light up when he finds something funny or interesting.
Side by side, we cross the quad in silence, the chatter of other students fading around us. For once, the rush in my chest has nothing to do with being late.