Page 73 of Play Fake
“Harrison. My office. Now.”
He’s standing just outside his door, arms crossed, that look on his face that usually means bad news or something big.
I drop my duffel on the bench and follow him in, shutting the door behind me.
“Take a seat,” he says, gesturing to the chair across from his desk.
The office is cramped—file cabinets stacked in the corner, game balls lining the shelves—but the folder on his desk grabs my attention. My name is written across the top in bold black marker.
He doesn’t waste time. “You’ve got people watching you, Beck.”
My brow furrows. “Scouts?”
He nods once, flipping the folder open. “NFL reps. A few teams reached out this week, asking for more game tape. You’ve been on their radar for a while, but after the season you’re putting together, interest is heating up. And if you play the way I know you can tonight, it’s only going to get louder.”
My pulse jumps. Hearing it out loud hits different.
Coach leans forward, forearms on his desk. “Which is why I’m asking—have you made a decision about the draft yet?”
The question lands heavy, even though I knew it was coming.
I stare down at my hands, fingers flexing against my knees. “No,” I say quietly. “Not yet.”
He nods slowly, like he expected that. “I’m not gonna tell you what to do. You’ve got a real shot at the League, but if your head’s split in two places, that’ll show too. This isn’t a decision you can put off forever, Harrison. You need to start thinking—reallythinking—about what you want.”
Not what Dad wants.
Not what everyone assumes.
Me. What I want.
“I know,” I manage.
“Good.” He leans back. “For now, put it aside. Go get ready. Big game tonight.”
“Yes, sir.”
I push to my feet, heart thudding a little too hard as I step back into the hallway. The noise of the locker room swells—music thumping, guys joking, cleats scraping the floor—but it feels distant.
Because suddenly, the future doesn’t feel like some far-off thing. It’s standing right on the other side of tonight.
The moment I push through the locker room doors, the noise hits like a wave. Music’s already blasting from someone’s speaker in the corner—old-school rap mixed with whatever hype playlist Logan’s decided is mandatory this week.
Guys are scattered everywhere—some sitting on benches lacing up cleats, some pacing like caged animals, others laughing loud enough to hurt your ears. The energy is wild, the kind of restless buzz that only happens on game day.
“Look who finally decided to show up,” Logan calls from across the room, grinning as he tosses a roll of tape at my chest. “Thought you were gonna skip out and let the JV squad take your spot.”
I catch the tape one-handed and toss it back. “Yeah, figured I’d give you the spotlight for once.”
He clutches his heart like I’ve mortally wounded him. “Wow. Hurtfulanduntrue.”
A couple of guys nearby laugh, and the tension that’d been sitting in my chest since Coach’s office eases a notch. This part—the noise, the chirping, the ritual—is grounding.
Logan’s halfway through wrapping his wrists when he glances at me. “You good, man? You’ve got that face like you’re about to solve world hunger or something.”
“I’m fine,” I say automatically, peeling off my hoodie and shoving it in my locker.
He raises a brow but doesn’t push, just smirks. “All right, brooding linebacker. Just don’t zone out on the field. I don’t feel like working extra to make up for your ass all night.”
