Page 124 of Play Fake
But I see it. That moment when he cuts upfield. It’s still there.
Second play, they go deep to someone else. Third, quick out to Logan again. He makes the catch, gets the first down, but helands a little stiff on his right leg. A limp so small I don’t even think our coaching staff has caught it yet, but I have.
By the middle of the second, we’re up by three. Offense is moving, but I can tell Logan’s pushing hard and starting to run out of gas in his tank. On one drive, he goes for a hard plant on a post route and winces. He waves off the trainer, lines up for the next play like nothing happened.
During a timeout, I jog over to him near the sideline. “You good?”
He doesn’t meet my eyes. “I’m fine, Beck. Stop babysitting me.”
“This isn’t babysitting, it’s called giving a shit.”
He gives me that stubborn grin. “Then give a shit from over there, linebacker.”
I want to push, but the whistle blows. Time to go.
We jog into the locker room up by a touchdown, but it’s tighter than it should be. Their QB’s scrambling more than expected, and Logan’s clearly compensating, but he’s still pulling in catches and racking up yards like it’s his job, which, technically, it is.
Coach goes over adjustments while the trainers hustle around taping ankles and checking guys. Logan’s sitting on the bench, helmet in his lap, rolling his leg out like he’s trying to convince himself it’s fine.
Part of me wants to grab him by the shoulders and tell him to sit the hell out. But the other part—the one that’s known him for years—knows it won’t matter. This is his shot. And he’s not going to let anything get in his way.
As we huddle back up to head out for the second half, I catch Sophie’s eye on the sidelines. She gives me a little nod. A quietyou’ve got thiswithout saying a word.
I nod back, heart steadying.
Time to finish this.
Their offense comes out swinging, no sign of slowing down. Quick screens, misdirections, a couple quarterback draws—they’re throwing everything at us to keep our linebackers guessing.
But we’ve seen this before.
On second and six, I read the guard pulling left, crash down hard, and meet the running back square in the gap. He folds. The noise of the hit echoes through the stadium, and the student section goes nuts.
We hold them to a punt and jog off the field to roaring cheers.
Logan’s out there. Still fast. Still dangerous. He snags a comeback route for fifteen, takes a hit, pops up quick—but I see it. That hitch on his right leg’s gotten worse.
Next play, deep cross. He burns the corner, hauls in the pass, but when he plants to turn upfield, his right leg buckles just slightly. Not enough to fall. Enough that I see him grit his teeth.
He waves off the trainer, jogging—more like half-limping—back to the huddle.
We’re holding a slim lead. Their QB’s scrambling more now, forcing me to spy him on a few plays. On third and long, he tries to take off through the middle. I beat the block, wrap him low, and drive him into the turf. The crowd explodes, teammates swarm me, and adrenaline floods my veins.
When I jog off, offense is already huddling. Logan gives me a quick nod as he lines up wide. It’s stubborn, almost defiant.
He makes another catch. Then another. He’s still racking up yards, but every route ends with him limping harder. By the time there’s five minutes left in the game, he’s clearly favoring that leg.
Sophie must see it, too—she’s watching him closely between cheers, brows knitted, biting her lip.
They’re down by four, driving with two minutes on the clock. We lock in. No one says much, we don’t need to. Everyone knows what’s at stake.
First down, short pass. Second, run stuffed at the line. Third down, QB scrambles. I spy him, cut off his angle, and force a desperate throw downfield. Our safety tips it up, our corner grabs it on the bounce. Interception.
The stadiumerupts.
I sprint off the field, heart hammering, teammates yelling and chest-bumping.
The final whistle blows. Win secured.
