Chapter 39 Beck
BECK
I’ve got ten minutes to get to Thursday’s film review when Sophie’s name lights up my screen.
I don’t even hesitate before answering. “Good morning,” I say, grinning as her face pops up on FaceTime.
She’s sitting at her desk in the little office at the foster agency, hair pulled back, a paper coffee cup beside her. The fluorescent lighting isn’t exactly glamorous, but she still looks like the best part of my day.
“Hey,” she says, a tired smile tugging at her mouth. “You headed to film?”
“Yep,” I say, shifting my backpack higher on my shoulder. “Glad you called, I can get my daily Prescott fix on the way.”
That earns me a real smile, the kind that hits me somewhere deep. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Maybe. But you love it.”
She rolls her eyes, but her laugh is soft. Then the smile slips a little. “It’s been kind of a hard morning,” she admits quietly. “A sibling group came in, three kids, all under six. Scared, tired…it’s just one of those days.”
I slow my steps without even meaning to. “Damn,” I say, my voice softening. “That’s heavy. You holding up okay?”
She nods slowly. “Yeah. I just wish there was more I could do, you know? I love working here, but sometimes I feel like all I can offer is a smile and kind words.”
The ache in her voice hits me square in the chest. I’ve seen her with people, how warm she gets, how much she cares. I can imagine her sitting with those kids, making them feel seen.
She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and adds, almost shyly, “I think…someday, I want to be a foster mom. Maybe even adopt. I know that’s a long way off, but I want to give kids that kind of home. One that’s safe and loving, even if it’s only temporary.”
I stop completely, right in the middle of the sidewalk. For a second, everything else fades out. She says it like it’s just a thought, but it hits me like a true possibility for the future. One I can see with startling clarity.
I clear my throat. “They’d be lucky as hell to have you.”
Her cheeks flush a little, and she laughs softly. “Thanks, Beck.”
Before I can say more, a familiar voice cuts through my earbuds.
“Well, well, well,” Logan drawls from the film room doorway as I approach. “Would you look at this—the lovebug’s struck our linebacker. He’s out here stopping in the middle of the quad to stare into his phone like a lovesick fool.”
I flip him off good-naturedly, which just makes him laugh harder.
On my screen, Sophie giggles. “Hi, Logan.”
“She says hi,” I relay to Logan.
“Hey, Sophie,” Logan says, leaning into the camera from behind me. “Save him from himself, yeah?”
She rolls her eyes playfully.
I grin. “All right, I gotta go. I’ll text you after film, okay?”
“Okay,” she says softly. “Have a good day.”
“You too.”
I end the call, still smiling like an idiot at my black screen. Logan smacks my shoulder as we head inside.
“Man,” he says, shaking his head. “You’re gone. Didn’t think I’d see the day.”
I elbow him back. “Shut up.”
But his words linger as we file into the dark film room. I slump into my seat, pretending to focus on the footage of last weekend’s game, but my brain is somewhere else entirely.
Foster mom. Adoption. A house that’s secure and safe.
I picture Sophie in that future without meaning to—laughing in the kitchen, braiding some kid’s hair, pulling me into the mix.
I don’t know what my future looks like yet. NFL dreams or becoming a counselor, maybe a high school coach, maybe something else entirely. But sitting here in the dim light, her words replaying in my head, I can’t stop wondering which version of that future Sophie fits into best.
And the answer, if I’m honest, is starting to feel less like a question and more like a certainty.
Coach pauses every other clip to break down missed tackles, misreads, and moments where we could’ve closed gaps faster. My notes are a mess of scribbles and arrows, and by the time the lights flick back on, everyone’s blinking like they’ve been underground.
“All right,” Coach says, clapping his hands together. “That’s it. Harrison, hang back for a sec.”
Logan shoots me a look on his way out—half teasing, half good luck—before disappearing down the hall. I sling my backpack over one shoulder and make my way down toward Coach’s desk.
He leans back in his chair, crossing his arms. “You’ve been playing solid ball this season, Harrison. Real solid.”
“Thank you, Coach.”
“I’m serious,” he says, tilting his head. “Your reads have gotten sharper. You’re leading the defense the way I hoped you would when we brought you in. And the scouts noticed last weekend. Had a couple of conversations already.”
I blink, my heart giving a quick, unexpected jump. “Really?”
“Really,” he says, matter-of-fact. “You’ve got good tape.
Strong instincts. You’re not the flashiest guy out there, but teams like players who know their role and do it well.
Which brings me to this—” He slides a packet across the desk.
“Pro Day’s in the spring. I think it’s time you start seriously thinking about declaring. ”
I stare at the packet for a second, like it might disappear if I blink.
I’ve thought about this in the vague, someday kind of way.
Growing up the way I did and considering the career paths I could potentially pursue in the future, I never really let myself believe the NFL was anything more than a distant dream.
But standing here, sweaty from film, with my name on a packet sitting in front of me? It suddenly feels real.
“I haven’t made a final decision yet,” I admit. “But I’ve been thinking about it.”
Coach nods. “Good. You’ve got the build, the IQ, the discipline. You might not be a top-round pick, but there’s a real shot for you to land somewhere. Get your foot in the door. And once you’re in, you figure it out.”
I run a hand over the back of my neck. “You really think I’ve got a chance?”
“I wouldn’t waste my breath if I didn’t,” he says. “Look, the league’s tough. You know that. It chews up players fast. But you could carve out a few good years for yourself if you keep working like this. Then? Coaching. Grad school. Something else. You’ve got options, Beck. More than you think.”
Options.
I nod slowly, but my brain’s already racing ahead. NFL. Pro Day. Draft. The words feel heavy, like puzzle pieces sliding into place.
For the first time, I can actually picture it—not just being there, but making it work. A few years in the league, maybe more if I’m lucky. Then shifting gears. Building something that lasts.
I exhale slowly, gripping the packet. “All right,” I say. “I’ll think about it. Seriously.”
Coach nods, satisfied. “That’s all I ask. You’ve earned the right to make this decision for yourself. Don’t sell yourself short.”
As I leave his office, the weight in my hands doesn’t feel scary. Not exactly. It feels…big. Like standing on the edge of something I’ve spent my whole life pretending I didn’t want too much.
And for the first time, I want it. All of it.
Practice runs long, so I just have to meet Sophie at her place, but I don’t care.
I’m practically jogging up the steps to Sophie’s dorm by the time the sun starts dipping low, painting the sky orange and pink.
My body’s tired in a good way, sweat drying on my skin, muscles humming, but it’s my head that’s spinning.
Pro Day. The draft. A future I never thought I’d be brave enough to imagine.
And Sophie.
She opens the door before my second knock, grinning in that way that makes something in my chest tighten every single time.
She’s changed out of her practice clothes into leggings and one of my old hoodies I let her “borrow” a couple weeks ago and never got back.
She looks comfortable. Homey. Like everything I didn’t realize I’d been craving.
“Hey,” she says, stepping aside to let me in. “You hungry?”
I kick my shoes off and glance toward the little kitchenette. “Uh, yeah. Always. Why?”
She beams and gestures to the counter. “Because I got all this.”
There’s a spread laid out—packages of chicken breast, fresh vegetables, bags of rice, a pack of gluten-free rolls, and a few herbs and spices. Everything’s still in its packaging, untouched and neatly arranged.
I blink. “You…went shopping?”
“Yeah.” She tucks a piece of hair behind her ear, a little shy now.
“You mentioned a while back that you always have to be careful with food, so I made sure everything was certified gluten-free and not processed in shared facilities. And I figured…” She shrugs.
“We both said a perfect night in would be cooking dinner together, so…why wait?”
For a second, I can’t find my voice.
I’ve had a girlfriend before, obviously. I’ve had girls who flirted, showed up at parties…. But no one’s ever…done this. No one’s paid attention to the quiet stuff.
“Hey,” I say softly, stepping closer. “You didn’t have to go through all this trouble.”
She looks up at me. “I wanted to.”
Something in my chest shifts. It’s not the dizzy, adrenaline-fueled feeling I get before a game. It’s quieter. Deeper. Like someone flipped a switch I didn’t know was there.
I grab her face in my hands and kiss her in a slow, sensual way that I hope tells her just how much her thoughtfulness means to me.
Pulling back once we’re both breathless, we start cooking together, moving around her tiny kitchen in an easy rhythm.
She chops vegetables on a brand new cutting board while I season the chicken.
Someone caring enough to not only grab safe ingredients, but also taking the time and money to get new utensils and tools, just so we could make a meal together, means more than I can possibly put into words.
We talk about practice, about her day at the agency, about nothing and everything. The oven hums in the background, rolls warming, the smell of garlic and rosemary filling the room.
She hums softly under her breath while stirring the rice, and I catch myself just…watching her. The way she moves. The way she’s so present.
Dinner turns out simple but perfect: chicken roasted golden, vegetables caramelized just right, rice fluffy, rolls warm and soft. We sit at her tiny table, knees brushing under the surface, laughing about some dumb story Logan told at practice.
It’s nothing fancy. No candles. No music. Just her, across from me, grinning like I’m the only person in the world who matters.