Page 120 of Play Fake
She rolls her eyes playfully.
I grin. “All right, I gotta go. I’ll text you after film, okay?”
“Okay,” she says softly. “Have a good day.”
“You too.”
I end the call, still smiling like an idiot at my black screen. Logan smacks my shoulder as we head inside.
“Man,” he says, shaking his head. “You’regone. Didn’t think I’d see the day.”
I elbow him back. “Shut up.”
But his words linger as we file into the dark film room. I slump into my seat, pretending to focus on the footage of last weekend’s game, but my brain is somewhere else entirely.
Foster mom. Adoption. A house that’s secure and safe.
I picture Sophie in that future without meaning to—laughing in the kitchen, braiding some kid’s hair, pulling me into the mix.
I don’t know what my future looks like yet. NFL dreams or becoming a counselor, maybe a high school coach, maybe something else entirely. But sitting here in the dim light, her words replaying in my head, I can’t stop wondering which version of that future Sophie fits into best.
And the answer, if I’m honest, is starting to feel less like a question and more like a certainty.
Coach pauses every other clip to break down missed tackles, misreads, and moments where we could’ve closed gaps faster. My notes are a mess of scribbles and arrows, and by the time the lights flick back on, everyone’s blinking like they’ve been underground.
“All right,” Coach says, clapping his hands together. “That’s it. Harrison, hang back for a sec.”
Logan shoots me a look on his way out—half teasing, halfgood luck—before disappearing down the hall. I sling my backpack over one shoulder and make my way down toward Coach’s desk.
He leans back in his chair, crossing his arms. “You’ve been playing solid ball this season, Harrison. Real solid.”
“Thank you, Coach.”
“I’m serious,” he says, tilting his head. “Your reads have gotten sharper. You’re leading the defense the way I hoped you would when we brought you in. And the scouts noticed last weekend. Had a couple of conversations already.”
I blink, my heart giving a quick, unexpected jump. “Really?”
“Really,” he says, matter-of-fact. “You’ve got good tape. Strong instincts. You’re not the flashiest guy out there, but teams like players who know their role and do it well. Which brings me to this—” He slides a packet across the desk. “Pro Day’s in the spring. I think it’s time you start seriously thinking about declaring.”
I stare at the packet for a second, like it might disappear if I blink.
I’ve thought about this in the vague,somedaykind of way. Growing up the way I did and considering the career paths I could potentially pursue in the future, I never really let myself believe the NFL was anything more than a distant dream. But standing here, sweaty from film, with my name on a packet sitting in front of me? It suddenly feels real.
“I haven’t made a final decision yet,” I admit. “But I’ve been thinking about it.”
Coach nods. “Good. You’ve got the build, the IQ, the discipline. You might not be a top-round pick, but there’s a real shot for you to land somewhere. Get your foot in the door. And once you’re in, you figure it out.”
I run a hand over the back of my neck. “You really think I’ve got a chance?”
“I wouldn’t waste my breath if I didn’t,” he says. “Look, the league’s tough. You know that. It chews up players fast. But you could carve out a few good years for yourself if you keep working like this. Then? Coaching. Grad school. Something else. You’ve got options, Beck. More than you think.”
Options.
I nod slowly, but my brain’s already racing ahead. NFL. Pro Day. Draft. The words feel heavy, like puzzle pieces sliding into place.
For the first time, I can actually picture it—not just being there, but making it work. A few years in the league, maybe more if I’m lucky. Then shifting gears. Building something that lasts.
I exhale slowly, gripping the packet. “All right,” I say. “I’ll think about it. Seriously.”
