Page 157 of Play Fake
Logan huffs a weak laugh, shaking his head slowly. “Good to know you’re still an ass, Hayes.”
“Consistency’s key,” Carter fires back without missing a beat.
The levity in the room settles some of the weight in the air. Even Coach cracks a faint smile, leaning back in his chair.
There’s a soft knock, and then the orthopedic surgeon steps in, flipping through Logan’s chart. She looks around at the collection of large football players filling the space. “Quite the audience,” she says mildly.
The doctor glances at Logan. “Do you want them to step out?”
Logan shifts on the bed, his gaze sweeping over us—me, Jaxon, Carter, Coach—and he shakes his head slowly. “Nah. They can stay.”
The doctor nods once and sets the chart down at the foot of the bed. “All right. I’ll be honest with you, Logan. The damage was significant. It looks like there were micro tears in the ACL and MCL before the full tear happened Friday. That’s likely why the injury looked so bad on the field—it wasn’t just one tear. It was multiple structures failing at once.”
The air in the room tightens.
Logan swallows, eyes fixed on her. “And?”
She folds her hands, her tone blunt but not unkind. “We repaired everything successfully. ACL, MCL, meniscus. The good news is, you’re young and in excellent shape. That gives you an edge. But this will be a long rehab—nine to twelve months, minimum. Maybe more. There’s no guarantee you’ll get back to full playing strength, but it’s possible with commitment and patience. No shortcuts.”
No one says anything for a beat.
Logan’s jaw clenches. Even groggy, I can see the moment the reality hits him like a linebacker. This isn’t just a few missed games. It’s a year, maybe more, and potentially his chances of playing in the NFL.
Carter shifts against the wall, the smirk fading into something more serious. Jaxon leans forward slightly, elbows on his knees. Coach stays quiet, but takes off his hat, running ahand over his balding head before putting it back on, his tell tale sign of stress and nerves.
Logan finally nods once, his voice rough. “Okay. Tell me what I need to do.”
The doctor’s expression softens slightly. “That attitude will help you. We’ll get physical therapy started as soon as you’re cleared to move. The first few weeks are about range of motion and controlling swelling. It’s not glamorous, but it’s very important.”
She goes over a few more instructions, checking his brace and explaining post-op care before heading out.
The silence she leaves behind is heavier than before.
Carter lets out a low whistle. “Damn, man. You’ve got a mountain ahead of you.”
Logan exhales slowly, staring at the ceiling. “Yeah. I know.”
Jaxon leans over and gives his shoulder a squeeze. “Good thing you’ve got a team that doesn’t go anywhere.”
Logan’s gaze flicks to each of us. There’s fear in his eyes, but something else, too. Determination.
I pull my chair closer. “We’ve got you,” I say quietly.
As the room falls into silence again, I glance at Logan. He’s quiet, but there’s a new kind of steel in his eyes. He knows what’s ahead, it’s brutal, but he’s already squaring his shoulders against it.
And as I look around at the people in the room, Coach, Carter, Jaxon, I realize he’s not the only one who’s ready. We all are.
I’ve faced down roaring stadiums packed with tens of thousands of people. I’ve stood on the goal line, helmet in hand, secondsticking down, the entire game balanced on whether I can make the right call.
None of that compares to the weird, crawling nerves currently running up my spine as I stand at the front of a classroom with Sophie.
It’s not even a big class. It’s finals week, so the only people here are our professor and three faculty members sitting at a long table, notebooks open, pens ready. No stadium. No crowd. Just a small room, too-quiet air, and the weight of months of work.
Sophie clicks to the first slide, her confidence effortless. “Good morning. I’m Sophie Prescott, and this is Beck Harrison. Today, we’ll be presenting our research project on the clinical presentation and diagnostic process for schizophrenia, along with the long-term realities faced by patients and their families.”
Her voice sounds calm and collected as she continues, just like it always does.
I glance at her as she talks through the opening framework, and some of the tension in my shoulders eases. We’ve practiced this. We know our material inside and out.
