Page 139 of Play Fake
The quarterback comes out in shotgun with two backs beside him. They motion one out wide, leaving a single back offset to the left. Run-pass option. I adjust, tapping my chest twice and pointing left to signal the shift.
The snap hits his hands. Hand-off fake. He keeps it, quick slant behind the line. Our corner is there but half a step late. Eight-yard gain.
“All right,” I mutter, resetting my mouthguard. “Let’s play.”
Next snap. Two tight ends, power set. This time it’s the run. I shoot through the B-gap, square my shoulders, and meet the running back head-on. The hit reverberates through my pads, a clean stop at the line of scrimmage. The crowd erupts.
Third and two.
We tighten up. I shift slightly forward, crouched like a coiled spring. The QB barks the count, quick hand-off left. The back tries to bounce outside, but I scrape across, shedding the guard trying to seal me. I wrap him low, twisting. He goes down hard, short of the marker.
Their punt team trots on.
I jog toward the sideline, helmet off, heart pounding in thatgoodway. The defensive coordinator claps my shoulder. “Nice fill, Harrison.”
I nod, eyes tracking as Logan and the offense take the field. He lines up wide left, shoulders loose but focused. First play is a quick out to him—clean catch, solid five yards. He pops up fast, flashing that cocky grin of his.
Second play, he runs a deeper comeback. He plants a little harder than usual, and for a split second, I see it, the wince. Barely there, but I catch it, and it’s happening way sooner than last week.
He still hauls in the pass, though, dragging his toe for a perfect sideline catch. The chain crew moves.
My jaw tightens as I grab some water. He said he’d be fine. Helooksfine. But I’ve played with him long enough to know when something’s off.
Their offense comes out firing this time. No testing the waters—they want momentum. They line up in trips right, running quick hitters to get the ball out before we can pressure the QB. It works for a couple of plays. Short gains, nothing explosive, but enough to march near midfield.
I switch our look on third down, walking up into the A-gap to fake the blitz. The QB flinches at the line, adjusts protection. That’s my cue.
Snap. I drop out of the fake, drifting underneath their slant route. The throw’s quick—but not quick enough. I get a hand up andswatit away midair. The crowd explodes. Fourth down.
They punt again, and I jog to the sideline, chest heaving, adrenaline buzzing under my skin.
Logan lines up wide again. This time, second and long after a stuffed run. He bursts off the line, smooth like always, cuts hard on the post. The QB throws a dart over the middle. Logan skies for it, twisting in the air.
For a heartbeat, everything slows.
The catch istextbook. He tucks it in mid-air and absorbs the hit from the safety crashing down. He lands awkwardly, though—right leg taking the brunt. My gut clenches.
He pops up after a beat, waving off the trainers like nothing happened. The sideline goes wild. First down. Big gain.
But I saw the way he grabbed his thigh for half a second before jogging back to the huddle.
“Damn it, Logan,” I mutter under my breath.
The drive stalls in the red zone, and we settle for a field goal to take the early lead. 3–0.
Back on defense, the other team’s offense tries to get tricky with a reverse on second down, but I stay home, track the motion, and blow it up in the backfield. Loss of five. The hit jars through my whole body, but it’s clean, crisp—one of those hits that reminds you why you love this game.
We force another punt to close out the quarter.
As I jog to the sideline, the scoreboard has us up by three as we end the first quarter.
The sun is finally shining. The crowd is loud. But that storm in my gut? It’s growing.
I don’t quite know if it’s about the game or my nerves about the wedding, but something isn’t sitting right.
Logan’s running like he’s fine. But I know him too well. He’s pushing.
And if he’s not careful, something’s going to give.
