Chapter 27 Sophie
SOPHIE
The stadium lights burn bright against the night sky, chasing away every shadow. The stands are buzzing—packed with students in PCU Storm purple, faces painted, cowbells ringing like we’re on the edge of something big.
I bounce on my toes at the sideline, the October air warm but breezy, just enough to lift the ends of my ponytail. My heart hammers in rhythm with the marching band’s drumline as the second half kicks off.
Beck jogs back onto the field with the defense, helmet on, shoulders set. Even from where I’m standing, I can see the focus in the way he moves—unwavering, deliberate, all business. That quiet intensity of his always gets to me.
“All right, let’s bring it home,” Jordan yells, rallying the squad into formation.
The other team’s offense comes out swinging, fast and ruthless. Our boys hold them for a while—Beck’s there in every pileup, reading plays like he was born to do this—but momentum starts to tilt in the wrong direction. Penalties stack up. A bad snap costs us field position.
My stomach tightens as the clock ticks down.
Fourth quarter. Two minutes left. PCU clinging to a three-point lead. One defensive stand away from closing this out.
The opposing QB takes the snap. For a heartbeat, everything slows—Beck drops into coverage, eyes locked on the field like a hawk—but then a receiver breaks free down the sideline. A perfect throw. A missed tackle.
Touchdown.
The visiting stands erupt.
Ours deflate.
I bite the inside of my cheek as the cheer squad launches into the fight song anyway, trying to keep the energy up, but it’s like shouting into the wind. The boys scramble for a last-minute drive, but time bleeds away too fast.
When the final whistle blows, the scoreboard reads 24–20, their side lit up in victory.
I keep my smile plastered on through the closing cheer, but inside, my chest aches watching the team. Players rip off their helmets, some hanging their heads, others just staring at the field in stunned silence.
Beck’s at the center of it all, helmet in hand, breathing hard. He’s not throwing anything, not yelling—he just stands there, shoulders squared, jaw tight. But even from here, I can see the frustration simmering beneath the calm. He gave everything out there. They all did.
The announcer’s voice echoes over the speakers, wrapping up the game. The stands start to empty.
Around me, the girls start chatting, but my eyes keep finding Beck. He finally turns toward the tunnel with Logan at his side, their jerseys streaked with grass and sweat.
The cheer squad breaks formation, the crisp edges of our performance melting into post-game chatter. The crowd’s already thinning, students drifting toward the exits or making plans to hit the football house.
Ava falls into step beside me as we head toward the locker rooms to grab our bags. “Well,” she says, exhaling dramatically. “That was brutal.”
“Yeah,” I murmur, tugging my bow loose and running a hand through my ponytail.
“They had it,” she adds, shaking her head. “Beck and Logan were on fire the whole game, but…” She trails off with a shrug, letting the end speak for itself.
I don’t say anything. I don’t have to. The final minutes keep replaying in my head like a broken highlight reel—the moment the receiver slipped past coverage, the look on Beck’s face as the game tilted away from them.
He didn’t yell or throw his helmet like some of the others.
He took the loss as well as anyone could, really.
Quietly, being in complete control of his emotions. That somehow hurts more.
We grab our stuff from the locker room, slipping out of our cheer gear and into hoodies and leggings. Ava’s already making plans to meet up with some of the other girls at the house later, but I shake my head when she asks if I’m coming.
“Nah,” I say, forcing a light smile. “I’m wiped. I’ll catch up with you tomorrow.”
She gives me a look—part curious, part knowing—but doesn’t push. “Okay. Love you, loser.”
“Love you too,” I say, bumping her shoulder as we part ways.
The walk back to my dorm is quiet, the campus buzzing faintly with post-game energy in the distance. I hug my bag to my chest, my thoughts drifting back to Beck against my will.
Normally after a loss, the team either blows off steam at the house or goes radio silent for the night. Either way, he’ll probably want space. He’s not the type to need cheering up—or want anyone to see him bruised like that.
Still, as I climb the stairs to my room and fumble with my key, I catch myself glancing at my phone more than once. Waiting for a text that probably isn’t coming.
Snickers greets me with a loud meow the second I walk in, rubbing against my leg like I’ve been gone for weeks. I drop my bag, scoop her up, and let her warm little body settle in my arms.
“Yeah, yeah,” I whisper, pressing my cheek to her fur. “I missed you too.”
But even with her purring against me, I can’t quite shake the image of Beck walking down that tunnel—tired, focused, a little bit untouchable. And the weird ache that comes with wanting to be someone who could reach him anyway.
Steam curls out of the tiny bathroom as I step back into my room, a towel wrapped snugly around me and another twisted up in my hair. My skin is warm and pink from the hot water, my muscles finally loosening after a long night of cheering.
Snickers has claimed my pillow like she pays rent, blinking up at me with slow, unimpressed eyes as I move toward my dresser. “You could at least pretend to guard the place,” I mutter, grabbing a clean set of pajamas.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand.
I glance at the screen…and freeze.
Beck: sorry I didn’t catch you after the game. you coming to the party tonight?
For a second, I just stare, towel half slipping down my shoulder, heart doing this stupid little flutter thing that I absolutely refuse to acknowledge.
I wasn’t expecting to hear from him tonight. After the loss, I figured he’d be off with the team, decompressing—or in his own head, the way he gets sometimes. But here he is, checking in.
I sink onto the edge of the bed, water still dripping from my hair onto the towel wrapped around me, rereading the message more times than I’d ever admit.
I wipe my hand on the towel and type back quickly before I can overthink it.
Hey. I wasn’t sure if you’d want to hang out after the game. Tough loss.
The typing bubbles appear almost immediately.
Beck: yeah. sucked. but we’ll bounce back. just didn’t see you on the field after.
My stomach does a little flip. He looked for me.
I went to grab my stuff with Ava. Figured you’d want space.
There’s a pause before the bubbles return.
Beck: maybe a little. but I still wanted to see you.
My fingers hover over the keyboard, heart thudding against my ribs. It’s so him—not flowery, not trying too hard. Just honest in that quiet way that gets under my skin.
Well… I’m in pajamas now. So unless I do a superhero quick change, I probably won’t make it to the party.
Beck: pajamas, huh? bold Friday night move.
I roll my eyes even as I smile.
Some of us didn’t spend the night getting tackled by 300-pound linemen.
Beck: fair. my body feels like it got hit by a truck.
That’s football, right?
Beck: yeah. still wish I’d seen you after, though.
I suck in a breath, warmth flooding my chest.
You could see me now?
The three little dots appear almost instantly.
Beck: yeah? where?
I glance down at my towel, then at the pajamas folded on my bed, and let out a quiet, disbelieving laugh at myself.
Do you want to come here? It’s quieter. You’ll be getting the no makeup and wet rat look, but as long as you agree not to judge, we can watch a show or something.
Beck: sounds better than a loud, overly packed house with football players hitting the drinks extra heavy tonight.
My heart does a little swoop at how casually he says it, like the idea of seeing me like this—quiet, unpolished—doesn’t faze him at all. I quickly type out my response, but my fingers hoover for just a second longer before hitting send.
I’m on the first floor. Room 1323. It’s a suite, so you can bring food to heat up or whatever if you need to. I don’t have much, but the popcorn I got the other day did say it was gluten-free.
Ever since I grabbed him that sandwich earlier this week, I couldn’t help but start looking at the labels of things when I was in the store.
They even make apps that you can scan the barcode of the item, and it pops up if it’s gluten-free or not, including telling you if it’s safe enough for those with celiac or if it’s at risk for cross-contamination.
My phone vibrates again.
Beck: on my way.
I stare at the screen, towel slipping a little further down my shoulder as the reality sets in. Beck. Coming here. Now.
Scrambling off the bed, I throw on my pajamas in record time—soft shorts and an oversized PCU sweatshirt—and yank my damp hair into a loose braid. Snickers watches from her throne on the pillow, tail flicking like she knows something’s up.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I whisper, cheeks warm. “It’s just Beck.”
Just Beck.
Except nothing about the way my heart’s beating feels just anything.