Lessons in Faking (Hall Beck University #1)

Chapter 12

CHAPTER 12

“No,” Wren insisted. I could tell how hard it was for her. “Athalia Payton Pressley, I’m not going.” My full name was added for dramatic effect. So was the grim look on her face, the crossed arms and the threatening tone in her voice.

With my brows raised and my eyes slightly narrowed, I pointed out the window. “We’re already in the car.” My voice was calm, but stern.

“Because you didn’t tell me where we’re going!”

“Because you love going to games!”

Hence why it was so hard for her to say no. She wanted to see HBU kick some ass. She wanted to be in the stands, cheering and booing and trying to explain what was happening to me: someone who’d been trying her hardest to avoid anything soccer-related since the ripe age of six. Apparently, I’d run out of the room screaming until I was out of earshot whenever Dad and Henry had started talking about it— which had been always.

So, yes, Wren loved to drag me to the games. She loved being there. She just didn’t want to be there for my reason.

“This is kidnapping,” she protested loudly, moving to open the passenger door. Panicked, I enabled the child lock.

Wren’s head turned forcefully in my direction, hair whipping across her face. “The only reason you want to go is your fake boyfriend; who I don’t want to see, by the way.”

Her eyes darted over the car to find another exit. Though, unless she wanted to smash the window—which, surely, was a viable option, for at least a second—she had nowhere to go. “So, let me out of this car before I smash the windows.”

I took one deep breath before fastening my seatbelt, and turning the key until the engine roared below us.

“ Athalia —” A warning note played in Wren’s voice, and I tried my best to ignore it. Instead, I threw her a winning smile and pulled out of the parking lot. “I’m going to kill you one day.” I’d been waiting for the defeated sigh that followed her words. Dramatically, she let herself fall into the passenger seat completely before putting on her seatbelt and officially giving up.

I would tell her that I didn’t want to go to any game. That it was in the contract and there was no way around fake supporting my fake boyfriend. But she wouldn’t care either way, and I decided to avoid the topic of McCarthy as best as I could.

“I love you, too,” I retorted carefully, though the satisfied smile on my lips was still audible in my tone. “Now,” I continued. “Trust me with the fact we’ll have an incredible time, eat junk, and the next time we’re in New York, I’ll sit through another Hamilton show with you. Deal?”

Her posture relaxed beside me, and out of the corner of my eye, I could see a smile threatening to spill across her features. She hesitated before she nodded. “Deal.”

In my opinion, soccer games had always been too long. Whenever I had watched my brother’s high school games, or we’d flown out to watch Dad play, my short attention span was simply not made for ninety minutes of… anything. Add a fifteen-minute break to that and it was almost unbearable.

Sure, the rush of a win and even the lows of a loss were exhilarating. The energy shift when your team scored. The yelling, the screaming: it was fun. Especially when they were family. But that was just it. There were other things to do that were more fun.

I skipped most of the games I was invited to.

Due to my contractual obligation, that was obviously changing now. As if that wasn’t bad enough, I was just as contractually obligated to cheer for the one guy I used to root against. Yes, that meant I could gloat a little whenever Henry would leave a hole in their defense, but it hardly mattered. My brother was on fire today.

Everything that had been bubbling up within Henry over the past week only seemed to make him a better player. It’s like he took his annoyance, irritation and anger and channeled it into kicking that ball as hard, as fast, and as aggressively as he could. And somehow, it worked. If we ignored the yellow card he’d earned himself within the first twenty minutes of the match.

Now, ninety minutes in and with two minutes of overtime left, the game was pretty much settled. Our stands were roaring with chants and whistles and screams, and I was sure I heard someone uncontrollably sobbing at the other end of the bleachers.

Wren had her arm wrapped in mine, pulling me into her rhythmic jumping, going along with the noise, as if I didn’t have to kidnap her to be here in the first place. A wide grin played on her face, eyes following the ball with a speed that was inexplicable to me.

When the sound of the whistle finally rang across the field, Wren’s hands flew in the air, our popcorn bucket right with them. No one around us winced—even seemed to notice—as she showered the few rows before us in popcorn out of sheer excitement. 2–0 .

She hugged me, the stranger beside me hugged me. And I let myself be swept up in the excitement of an amazing win when I heard myself cheer with them.

An honest mistake. It wouldn’t happen again.

“That was—” Wren exhaled loudly, excitement still vibrating in her voice when we pushed out of the tightly filled rows. “Incredible.” She made sure to annunciate every syllable of the word, her arm still interlocked with mine. “Henry was amazing today,” she added apprehensively, side-eying my reaction.

I couldn’t do anything but agree. She was right. Although I didn’t watch him play often, today was one of his best performances, by far.

“Maybe the key to him going pro is us fighting.” By the apologetic look on her face, my attempted joke didn’t land the way I’d hoped.

And just to add fuel to the fire, arriving by the sideline to congratulate my boyfriend very publicly, the first person I noticed was my brother. The proud grin on his face and how good it felt to see him happy and accomplished. I wished I could be rooting for this version of him at the moment. Maybe, in some sisterly way, I still was. But this wasn’t what revenge looked or felt like.

“You were late.”

My attention was forced onto the striker I was here to see. And he lacked a shirt. A self-righteous smile graced his full lips, but I’d be lying if I said it was the first thing I noticed. Or the second.

The smooth abs and the sheen of sweat covering his entire upper body definitely came first. The bright lights illuminating the field now that the sun was setting only underlined the debacle I found myself in.

Don’t stare, Athalia.

My eyes shifted as soon as I could force them to, but the little glimpse of him they’d caught was enough to last a lifetime. My gaze crossed his, and I tried my best to remember what he’d said when he so rudely took over my entire field of vision with his perfect upper body.

I cleared my throat. “And you should’ve been busy playing, instead of checking whether I was or wasn’t on time.”

His lips broke into a lazy smile, the dimple in his cheek almost distracting from the damp, sweaty hair hanging over his face. Instead of retorting, he glanced Wren’s way.

The high of the win must have worn off as soon as McCarthy had made his presence known. And it seemed his exposed chest probably didn’t have the effect on her that it had on… me?

Wait, no. There was no effect.

“Inkwood,” he greeted with a nod.

Wren didn’t say anything. Instead, she faked a wide, exaggerated smile before purposely dropping it a second later, leaning against the bleachers with her arms crossed. I decided not to push her any further. Being here was enough for my taste, and more than enough for her, all on its own.

“So…” McCarthy hummed, leisurely propping himself against the handrail separating stands and field. Right behind him, Henry beamed brightly as he spoke to Coach Hepburn. “We’re going out to celebrate after this.” The statement lingered in the air, eyes connecting with mine again. “Care to join me?”

Surprisingly enough, his eyes flicked back and forth between Wren and me, inaudibly extending the invitation to the both of us. We replied simultaneously.

“Yes.”

“No.”

McCarthy huffed in amusement. “A few of the guys are bringing their girlfriends; I’d hate to rob them of the pleasure of meeting mine.” Though his voice sounded genuine, and was picked up by Henry exactly that way, the grimace on his face couldn’t have been more ironic.

And I was starting to like the way McCarthy thought.

“ We —” I gave Wren a warning look. “Would love to.”

Before she could protest—and she was well on her way to doing so—I mouthed the word Hamilton in her direction. Her lips shut tightly, as if they were about to disobey her if she didn’t keep them glued in place. When I looked back at him, I smiled as if I hadn’t just blackmailed my best friend for the second time today.

“Great,” he said.

Great.

Although it was early Sunday evening, the streets were bustling with all sorts of people. College students drunk enough to already go home again, workers just getting off their eight-hour shifts and homebodies getting takeout at the Chinese place we’d just passed.

“I’m staying an hour. Tops,” Wren warned as we neared the address McCarthy had given us.

“And I love you for it.” I came to an abrupt halt, my gaze lifting from my phone to scan our surroundings for some sort of sign. The blue location dot hovered right by the destination pinpoint, though the name of the bar, or any sign of it, was nowhere to be found.

Wren huffed with knowing amusement. “Awesome,” she sighed in an I-told-you-so manner, leaning on a low fence behind her. “This is a joke, right?”

I turned with an apologetic expression. “There’s pizza—” She waved toward the small shop on the other side of the street. “Chinese—” Her head gestured in the direction of that, too. “But I don’t see—”

Before she could finish her sentence—lo and behold, right above her head—a broken neon sign flickered slightly, the light so dim, it was barely noticeable in the dark. Though, it was enough for me to make out a huge arrow pointing down and the cocktail beside it.

“I do!” I didn’t even give myself time to elaborate before grabbing Wren’s wrist, tugging her off the fence and steering us toward the stairs that led into the apparent underground bar.

“You’re so quick to expect the worst, Inkwood,” I teased as I pushed open the door. The light scent of beer, peanuts and sweet cocktails welcomed us, and let us know we were in the right place. It screamed college sports. Letting her body go limp in defeat, she let herself be dragged along.

I spotted the HBU soccer team right away. It was hard to miss thirteen broody men and their plus-ones. I was surprised they even had a table for a group as large as it was, in a place so small.

The light was dim, the bar stretching across the entire wall beside the table we were approaching. Confidence edged into my stride, and even Wren had picked up her slouch into a begrudging walk. Before we reached the group, an unfamiliar voice hollered and another joined in with a, “There she is!” Excitement lingered in the sound.

“The woman of the hour,” another cheered as he pretended to bow in the chair in front of us. Beside him: McCarthy, who smacked the guy upside the head, before turning our way with a tight smile.

“Ignore them,” he pleaded with both amusement and sincerity. The image of carefree, fun McCarthy shocked me right away. No scowl in sight.

I waved at the entire group with a quick Hi , eyes flicking across them. On the opposite side of the table, Henry tried his best to ignore the playful commotion around him, immersed in his phone and probably typing a bunch of nothing into his notes app just to look busy.

If I hadn’t been so focused on the lack of Henry’s attention, maybe I would’ve realized the seat beside McCarthy was the only one free before Wren had basically thrown herself into it. Sighing, I thought she deserved it for having to go through this in the first place.

“I’ll just grab an extra chair.” I gestured to the neighboring, much smaller table.

McCarthy already nodded in agreement when the boy beside him perked up once more, a widespread grin on his face. “Nonsense!” he laughed.

“ Caden,” McCarthy warned. To no effect.

Caden’s box-dyed blond buzzcut contrasted his dark brows, but complemented the blue eyes, which gleamed in amusement when his hand landed on McCarthy’s thigh with a dull thud. “There’s a perfectly good seat right here!” he exclaimed, patting the leg beside him.

McCarthy threw a deathly glare at his friend, and it turned into an unreadable expression when his gaze drew to mine.

Was he actually considering this? Me? On his lap?

Nothing but clothes separating us—no room to mess up our relationship facade? After all, Henry was right across from us. Any argument, any looks that didn’t say We’re-in-a-happy-healthy-relationship , and he’d know how fake it all was.

How embarrassing would that be?

McCarthy shrugged, brow furrowed as he tried to read my expression. Then, as if giving up, he pushed his chair back with a scraping sound that was almost entirely drowned out by the surrounding conversations and the low music in the background. His arms opened, and a prompting look washed over him.

And one glance at my brother’s face ushered me right into McCarthy’s lap.