Page 18 of Play Fake
The box sits right where I left it—plain cardboard, Sharpie scrawled across the front in thick block letters:HARRISON ONLY.
I slide it out carefully, setting it on the counter. Inside, everything is sealed, separate. My own cutting board. My own spatula. Ziploc bags of gluten-free oats, pasta, bread. Supplies I can trust. Supplies that won’t wreck me.
It’s a system I started last spring, when the doctors finally put a name to years of stomach pain, immune flare-ups, and bone-deep exhaustion that I thought was just football wearing me down.
Celiac definitely isn’t the badge of toughness you want to wear as a linebacker. But it’s the only way forward now—clean cooking, zero slip-ups. One crumb of someone else’s toast, and I’m sidelined for days.
I can hear Logan moving around upstairs, probably getting ready for class. He’ll be down in a minute, rolling his eyes when he sees me disinfecting the counter, acting like I’m obsessive.
But he doesn’t get it. None of them really do, even if they try.
This isn’t about preference. It’s about survival. About control in a world where control’s already slipping.
I set my pan on the stove, hand steady, even though my chest is tight. Eggs this morning. Safe. Predictable. No risk of contamination.
It’s not much. But it’s enough.
I’d normally add in some toast, but I don’t have time to let the toaster cool down completely before I could put it away, so this will have to do for now. Thankfully, I’ve already set aside time on Sunday to meal prep for the week. I think getting ahead is honestly the only way forward if I want to keep my performance at the level it needs to be.
Logan stumbles into the kitchen, hair sticking up at odd angles, wearing sweats that look like they’ve seen better days. He makes a beeline for the coffee pot, not even glancing at me before filling a mug to the brim.
“Morning to you too,” I say, leaning against the counter.
He grunts, lifting the mug to his lips like it’s the only thing keeping him alive.
“You good?” I ask, brow raised.
Another grunt. This one lower, more annoyed.
“Solid communication skills as always,” I mutter, stirring my eggs.
Logan finally drops into a chair at the table, one hand rubbing at his temple. “Didn’t sleep. Too much on my mind.”
I don’t push. That’s the thing about guys like us—you wait until someone’s ready to say it, and if they’re not, you let it be.
Instead, I change the subject. “You ready for tomorrow?”
His head lifts, eyes sharpening a little at that. Football always gets through.
“Yeah,” he says, voice rough but more awake now. “We’re gonna kill it.”
I nod, sliding my bowl onto the counter. “Damn right we are.”
For a second, the kitchen is quiet except for the clink of his spoon against the mug and the low crackle of the eggs on the stove. The weight in his shoulders doesn’t vanish, but it eases. Just a little.
I sit down across from him with my bowl, steam curling up between us. Logan’s already halfway through his coffee, staring at the table like it’s personally offended him.
“You got plans Sunday?” I ask, spooning some of the eggs into my mouth.
He shrugs, eyes still on his mug. “Yeah. Probably hanging out with Cam. He’s only back for a bit before he heads out for NBA training camp.”
Cameron. His best friend since forever. I raise a brow. “That involve his little sister too?”
Logan’s head snaps up, glare sharp enough to cut. “Don’t start.”
I hold up a hand, smirking. “Didn’t say anything.”
“You implied.”
