Page 59 of Play Fake
Play after play, he stays there. Logan’s out there leading tackles, the defense grinding against the rival offense, and Beck—he doesn’t step onto the field once.
Until the last two minutes of the half.
The rival quarterback lines up, third and long, crowd screaming as the Storm digs in. And then I see it—Beck stepping onto the field, lining up with the rest of the defense.
The snap cracks through the air. The play unfolds in a blur of bodies and noise, and Beck moves—fast, sharper than he’s looked all night. He bursts through the line, wrapping the running back and bringing him down before he can gain more than a yard.
The stadium roars.
I leap with the others, pom-poms flashing. Relief surges through me—until Beck jogs back to the sideline.
Helmet off now, he bends over, bracing his hands on his knees. Even from across the field, I can see the color drained from his face, the tight line of his jaw.
He sinks onto the bench, and Logan is instantly at his side, crouching, saying something I can’t hear.
The halftime whistle blows, and the team heads toward the locker room. Beck doesn’t look back.
When our captain calls us back to regroup on the sideline, I murmur something about needing water and slip toward the tunnel before anyone can question it. My heart pounds harder with each step, half from nerves at sneaking off and half from what I’ll find when I reach the players’ area.
The locker room doors loom ahead, staff and trainers bustling in and out. I hover just outside, biting my lip, straining for a glimpse past the crowd.
And then I see him.
Beck, sitting on a bench just outside, shoulders slumped, his face pale and drawn under the harsh fluorescent lights. He’s tugging at the tape on his wrist like he wants to focus on anything except how bad he feels.
I take a step closer, the noise of the halftime routine fading behind me.
I shouldn’t be here. I know that. But watching him like this—seeing him fight to hold himself together when it’s so obvious he’s running on fumes—I can’t just stand by.
I take a step closer, nerves buzzing under my skin.
And then his head lifts.
Green eyes find mine instantly. Almost like he knew I was here.
I freeze, caught.
His brows draw together slightly, not angry, just questioning. Then his mouth tips into the smallest curve, like he’s almost amused.
I finally make myself cross the last few steps toward him.
I close the distance, my sneakers squeaking faintly against the concrete. His gaze stays locked on mine, sharp even through the exhaustion.
“What are you doing here, Sophie?” His voice is low, rough around the edges but still threaded with something that sounds almost amused.
My mind scrambles for an excuse. “I, um—needed my water bottle.”
One dark brow ticks up, and for the first time tonight, his face seems to relax the slightest bit. “In the men’s locker room?”
Heat rushes up my neck. “It could’ve…rolled in here.”
His grin deepens just slightly, though it doesn’t quite hide how pale he is, how heavy his shoulders still sit. “Right. Lucky for you, I’m on water-bottle patrol today.”
I bite back a laugh, shaking my head. “You’re ridiculous.”
I fold my arms, narrowing my eyes at him. “You’re awfully smug for someone who looks like he’s about to keel over.”
That earns me a soft huff of laughter, his grin lingering as he leans back against the bench. “Takes a lot more than that to knock me out.”
