Page 142 of Play Fake
“Logan,” I say, pushing in beside one of the assistants.
He looks up, and for the first time since I’ve known him, there’s something like fear in his eyes. It’s buried under layers of grit and bravado, but it’s there.
“They’re taking me to the ER,” he says, voice low. “One of the staff’s driving me over now. Ortho’s on call. Gonna get imaging tonight.”
My stomach knots. “Shit.”
He gives this small, humorless laugh. “Yeah. Not exactly how I pictured halftime.”
I start to say I’ll go with him, but he cuts me off before the words are fully out.
“No,” he says firmly. “You’ve got a game to finish, Harrison. Go out there and handle it.”
“Logan—”
“I’m serious,” he snaps, then softens almost immediately. “You finish this. I’ll text you as soon as I know anything.”
I grab the edge of the table, leaning in closer. “I’ll be there right after the game.”
His mouth quirks, half grin, half grimace. “Nah. You gotta get to Sophie and make sure that prick doesn’t try anything again. I’ll be fine. Just a quick detour to the hospital.”
I know what he’s doing—trying to keep it light, to make this less than what it is. But the way his fingers tighten on the edge of the table gives him away.
“Logan…” I say quietly.
He meets my eyes. For a second, the noise of the locker room fades, the coaches talking strategy, the players gulping water, the dull thud of cleats on tile.
“Go win the damn game,” he says.
I nod once, sharp. “I got you.”
He grins then, that cocky flash of teeth that’s sohim, even through the pain. “Damn right you do.”
The staff helps him off the table, careful with his leg as they get him onto a cart waiting outside the locker room tunnel. He throws a thumbs-up as they wheel him out, and the whole team instinctively starts clapping, not the hyped pregame kind—something quieter, heavier. Respect.
I stand there for a heartbeat after he’s gone, helmet dangling from my fingers, chest tight.
Then Coach’s voice booms across the room, snapping us back. “All right! Eyes up! We’ve got thirty minutes left. You play for him now. Understood?”
A unified “YES, COACH!” echoes off the walls.
I slide my helmet back on, jaw set. That storm in my gut? It’s not anticipation anymore.
It’s resolve.
The second half starts like a fuse being lit.
There’s no hesitation, no easing back into rhythm. We come out like a unit with something to prove.
Defense takes the field first, and I can feel it—every guy out here is dialed in. The first play is a stretch run to the right, and I meet the back in the hole so hard my shoulder pads crack against his. He goes down two yards behind the line. Second play, they try to throw a quick slant—our safety jumps the route and nearly picks it. Third down, their QB panics under pressure and sails it out of bounds.
Three and out.
We jog off the field to a roar from our sideline.
Offense takes over, and they don’t miss a beat. The run game is working, short passes are crisp, and the quarterback spreads the ball around like a point guard. Even without Logan, they’re clicking—because now they’refighting for him.
First drive ends in a touchdown. 20–3.
