Chapter 40 Beck
BECK
The heavy doors of the psych building swing shut behind us, and Sophie lets out a groan that makes me laugh.
“That was brutal,” she says, tugging her backpack higher on her shoulder. “I swear he added extra slides just to torture us.”
She’s got that slightly frazzled, post-lecture look—hair slipping loose from her braid, brows drawn together—and somehow, it’s the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.
“Yeah, that was rough,” I agree, stretching my arms over my head as we fall into step together. The morning air is cool, sunlight spilling across campus in that sharp, golden way it only does in the fall. “I’m pretty sure half the class checked out halfway through.”
She shoots me a look. “Pretty sure that included you.”
I grin. “Please. I was the only one actually paying attention.”
“Uh-huh.” She raises an eyebrow, clearly not buying it.
We weave through the crowd toward the quad, shoulders brushing every few steps. “So,” I say, “project check-in. What’s left?”
“Diagnostic methods section and finishing the slides,” she answers automatically. Of course she knows exactly what we’ve done and what’s left—she’s been the organized one from the start. “I can work on the write-up during my lunch break today if you want to handle the data tables.”
“Got it,” I say. “We’d probably already be finished if someone didn’t get distracted every time we worked on it.”
She stops just long enough to give me a mock glare. “Excuse me?”
I smirk, enjoying this way too much. “I’m just saying—there’s a pattern. You start looking at me, the productivity goes way down.”
She crosses her arms. “I’m the one who gets distracted? You’re the one who kisses me first every time.”
She’s not wrong.
I huff out a laugh, slipping my arm around her shoulders and pulling her a little closer as we start walking again. “Okay,” I admit, kissing the top of her head. “Fair point.”
Her laugh is soft against my chest, and she leans into my side like it’s the most natural thing in the world. It kind of is.
I didn’t expect this part—how easy it would be to fit her into my everyday life. How the walk to and from class, or the way her hand bumps mine as we cross the quad, would start to feel like the best parts of my day.
Her laugh is still warm against my chest, and I tighten my arm around her shoulders as we walk toward the quad. The flow of students is steady, everyone heading to their next class, but it feels like the world’s narrowed down to just us.
“You know,” I say, glancing down at her, “it’s kind of unfair. You get to call me out, but the second I lean in, you’re the one melting.”
She gasps, feigning offense. “I do not melt.”
I grin. “You absolutely melt.”
“I—no.” She stumbles over her words, cheeks pinking. “You’re the one who starts it, Harrison.”
“And you’re the one who never wants me to stop,” I shoot back, enjoying how her eyes widen just slightly.
She swats at my chest, but she’s laughing, that bright, easy sound that always knocks the air out of me a little. I catch her wrist gently, holding her there as we pause near one of the big oak trees off the main walkway.
We’re half-shielded from view—not enough for this to be hidden, but just enough for it to feel like our own little corner of the world.
I look at her. Really look. Her hair’s loose now, a few strands catching the sunlight. Her lips are parted, still curved from laughing.
And then I just…move.
My hands slide to her waist as I back her up gently against the tree, and before she can say anything else, I lean down and kiss her.
It starts soft, but it doesn’t stay that way. She fists her hands in the front of my hoodie, pulling me closer as the world fades out around us. Her mouth is warm, insistent, and everything else, the passing students, the cool air, the fact that it’s barely ten in the morning, vanishes.
When we finally break apart, we’re both a little breathless.
She blinks up at me, cheeks flushed. “I’m gonna be late,” she mutters against my chest, voice low and dazed.
I can’t help it—I laugh, leaning down to steal one more quick kiss. “Worth it,” I murmur.
She laughs softly, breath mingling with mine. “Yeah,” she says. “Worth it.”
I watch her walk away a second later, her fingers trailing along mine until the last moment. She glances back once over her shoulder, grinning like she knows exactly what she’s doing to me.
And judging by the stupid smile I’m left standing there with, she’s right.
It’s game day—second week of November—and the air has that sharp, almost-winter bite that makes every breath feel clean.
We’ve got a bye week coming up, then an away game next Friday.
Having a game the day after Thanksgiving should be illegal.
Plus, I’ll have to haul ass back to campus, just to leave again so I don’t miss Sophie’s sister’s wedding.
Yeah. Wedding.
We still need to find time to get a tux for me, which is a little surreal if I think about it too long. A few months ago, Sophie and I weren’t even together. Now, I’m showing up as her plus-one at a family wedding.
The thought makes something warm settle low in my chest.
The stadium’s already buzzing when we jog out for warmups. Students in purple and gray fill the stands, bundled up against the chill. The marching band’s tuning up behind the end zone. I scan the cheer line without even meaning to and my eyes find her immediately.
Sophie’s in uniform, white bow catching the sunlight, laughing with Ava as they stretch. When she notices me looking, she gives a little wave.
It hits me like it always does: a sharp kick of adrenaline, and I can’t help the grin that takes over my face even if I wanted to.
Logan jogs up beside me, rolling his eyes. “You’re not subtle, man.”
“Never claimed to be,” I shoot back.
He drops down to stretch, and that’s when I catch it—a quick wince as he leans into a hamstring stretch. It’s subtle, but I know him too well to miss it.
“You good?” I ask, crouching beside him.
He exhales through his nose, like he’s annoyed I even noticed. “Yeah. Just tweaked something in practice yesterday. It’s fine.”
“Fine,” I repeat, raising a brow.
He gives me that stubborn look. “Beck, I’m serious. It’s sore, but I can play through it. I have to play through it.”
I rest my elbows on my knees. “Logan—missing one game might be better than risking a bigger injury. You push too hard and blow something, that’s not a game you’re missing. That’s the season. Maybe more.”
His jaw clenches. “And if I sit, I lose reps. I lose tape. I don’t get noticed. You know how many guys are fighting for spots? Hundreds. Thousands. If I don’t put up the yards this season, I don’t have a shot. I don’t have…anything else lined up. Football’s it for me. It’s all I’ve got.”
I know he’s not exaggerating. Logan doesn’t have a backup plan. No coaching aspirations, no grad school in his back pocket. His whole life has been funneled toward this one shot.
“I get it,” I say quietly. “I do. And if you’re playing, I’ve got your back. Just play smart. Don’t make it worse trying to be a hero.”
He smirks faintly. “When did you get so wise?”
“Someone’s gotta keep you out of trouble,” I reply.
“Good luck with that.” He laughs and shakes his head, but I can see the tension still sitting in his shoulders as he stands. The kind that says he’s already made up his mind, no matter what I say.
The whistle blows, signaling the start of team warmups. As we jog toward the line, I glance once more at Logan. His grin is in place, swagger intact, but now that I’ve seen it, I can’t unsee the slight hitch when he pushes off.
And as much as I trust him to play through pain, part of me can’t shake the thought that this could go either way today.
When opening kickoff sails into the air, the stadium erupts as our special teams sprint downfield. That familiar game-day buzz hums under my skin, loud, sharp, and electric.
Their offense starts fast. No-huddle tempo, trying to gas us early. We line up, helmets clacking, breath fogging in the cold. I call out the check, shifting the front seven just before the snap.
The ball’s handed off up the middle, textbook read. I fill the gap and meet their running back head-on, wrapping him up and driving him backward. The collision vibrates through my pads and into my bones. The crowd roars.
Second and eight.
They try a quick screen next. Our corner reads it too slowly, so I fly across the flat, clipping the receiver low and stopping him for a short gain. Third down. Their QB gets jittery, forcing a throw into tight coverage. Incomplete. Punt team jogs out.
As I jog to the sideline, Logan trots out with the offense, shaking out his shoulders like he’s trying to loosen something that won’t quite go away. First snap, he runs a shallow cross, catches the ball in stride, and breaks two tackles for a big gain. The crowd explodes.
But I see it. That moment when he cuts upfield. It’s still there.
Second play, they go deep to someone else. Third, quick out to Logan again. He makes the catch, gets the first down, but he lands a little stiff on his right leg. A limp so small I don’t even think our coaching staff has caught it yet, but I have.
By the middle of the second, we’re up by three. Offense is moving, but I can tell Logan’s pushing hard and starting to run out of gas in his tank. On one drive, he goes for a hard plant on a post route and winces. He waves off the trainer, lines up for the next play like nothing happened.
During a timeout, I jog over to him near the sideline. “You good?”
He doesn’t meet my eyes. “I’m fine, Beck. Stop babysitting me.”
“This isn’t babysitting, it’s called giving a shit.”
He gives me that stubborn grin. “Then give a shit from over there, linebacker.”
I want to push, but the whistle blows. Time to go.
We jog into the locker room up by a touchdown, but it’s tighter than it should be. Their QB’s scrambling more than expected, and Logan’s clearly compensating, but he’s still pulling in catches and racking up yards like it’s his job, which, technically, it is.
Coach goes over adjustments while the trainers hustle around taping ankles and checking guys. Logan’s sitting on the bench, helmet in his lap, rolling his leg out like he’s trying to convince himself it’s fine.
Part of me wants to grab him by the shoulders and tell him to sit the hell out. But the other part—the one that’s known him for years—knows it won’t matter. This is his shot. And he’s not going to let anything get in his way.
As we huddle back up to head out for the second half, I catch Sophie’s eye on the sidelines. She gives me a little nod. A quiet you’ve got this without saying a word.
I nod back, heart steadying.
Time to finish this.
Their offense comes out swinging, no sign of slowing down. Quick screens, misdirections, a couple quarterback draws—they’re throwing everything at us to keep our linebackers guessing.
But we’ve seen this before.
On second and six, I read the guard pulling left, crash down hard, and meet the running back square in the gap. He folds. The noise of the hit echoes through the stadium, and the student section goes nuts.
We hold them to a punt and jog off the field to roaring cheers.
Logan’s out there. Still fast. Still dangerous. He snags a comeback route for fifteen, takes a hit, pops up quick—but I see it. That hitch on his right leg’s gotten worse.
Next play, deep cross. He burns the corner, hauls in the pass, but when he plants to turn upfield, his right leg buckles just slightly. Not enough to fall. Enough that I see him grit his teeth.
He waves off the trainer, jogging—more like half-limping—back to the huddle.
We’re holding a slim lead. Their QB’s scrambling more now, forcing me to spy him on a few plays. On third and long, he tries to take off through the middle. I beat the block, wrap him low, and drive him into the turf. The crowd explodes, teammates swarm me, and adrenaline floods my veins.
When I jog off, offense is already huddling. Logan gives me a quick nod as he lines up wide. It’s stubborn, almost defiant.
He makes another catch. Then another. He’s still racking up yards, but every route ends with him limping harder. By the time there’s five minutes left in the game, he’s clearly favoring that leg.
Sophie must see it, too—she’s watching him closely between cheers, brows knitted, biting her lip.
They’re down by four, driving with two minutes on the clock. We lock in. No one says much, we don’t need to. Everyone knows what’s at stake.
First down, short pass. Second, run stuffed at the line. Third down, QB scrambles. I spy him, cut off his angle, and force a desperate throw downfield. Our safety tips it up, our corner grabs it on the bounce. Interception.
The stadium erupts.
I sprint off the field, heart hammering, teammates yelling and chest-bumping.
The final whistle blows. Win secured.
Back in the locker room, chaos has ensued. Music blasting, and Coach yelling over the noise with that proud grin.
But as I’m peeling off my pads, I glance toward the trainers’ area. Logan’s sitting on the table, his right leg stretched out, a trainer prodding at it. He’s grinning like he just won the lottery, but he’s wincing every other second.
I jog over, towel slung around my neck. “You good?”
He shoots me that familiar cocky grin. “Yeah, man. Just a Charlie horse.”
The trainer gives him a skeptical look, but Logan beats him to it. “I’m fine. Seriously. Just a cramp. Nothing I can’t stretch out.”
I don’t buy it. Not for a second. But this is Logan, stubborn as shit, determined to prove he’s invincible when scouts might be watching.
I clap his shoulder, meeting his eyes. “You played like a beast today.”
“Damn right I did,” he says, grinning wider. But when he shifts off the table, he’s limping hard.
He waves off the trainer again, swagger still in place even as he drags that leg toward the showers.
As the locker room starts to empty out, I sit back for a second, helmet resting on my knee, the adrenaline finally fading. The win feels good—great, even. But the image of Logan limping off, refusing help, sticks in the back of my mind.
Football’s his whole world. And if that leg’s worse than he’s letting on…
I exhale slowly, glancing toward the exit where I know Sophie will be waiting. One thing at a time. But yeah, I’ll definitely be keeping an eye on him.