Page 65 of Play Fake
Schizophrenia.
The word stares up at me in bold, black letters, clinical and unassuming, but something about it makes my stomach twist. I skim the first page—project objectives, presentation requirements, key diagnostic criteria—but nothing explains why Beck reacted like someone pulled the floor out from under him.
It’s not like I expected him to jump for joy over a group assignment, but this? This was different.
I tap my pen against the folder, replaying the way his jaw tightened, the way he stood so suddenly it made a couple people look up. And the excuse—“an important meeting”—was weak.
He’s not the type to forget something like that.
By the time practice rolls around that afternoon, the sun is low, throwing a warm haze over the field. I’m sitting on the sideline, tightening my cheer shoes, when I spot the football team across the way.
The players are running through the last of their walkthroughs. The rhythmic thud of cleats against turf blending with the whistle blasts from coaches. My eyes flick over almost on instinct.
Beck’s easy to spot, his eyes meeting mine for just a second, but something’s different. Usually, he’ll give me a grin or at least a quick nod when he sees me.
Today, it’s just a small, distracted wave before he looks away.
“You’ve got a weird look on your face,” Ava says beside me, stretching her arms overhead.
I straighten up quickly. “Do not.”
She gives me a knowing smile. “You totally do. What’s going on?”
I glance back toward Beck. “He’s just…quiet today. Didn’t really say hi. He barely waved.”
Ava follows my gaze, brows lifting. “He doesn’t look thrilled to be here, that’s for sure.”
“He wasn’t exactly himself this morning, either,” I admit, lowering my voice. “We got assigned our psych project, and the second he read the diagnosis, he went completely still. Then he bailed. Said he forgot about some ‘important meeting.’”
Ava tilts her head, thoughtful. “What’s the diagnosis?”
“Schizophrenia.”
She lets out a low whistle. “Oof. Maybe it hits close to home or something?”
The thought had never really occurred to me, but now I can’t seem to stop spiraling, even as Jordan claps her hands together at the front of the squad. “All right, ladies, circle up! Warm-ups are done—let’s run through the halftime routine twice before moving to formations.”
Ava nudges me lightly. “You’ll figure it out,” she whispers, before jogging toward the group.
I follow, forcing my brain to switch gears. We cycle through our stunts, pyramids, and transitions—muscle memory kicking in even when my mind drifts. But every time I catch a glimpse of Beck across the field, that tight feeling in my chest returns.
Something’s definitely off.
I toss my water bottle back into my bag after practice ends and wave Ava off when she calls goodnight, but instead of heading for the locker room, my feet carry me toward the parking lot.
Beck’s truck is easy to spot—older, clean, and parked in the same spot he always claims near the end of the row. A fewplayers filter out, laughing and shoving each other as they pass. I lean against the side of his truck, arms folded, pretending to scroll on my phone.
Really, I’m just waiting.
More of the team trickles out slowly. A couple of guys glance my way with mild curiosity, but no one says anything. It’s not exactly subtle—me hanging out by Beck’s truck like this—but I can’t shake the way he looked today. Or should I say the way he didn’t look at me.
Finally, he appears, hoodie back on, his hair damp from a quick rinse. He slows when he sees me, surprise flickering across his face.
“Hey,” he says, voice rough from practice.
“Hey.” I push off the truck and take a step closer. “You okay?”
He shifts his weight, eyes flicking to the ground for a moment before meeting mine again.
