Page 143 of Play Fake
The next few series blur together. Defense pins them deep again, and I blow up a screen on second down that gets the crowd on their feet. Third quarter bleeds away with us holding them scoreless. Our offense pounds the ball on the ground, eating clock, breaking their will one drive at a time.
It’s controlled, methodical, relentless.
By the fourth quarter, we’re up 27–3. Their sideline looks defeated. Our defense is playing loose now, flying around with that kind of confidence that only comes when you’ve broken your opponent’s rhythm.
Late in the game, I get my shot. Third and long, they drop back, and their QB never sees me looping around the inside. I explode through the line untouched and bury him in the backfield. The hit rattles through my entire body, but it’s clean. The stadium erupts.
I don’t celebrate much, just point toward the tunnel where they took Logan out earlier and tap my chest.
This one’s for him.
We finish the game without giving up another point. Final score: PCU 34–Home 3.
The final whistle blows, and it’s like all the tension in my chest releases at once. Helmets fly off. Guys are hugging, yelling, shoving each other with the kind of post-win energy that comes when you’ve earned it.
But even in the middle of the chaos, my eyes keep drifting toward the tunnel.
Because as good as this win feels, I know the real story of tonight is sitting in a hospital a few miles away.
I strip off my pads and duck into the showers with half the team. The hot water hits like a jolt to my system, washing off grass, sweat, and adrenaline.
I’m not lingering tonight.
I towel off, throw on sweats and a hoodie, sling my duffel over my shoulder, and weave through the crowded hallway. A couple guys call out congrats. Someone asks if I’ve heard about Logan yet. I shake my head. Not yet.
When I burst out into the cool night air, my dad’s truck is already parked by the curb, hazard lights blinking. He leans against the driver’s side door, hands in his jacket pockets, watching for me.
“Hey,” he says as I jog up. “Nice game, kid.”
“Thanks,” I say, tossing my bag into the backseat and climbing in.
As soon as he pulls onto the road, he glances over. “How’s Logan?”
I exhale, dragging a hand through my damp hair. “Haven’t heard anything yet. They took him to the ER before halftime.”
Dad nods slowly, jaw tightening in that quiet, fatherly way that says he understands more than he says. “Rough break.”
“Yeah,” I mutter.
For a moment, neither of us talks. The truck rumbles down the highway, stadium lights fading behind us. My body’s sore, my chest still buzzing from the game—but underneath it all, there’s this restless thrum.
I keep checking my phone, waiting for a text that hasn’t come yet.
Dad clears his throat after a while. “You ready for the wedding weekend?”
I huff out a short laugh. “As ready as I can be.”
He grins sideways. “Bet Sophie’s more ready than you are.”
That gets me to smile, just a little. “Yeah. Probably.”
But even as we drive toward what should be a happy weekend, part of my mind is still stuck on that field, on Logan clutching his knee, the sound of the cart wheels rolling toward the tunnel.
46
SOPHIE
By the time the sun sets over the vineyard, everything looks like a scene straight out of a bridal magazine. Golden light spills over the rows of vines, twinkling string lights stretch from pole to pole, and the soft hum of music floats through the air.
