Chapter 25 Sophie
SOPHIE
The villa is quiet now—most of the girls disappeared to their rooms after dinner, stuffed with food and wine. I’m curled up in one of the oversized armchairs by the window, a blanket wrapped around my legs, the vineyard stretched out beyond the glass like a dark ocean.
My phone buzzes in my lap, and the sight of Beck’s name lights something warm in my chest.
Beck: appreciate it, Soph. hope the fancy crowd was impressed.
I bite my lip, smile tugging at my mouth.
The truth is…I did watch. I had my phone propped up discreetly against the water glass at dinner, one ear tuned to the conversation, the other locked on the live stream.
I’d told myself it was just to “check in on the score,” but I’d ended up watching almost the entire second half.
I start typing.
They were impressed. Especially when you sacked the QB.
Beck: told you I’d give you something to watch.
I'm still staring at the screen, my chest feeling weirdly light, when Claire drops down onto the arm of the chair beside me, robe cinched tight, wine glass in hand.
“You’ve got a look on your face,” she says, eyes narrowing with big-sister precision.
“What look?” I ask too quickly.
She gives me the look, the one she’s had since we were kids. “The smiley, distracted look. Is this about that guy?”
I freeze. “What guy?”
She rolls her eyes. “Don’t play dumb. Mom said something about meeting your football player boyfriend named Beck, Sophie.”
My stomach twists. “What did she say?”
“She made some comment on the phone the other day—‘Sophie seems to be spending time with someone from the team,’” Claire mimics in Mom’s clipped tone, then turns back to me with a grin. “So? Spill. Is it serious now?”
I should lie. Or at least deflect. But her face is all curiosity and softness, not judgment, and somehow Beck’s name slips out before I can stop it. “I mean…I don’t know?”
Claire blinks. “You don’t know?! Oh my God, Soph.” Her grin widens. “I saw him in one of your game photos last year—he’s gorgeous. Are you two just faking it still or?” She gestures vaguely between us.
I shrug, trying for casual, but my heart’s thudding. “We’ve been…spending time together.”
Her grin softens into something more knowing. “You like him.”
I open my mouth, but nothing coherent comes out.
Claire sits properly next to me now, tucking one leg underneath herself, suddenly serious in that gentle, big-sister way.
“Sophie. I’m happy for you if this is something real.
Truly. But—” She sets her glass down, eyes locking on mine.
“Be careful. I saw what you were like with Zach. You were playing a part. You didn’t love him.
Not really. But this…” She nods toward my phone. “You look different.”
Her words land heavier than I expect.
Claire continues softly, “If you’re falling, make sure he’s ready to catch you. Because I don’t want to see you build something real in your heart while he’s just…passing time. College athletes can be complicated.”
I tuck my hair behind my ear, suddenly very interested in the blanket on my lap. “It’s not like that,” I whisper, though even to me, it sounds flimsy.
She reaches out, squeezing my hand. “I just want you to be careful. You’re not the same girl who dated Zach because Mom and Dad said it was what they wanted you to do. If you’re giving someone your heart this time, do it because you want to—not because you’re caught up in a whirlwind.”
My throat tightens. “Yeah.”
She smiles faintly, standing to head toward her room. “Goodnight, little sis. Try not to stay up all night texting Mr. Linebacker.”
When she’s gone, I stare down at my phone, Beck’s messages still glowing on the screen. And even though I tell myself Claire’s just being protective, the truth is…she’s not wrong.
By the time Monday morning rolls around, I’m practically buzzing. Which is ridiculous. It’s just class. Just Beck.
Still, there’s a lightness in my steps as I weave through campus, the crisp coastal air cool against my cheeks. After a weekend of vineyards, floral arrangements, and endless talk of wedding timelines, stepping back onto PCU’s stone pathways feels grounding. Familiar.
And if my stomach flutters a little at the thought of seeing him again…well, that’s nobody’s business but mine.
I spot him as I round the corner toward the psych building. He’s standing under the oak trees, hands tucked in the front pocket of his hoodie, talking with Logan. His head tilts back as he laughs at something, sunlight catching in his hair, and for a second I forget how to keep walking.
Like clockwork, his gaze shifts—and lands on me.
The smile that spreads across his face is subtle but unmistakable, like it’s meant just for me.
I don’t even realize I’m smiling back until Logan says something to him, and Beck nudges him away, starting toward me with an easy stride that makes my heartbeat pick up for no good reason at all.
“Hey,” he says when he reaches me, voice low and warm.
“Hi,” I reply, maybe a little too breathlessly.
We fall into step, side by side, our arms brushing lightly now and then, each touch sending tiny sparks through my skin.
“How was Napa?” he asks.
“Loud and fancy, with a lot of wine.” I grin up at him. “Not sure I was built for that lifestyle.”
He huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Somehow, I can picture that.”
“And your game?” I ask, even though I already know the answer—having watched the entire thing on my phone like a lovesick idiot.
His grin edges toward smug. “We crushed them.”
“I saw,” I tell him before realizing my mistake and quickly adding, “Parts of it anyway.”
That gets me a raised brow, and something flickers in his eyes. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he looked pleased. “So, you were watching, not just keeping check on the score.”
I shrug, but my smile gives me away. “Maybe.”
We approach the psych building steps, students streaming past us, and he reaches ahead to pull the door open. My hand brushes his arm as I step inside, and it lingers there—barely half a second too long—but it’s enough.
It’s in the small things. The way his gaze lingers just a beat too long when I look up at him. The way our shoulders line up perfectly when we walk. The quiet undercurrent that wasn’t there a couple weeks ago.
By the time we reach our classroom and slide into our usual seats, my pulse is unreasonably loud in my ears. I open my notebook to distract myself, but his knee bumps mine under the table, casual but warm.
When I glance up, he’s already looking at me. Neither of us look away.
I turn my head, trying to focus on the notes in front of me, but the longer his eyes stay on me, the hotter my skin feels. Finally, I blurt the first thing that pops into my head.
“Do I…have something on my face?”
The corner of his mouth kicks up, and he lets out a quiet chuckle that seems to warm my body from the inside out, causing my stomach to swoop low. He shakes his head, still smiling.
“No,” he says simply.
My stomach does this ridiculous little flip. “Then why are you—”
Before I can finish, Professor Nelson strides in and starts setting up at the front of the room, the murmur of conversation fading. Beck shifts his attention forward, but there’s still a hint of amusement tugging at his lips. I duck my head, biting back my own grin.
The lecture passes in a blur of bullet points and case studies.
Normally, I’d be scribbling notes like my life depends on it, but today I keep catching myself sneaking glances sideways.
Sometimes he’s jotting something down, jaw tight in focus.
Sometimes he’s leaning back in his chair, tapping his pen against his notebook.
And once—just once—his gaze catches mine again.
When class ends, we walk together like it’s the most natural thing in the world, slipping into the stream of students pouring out of the building.
“So,” I say, adjusting the strap of my bag. “Do you want to meet up after my next class and get started on the project?”
For a split second, something flickers across his face. Not resistance exactly, but…nerves. The kind you see when someone’s walking toward a door they’re not sure they want to open. But he doesn’t shut down.
“Yeah,” he says finally. “That works.”
I smile. “Cool. I’ll text you when I’m done.”
We reach the fork in the path where I need to peel off for my next class. I glance back at him, and he’s watching me go with this quiet, thoughtful expression that makes my chest tighten unexpectedly.
“See you in a bit,” I call out.
“Yeah,” he replies, voice a touch softer than usual. “See you.”
I turn away, and I swear I can still feel his eyes on me as I walk down the path. My cheeks are warm, my pulse a little too quick—and for the first time, it feels like the ground beneath us is starting to shift in ways neither of us has quite named yet.
The second my professor dismisses us, I sling my bag over my shoulder and weave through the crowded hallway, texting Beck as I push the door open into the crisp midday air.
Class is out. Grabbing food real quick—meet you at the tables out the south side of the quad in ten?
My stomach growls as if on cue, and I veer toward the dining hall. The smell hits me the second I walk in—warm bread, melted cheese, coffee, and way too many students crammed into one space. I scan the grab-and-go section, zeroing in on the pre-made sandwiches.
Turkey and cheddar. Chicken pesto. And…gluten-free turkey club.
My fingers hover for a second. Before I can talk myself out of it, I grab the gluten-free sandwich and toss it into my basket along with a regular one for me.
I snag a bag of chips, flip it over, and squint at the allergen list. No gluten. Perfect. Two water bottles go in next.
The cashier gives me a distracted smile as she scans everything, and I swipe my card, my pulse weirdly quick for something so simple. It’s just food. It’s really not a big deal.
Still, as I step back outside and cross the quad, my bag swinging at my side, I catch myself smiling.
The tables we agreed on sit under a row of old oaks, their leaves just starting to turn.
The late afternoon light filters through the branches, scattering gold patterns across the worn wood.
Beck’s already there, baseball cap turned backward on his head, wearing a white T-shirt that accentuates his broad shoulders well, notebook open in front of him.
He glances up when he hears my footsteps, and his face softens into that easy, quiet smile that somehow makes everything inside me tilt a little.
“Hey,” I say, holding up the brown paper bag like evidence. “I come bearing food.”
His brows lift, a hint of amusement in his eyes. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“Too late.” I grin, setting the bag down between us as I slide into the seat. “I grabbed you the gluten-free turkey club. I checked the chips too—they’re safe, or at least I think so. You might want to double check.”
For a heartbeat, something unguarded flashes across his face. Not surprise, exactly, but something warmer, softer.
“Thanks, Soph,” he says quietly, and somehow the way he says my name makes my stomach swoop.
I shrug, unwrapping my sandwich. “Figured you’d be hungry.”
We settle in, the hum of campus around us. Students pass by in clusters, laughing, while music drifts from somewhere nearby, and for a second it almost doesn’t feel like we’re two people sitting down to talk about a heavy project. It feels…easy. Natural.
Beck pulls out the project packet and sets it between us on the table, but neither of us opens it right away. Instead, our sandwiches disappear slowly, conversation winding between bites.
It starts simple—
“Favorite movie?” I ask, wiping my fingers with a napkin.
He chews, swallows, then shrugs. “Remember the Titans, probably. I’ve seen it like…twenty times. My dad and I used to watch it together before games.”
The way he says it—quiet, fond—makes my chest squeeze. “Good choice,” I say softly.
He lifts a brow at me. “Yours?”
“About Time,” I admit, a little sheepishly.
His mouth curves. “Never heard of it.”
I gasp. “What? That’s a crime. You’d love it.”
“Pretty sure you just said it’s a romance movie.”
“It’s more than that,” I protest, laughing. “It’s…I don’t know. It’s about family and choices and time and love. It’s one of those movies that stays with you after the credits roll.”
He watches me for a long beat, like he’s storing away the way I light up when I talk about something I love.
Then it’s his turn. “All right, my turn,” he says, leaning back on the bench. “If you could live anywhere in the world, where would it be?”
I wrinkle my nose, thinking. “Somewhere near the ocean but not too crowded. I like the idea of quiet mornings and a small community. Maybe a coastal town with a farmers’ market on Saturdays.”
He nods slowly, like he can see it too. “I like that.”
We keep going, tossing questions back and forth—childhood memories, favorite meals, the weirdest thing we’ve ever done.
I learn he used to collect football cards as a kid and still has them in a shoebox under his bed.
He learns I once tried out for the school musical in middle school and forgot my lines halfway through.
By the time our wrappers are crumpled and our water bottles half-empty, the air between us has shifted—subtle, but real. Like we’ve been building toward this without realizing it.
Finally, Beck taps the packet with his knuckle. “All right,” he says with a small, reluctant smile. “Guess we should actually start working.”
“Guess so,” I echo, though part of me wants to keep asking him questions instead.