Page 109 of Play Fake
we’re finishing this later. after the game. when I can actually do something about it.
Sophie: Looking forward to it. Good luck tonight.
I’ll text you as soon as we make it back to the hotel. we aren’t heading back until tomorrow morning.
I lock my phone, lean my head back, and close my eyes. But the only thing I see is her—and the only thing I want is to make good on that promise.
Stadium lights cut across the field in clean, white beams, and the crowd is loud enough to make my ribs vibrate under my pads.
I roll my shoulders and drop into my stance behind the line, breath steadying. I’ve been buzzing since the bus ride—not from nerves, but from Sophie. Her picture. Her texts. The way she’d pushed me right to the edge, then told me to focus on the game.
I’m trying. But she’s there in the back of my mind like a song stuck on repeat.
“Trips left!” I call out, voice carrying down the line. “Watch the counter!”
The QB snaps the ball.
Their running back cuts inside, but I read it clean. I shoot the gap between the guard and center and meet him head-on. Pads collide with a crack. I wrap him low and drive him back for a two-yard loss.
The sideline erupts. Second and long.
I grunt as I push up off the turf, but there’s a grin under my face mask.
They start testing the flats with quick outs and screens, trying to get us off balance. Their slot receiver breaks loose on a crossing route, but I close the gap and light him up just as the ball hits his chest. He hits the turf hard, and the ball pops loose.
Our safety scoops it up, and just like that, possession flips.
Logan jogs onto the field with the offense, jaw set. He’s gotten sharper this season—stepping into the main wide receiver role and filling a role left by a super star player like Jaxon Montgomery might’ve been difficult, but he’s taking it in stride.
I stand on the sideline, helmet off, chest still heaving as I watch him drop back and rifle a pass over the middle for a twenty-yard gain. Next play, our quarterback hits Logan on a wheel route. We punch it in three snaps later.
17–10. Momentum’s ours.
They’re down by three. It’s fourth and goal on our three-yard line. Clock’s ticking down. No timeouts left.
We huddle up tight.
“Watch the misdirection,” I tell the guys, voice low and sharp. “They’ve been leaning on that tight end all game. He chips and slides—he’s their bailout.”
We break.
The QB barks the cadence. The running back motions across the formation.
Snap.
The QB fakes the handoff, rolls right. I track him the whole way—reading the hip, not the eyes. He’s keeping it.
I explode through the gap, angle down the line, and hit him at the waist just before he crosses the plane. We crash into the turf, helmets clanging. The ball pops loose, and one of our d-linemen dives on it in the end zone.
The final whistle blows, and we’ve won the game on their turf.
The stadium deflates around us.
The bus ride to the hotel is extra loud and rowdy, music blasting from the back, guys reliving every big hit and touchdown. My body’s sore in all the usual places, adrenaline still fizzing under my skin, but my mind’s already elsewhere.
Specifically on Sophie.
We get our room assignments in the lobby. Of course, I end up with Logan. He tosses his bag on one of the beds, immediately flopping onto it like he’s been through a war.
