Page 167 of Play Fake
This is where I belong. Where I finally becamesomebody.
I wasn’t supposed to be here. Not after growing up in a house where the power got cut every other week, with a mom who cared more about pills than her kid’s next meal. My best friend’s family helped me, but they didn’t save me. Football did.
It gave me a name.
A purpose.
A way out.
And if I play this game right, it’ll give me everything else too — a shot at the league, a shot at a life that doesn’t end where it started.
The scoreboard reads 24–21. One minute, twelve seconds left. Fourth and long.
We need the first down.
“Trips right. Play fake. X post,” Coach’s voice crackles in my helmet.
The route’s mine.
I flex my gloved hands, crouch low, eyes cutting to the defender opposite me — a corner who’s been breathing down my neck all night. He knows I’m getting the ball. I know he knows. Doesn’t matter.
The ball snaps.
Quarterback fakes the handoff, drops back. I take off.
One step inside, bait the corner, then explode upfield. My cleats tear the turf. Every stride is instinct, every motion carved from years of surviving.
I break free for a half-second, just enough.
Quarterback sees it. Launches.
The spiral cuts through the night like a promise.
I leap — arms outstretched, fingers brushing leather — and that’s when it happens.
A hit from the blind side, helmet to hip.
White-hot pain detonates through my leg, and the world tilts. My body twists midair before crashing down hard.
The ball skids loose.
I can’t breathe.
Can’t move.
There’s a split second of silence before the crowd’s gasp swallows the field whole.
“Brooks is down!” the announcer’s voice blares.
Hands grab at me, teammates, trainers, voices blur together.
I try to sit up, but my right leg feels wrong. Heavy. Unresponsive.
“No, no, no…” The words barely make it out.
Beck’s face appears above me, eyes wide. “Don’t move, man. You hear me? Stay down.”
The trainers rush in. Someone cuts my glove off, pressing a hand to my chest.
