Page 123 of Play Fake
And judging by the stupid smile I’m left standing there with, she’s right.
It’s game day—second week of November—and the air has that sharp, almost-winter bite that makes every breath feel clean. We’ve got a bye week coming up, then an away game next Friday. Having a game the day after Thanksgiving should be illegal. Plus, I’ll have to haul ass back to campus, just to leave again so I don’t miss Sophie’s sister’s wedding.
Yeah. Wedding.
We still need to find time to get a tux for me, which is a little surreal if I think about it too long. A few months ago, Sophie and I weren’t even together. Now, I’m showing up as her plus-one at a family wedding.
The thought makes something warm settle low in my chest.
The stadium’s already buzzing when we jog out for warmups. Students in purple and gray fill the stands, bundled up against the chill. The marching band’s tuning up behind the end zone. I scan the cheer line without even meaning to and my eyes find her immediately.
Sophie’s in uniform, white bow catching the sunlight, laughing with Ava as they stretch. When she notices me looking, she gives a little wave.
It hits me like it always does: a sharp kick of adrenaline, and I can’t help the grin that takes over my face even if I wanted to.
Logan jogs up beside me, rolling his eyes. “You’re not subtle, man.”
“Never claimed to be,” I shoot back.
He drops down to stretch, and that’s when I catch it—a quick wince as he leans into a hamstring stretch. It’s subtle, but I know him too well to miss it.
“You good?” I ask, crouching beside him.
He exhales through his nose, like he’s annoyed I even noticed. “Yeah. Just tweaked something in practice yesterday. It’s fine.”
“Fine,” I repeat, raising a brow.
He gives me that stubborn look. “Beck, I’m serious. It’s sore, but I can play through it. Ihaveto play through it.”
I rest my elbows on my knees. “Logan—missing one game might be better than risking a bigger injury. You push too hard and blow something, that’s not a game you’re missing. That’s the season. Maybe more.”
His jaw clenches. “And if I sit, I lose reps. I lose tape. I don’t get noticed. You know how many guys are fighting for spots? Hundreds. Thousands. If I don’t put up the yards this season, I don’t have a shot. I don’t have…anything else lined up. Football’s it for me. It’s all I’ve got.”
I know he’s not exaggerating. Logan doesn’t have a backup plan. No coaching aspirations, no grad school in his back pocket. His whole life has been funneled toward this one shot.
“I get it,” I say quietly. “I do. And if you’re playing, I’ve got your back. Just play smart. Don’t make it worse trying to be a hero.”
He smirks faintly. “When did you get so wise?”
“Someone’s gotta keep you out of trouble,” I reply.
“Good luck with that.” He laughs and shakes his head, but I can see the tension still sitting in his shoulders as he stands. The kind that says he’s already made up his mind, no matter what I say.
The whistle blows, signaling the start of team warmups. As we jog toward the line, I glance once more at Logan. His grin isin place, swagger intact, but now that I’ve seen it, I can’t unsee the slight hitch when he pushes off.
And as much as I trust him to play through pain, part of me can’t shake the thought that this could go either way today.
When opening kickoff sails into the air, the stadium erupts as our special teams sprint downfield. That familiar game-day buzz hums under my skin, loud, sharp, and electric.
Their offense starts fast. No-huddle tempo, trying to gas us early. We line up, helmets clacking, breath fogging in the cold. I call out the check, shifting the front seven just before the snap.
The ball’s handed off up the middle, textbook read. I fill the gap and meet their running back head-on, wrapping him up and driving him backward. The collision vibrates through my pads and into my bones. The crowd roars.
Second and eight.
They try a quick screen next. Our corner reads it too slowly, so I fly across the flat, clipping the receiver low and stopping him for a short gain. Third down. Their QB gets jittery, forcing a throw into tight coverage. Incomplete. Punt team jogs out.
As I jog to the sideline, Logan trots out with the offense, shaking out his shoulders like he’s trying to loosen something that won’t quite go away. First snap, he runs a shallow cross, catches the ball in stride, and breaks two tackles for a big gain. The crowd explodes.
