Page 141 of Play Fake
He goes down immediately. No stumble. No slow fall. Just crumples like the ground gave out underneath him.
The ball sails past, incomplete. The entire stadium falls into an eerie, collective hush.
“Shit,” I breathe, already jogging down the sideline toward the numbers.
Logan’s clutching his right knee, his face contorted, body curled slightly. He doesn’t take his helmet off. Trainers and Coach are sprinting out to him. A couple of their defenders hover nearby, wide-eyed, hands on their helmets.
Around me, the sideline shifts. Players drop to one knee, heads bowed. I sink down with them, helmet resting on my thigh. It’s not superstition. It’s respect.
My heart is pounding against my ribs. I’ve seen injuries before—broken bones, concussions, twisted ankles—but something about the way he went down is wrong. It’s too sudden. Too final.
“Probably just hyperextended it,” one of the defensive ends mutters beside me, voice low, like saying it too loud might make it real.
“Yeah,” another says. “He’s tough. He’ll be fine.”
I want to believe them. God, I do.
But the trainers aren’t letting him up. One is stabilizing his leg. The other is waving to the sideline. Cart.
My stomach drops.
The QB and slot receiver are kneeling near him now, hands on his shoulder pads. Logan shakes his head at the trainers at first, stubborn to the end. They try to help him stand, but as soon as he puts weight on that leg, itbuckles.
He lets out a guttural yell that cuts through me. It’s raw—pain and frustration rolled together.
And just like that, the trainers stop trying. They stabilize his leg again and wait for the cart.
Around me, the sideline is silent. No chatter. No clapping. Just the low hum of the stadium and the faint sound of someone swearing under their breath.
The cart pulls up, and they help him onto it carefully. His jaw is clenched tight, eyes fixed straight ahead, like if he doesn’t look at anyone, it won’t feel real. The crowd rises, applauding as he’s driven off, but it doesn’t feel like a celebration.
It feels like the air’s been sucked out of the place.
I stand slowly, helmet dangling from my hand. A couple of the guys exchange looks—those silent, heavy glances no one wants to say out loud.
“Maybe it’s just a sprain,” one whispers.
“Yeah,” another echoes, too fast.
I don’t say anything.
Because I saw the way his knee twisted.
Because I heard the pop.
Because deep down, a part of me knows this isn’t just a sprain.
The offense finishes out the drive with a field goal to make it 13–3, but no one’s celebrating as we jog into the locker room. Helmets are held low. Shoulder pads bump silently.
And that storm I felt this morning?
It’s here.
The second we step off the field, I’m not thinking about adjustments, scores, or what Coach is about to say. My helmet’s in my hand, and I’m shoving past a couple guys to get to the corner of the locker room where the trainers have Logan propped up on a table.
It’s bad.
His face is pale under the harsh fluorescent lights, jaw clenched so hard the muscle ticks in his cheek. His right leg isbraced already—thick padding, straps, the whole thing. One trainer is wrapping ice, another is on the phone, talking fast.
