Chapter 44 Beck
BECK
By the time we finish the light practice walk-through, my legs feel loose but my brain’s already halfway to the game. The bus ride earlier was long, the kind where everyone ends up sprawled in awkward positions trying to sleep, and now the hotel room feels way too quiet.
Logan tosses his duffel onto the second bed and stretches, groaning dramatically. “I’m hitting the hot tub for my legs before dinner. Try not to wreck the room while I’m gone, yeah?”
I snort. “Pretty sure I’m the neat one here.”
He points at my bed. “Yeah, well—don’t dirty up the sheets. Some of us have standards.”
Before I can fire back, my phone buzzes in my hand with a FaceTime request. Sophie.
Logan’s eyebrows go up, a grin tugging at his mouth. “Ohhh, FaceTime, huh? Tell her I said hi.”
“Go soak your old man muscles,” I shoot back.
He flips me off over his shoulder as he heads for the bathroom, the door swinging shut behind him.
I accept the call, and Sophie’s face fills the screen—messy bun, sweatshirt hanging off one shoulder, sitting cross-legged on her bed. My chest does that annoying warm thing it’s been doing more and more lately.
“Hey,” I say, settling back against the headboard.
“Hi,” she says, smiling a little. “I figured you’d be done by now.”
“Yeah, light practice. Logan’s about to soak in the tub like someone’s grandpa. He told me not to dirty up the bed while he’s gone.”
Her cheeks flush instantly, and she bites her lip to keep from smiling.
I chuckle, low and easy. “What? You’re the one blushing, Prescott.”
“I am not,” she says, very much lying.
“Uh-huh.” I shift, stretching my legs out on the bed, just enjoying the way her face softens when she looks at me. It’s stupid how fast a cramped hotel room feels less miserable when she’s on the other end of the screen.
“You look wiped.”
“Bus rides’ll do that,” I say. “We just ran some drills and reviewed strategy. Coach kept it light.”
She laughs softly, the sound slipping through the speaker like warm sunlight. “Well, you do have a big game tomorrow.”
“Yeah.” I pause, noticing the small dark circles under her eyes and how she keeps yawning. “You good?”
She nods, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Yeah. It’s just been a long day, though. I picked up some extra hours at the foster agency this morning.”
That gets my attention immediately. She doesn’t talk about it all the time, but when she does, there’s this light in her eyes that never fails to pull me in.
“Yeah?” I shift a little, angling the phone better. “How was it?”
She exhales, leaning back against her headboard.
“Just the usual. But after the holidays, it seems to require a lot more emotional than physical support, and shockingly enough, the emotional side makes me more tired than the physical. I just keep reminding myself that giving those precious kiddos some love is more than worth it.”
She keeps going, her voice soft. “Today I filled in for one of the case aides. It’s exhausting, but it’s the good kind, you know? The kind that reminds me why I’m doing this.”
“Yeah,” I murmur. My throat feels tight in a way I didn’t expect. “Yeah, I get that.”
She gives me a little smile, one that says she knows I do.
There’s a beat of quiet, the kind that feels full, not awkward. Then she looks down at her hands, fiddling with a loose string on her sleeve. “I was actually going to tell you something.”
“Okay.”
She hesitates, then meets my eyes through the screen. “I started looking into what it would take for someone my age to qualify as a foster parent after graduation.”
I blink. “You mean now? You want to foster now?”
Her cheeks flush slightly, but she doesn’t look away.
“Not right away, obviously. But…it’s something I’ve thought about a lot.
The agency always talks about how there’s such a huge need, especially for older kids, teens, and sibling groups.
And I know it’s not easy—like, I really know it’s not—but if I can be even a tiny piece of stability for someone who needs it, I want to try. ”
Something in my chest lurches, unexpected and fierce. I sit up a little straighter, phone balanced against my knee.
She keeps talking, her voice quieter now.
“I’ve seen so many kids age out or bounce from house to house.
They start believing they’re temporary, like they’re just passing through everyone’s lives.
And I don’t want that for them. I don’t want them to just survive it—I want them to have a place where they belong, even if it’s only for a little while. ”
I don’t interrupt. I can’t. My throat feels thick, my hands curling loosely in the blanket on my lap. I’ve heard people talk about fostering before—teachers, social workers, case managers. But no one’s ever talked about it the way she just did. Not with this much heart.
Sophie exhales. “So I’ve been asking questions. About licensing requirements. Financial stuff. Training. It’s a lot, but…it feels right. Like the kind of future I want to build.”
Something clicks inside me then, like a puzzle piece sliding into place. This is who she is. Not just the girl who wears my shirt and makes me laugh until I can’t breathe. She’s the girl who sees a broken system and says, let me help.
And damn if that doesn’t do something to me.
“That’s…wow, Soph.” My voice comes out rougher than I intend.
She tilts her head. “What?”
I shake my head a little, a smile tugging at my mouth. “Nothing. Just…I think it’s incredible. You’re incredible.”
Her cheeks flush deeper, and she ducks her head. “I don’t know about that.”
“I do.”
She looks back at me then, and for a second, neither of us says anything.
It’s just her face on the screen, soft and open, and me sitting in a crappy hotel bed, realizing that somewhere between fake dating and late-night truck rides, this girl has carved herself so deep under my skin that I don’t even remember what it felt like before.
“Everything all ready for the big day tomorrow?” I ask.
She laughs, loudly. “When I tell you that Claire has a checklist for her checklists, I wish I was kidding. But yes, everything is going smoothly so far. No issues with the caterers or anything like that. As long as the rain stays away, everything should be good.”
I can’t help but chuckle at that. From what I’ve heard, it’s going to be quite the wedding. Sophie’s voice softens as the conversation winds down. “You should probably get some sleep. Big day tomorrow.”
“Yeah,” I say, though honestly, I could stay on the phone with her like this all night. “I’ll text you in the morning.”
Her smile warms the edges of the crappy hotel room. “Goodnight, Beck.”
“Goodnight, Soph.”
And just as I’m about to hit the red button, the bathroom door swings open, and Logan’s voice cuts across the room.
“GOODNIGHT, SOPHIE!”
Sophie bursts into a startled laugh, cheeks going pink. “Good luck tomorrow,” she says quickly before hanging up, still smiling.
I stare at the blank screen for a second, shaking my head with a low chuckle. “You’re an idiot,” I tell Logan.
He just grins, tossing his towel onto his bed. “Yeah, but I’m hilarious.”
I roll my eyes and set my phone on the nightstand. “How’s the leg feeling?”
He stretches out, grimacing a little. “Sore, but I’ll be fine. Just need to keep it loose tomorrow. Trainers taped me up before practice, and I’ll get them to do it again before warm-ups.”
I nod slowly. “Good. Just don’t push it too far.”
Logan snorts. “You sound like my would-be mom.”
“Yeah, well,” I mutter, pulling the covers up. “Someone’s gotta keep you in one piece.”
He laughs as he climbs into his bed. Within minutes, his breathing evens out, leaving the room quiet except for the hum of the heater.
I lie there staring at the ceiling, the glow from the streetlights outside cutting faint lines across the plaster. Sophie’s voice lingers in my head, the way it softened when she talked about the kids at the agency, the conviction when she said she wanted to foster someday.
She wasn’t just talking about a job. She was talking about a life.
And damn if it doesn’t stick with me.
I close my eyes, letting the noise in my head settle, and for the first time in a long time, I fall asleep with my chest feeling full instead of empty.
We’re huddled tight at midfield, helmets off, breath clouding in the cool Oregon air. The stands are already filling with fans, a low roar building like a wave waiting to crash. It’s one of those games that feels different before the first whistle even blows.
I have to focus and play my best, then turn around and rush back to make it in time for Claire’s reception. It’s fine, totally fine. Thankfully, it’s an evening wedding, and we are playing a rare early game.
Coach’s voice cuts through the noise, bringing me back into focus.
“This is it, boys. Two more games. You’ve worked too damn hard to let up now.
You give everything on that field today—every play, every snap, every hit.
Defense, we set the tone early. Offense, you finish what they start. Understood?”
A chorus of “Yes, Coach!” echoes around me, hard and hungry.
I glance at Logan across the huddle. He rolls his shoulders, face set, but there’s a tightness in his movements that I clock immediately. The same leg. The one he brushed off last night.
I shift my jaw. He’ll push through. He always does.
But that storm in my gut doesn’t settle.
The whistle blows, the kick sails, and the game is on.
The crowd roars as our kicker boots it deep, pinning their returner near the ten-yard line.
He makes it to the twenty-two before our special teams swarm him.
The energy is electric—sharp, charged, the kind that makes the hairs on my arms stand up under my pads.
We huddle quick on defense, helmets clacking, breath clouding in the chill. I call out the adjustments, my voice loud enough to cut through the noise. “Watch for the run on first—they like to test the gaps early. Middle tight. Keep your eyes disciplined.”
The quarterback comes out in shotgun with two backs beside him. They motion one out wide, leaving a single back offset to the left. Run-pass option. I adjust, tapping my chest twice and pointing left to signal the shift.
The snap hits his hands. Hand-off fake. He keeps it, quick slant behind the line. Our corner is there but half a step late. Eight-yard gain.
“All right,” I mutter, resetting my mouthguard. “Let’s play.”
Next snap. Two tight ends, power set. This time it’s the run. I shoot through the B-gap, square my shoulders, and meet the running back head-on. The hit reverberates through my pads, a clean stop at the line of scrimmage. The crowd erupts.
Third and two.
We tighten up. I shift slightly forward, crouched like a coiled spring. The QB barks the count, quick hand-off left. The back tries to bounce outside, but I scrape across, shedding the guard trying to seal me. I wrap him low, twisting. He goes down hard, short of the marker.
Their punt team trots on.
I jog toward the sideline, helmet off, heart pounding in that good way. The defensive coordinator claps my shoulder. “Nice fill, Harrison.”
I nod, eyes tracking as Logan and the offense take the field. He lines up wide left, shoulders loose but focused. First play is a quick out to him—clean catch, solid five yards. He pops up fast, flashing that cocky grin of his.
Second play, he runs a deeper comeback. He plants a little harder than usual, and for a split second, I see it, the wince. Barely there, but I catch it, and it’s happening way sooner than last week.
He still hauls in the pass, though, dragging his toe for a perfect sideline catch. The chain crew moves.
My jaw tightens as I grab some water. He said he’d be fine. He looks fine. But I’ve played with him long enough to know when something’s off.
Their offense comes out firing this time. No testing the waters—they want momentum. They line up in trips right, running quick hitters to get the ball out before we can pressure the QB. It works for a couple of plays. Short gains, nothing explosive, but enough to march near midfield.
I switch our look on third down, walking up into the A-gap to fake the blitz. The QB flinches at the line, adjusts protection. That’s my cue.
Snap. I drop out of the fake, drifting underneath their slant route. The throw’s quick—but not quick enough. I get a hand up and swat it away midair. The crowd explodes. Fourth down.
They punt again, and I jog to the sideline, chest heaving, adrenaline buzzing under my skin.
Logan lines up wide again. This time, second and long after a stuffed run. He bursts off the line, smooth like always, cuts hard on the post. The QB throws a dart over the middle. Logan skies for it, twisting in the air.
For a heartbeat, everything slows.
The catch is textbook. He tucks it in mid-air and absorbs the hit from the safety crashing down. He lands awkwardly, though—right leg taking the brunt. My gut clenches.
He pops up after a beat, waving off the trainers like nothing happened. The sideline goes wild. First down. Big gain.
But I saw the way he grabbed his thigh for half a second before jogging back to the huddle.
“Damn it, Logan,” I mutter under my breath.
The drive stalls in the red zone, and we settle for a field goal to take the early lead. 3–0.
Back on defense, the other team’s offense tries to get tricky with a reverse on second down, but I stay home, track the motion, and blow it up in the backfield. Loss of five. The hit jars through my whole body, but it’s clean, crisp—one of those hits that reminds you why you love this game.
We force another punt to close out the quarter.
As I jog to the sideline, the scoreboard has us up by three as we end the first quarter.
The sun is finally shining. The crowd is loud. But that storm in my gut? It’s growing.
I don’t quite know if it’s about the game or my nerves about the wedding, but something isn’t sitting right.
Logan’s running like he’s fine. But I know him too well. He’s pushing.
And if he’s not careful, something’s going to give.