Page 159 of Play Fake
He bumps my fist. “Wouldn’t miss this for anything.”
Sloane huffs dramatically. “You’rewelcomefor being the chauffeur, asshole.”
He gives her a look. “No one said youhadto bring me.”
She leans down just enough to smirk. “Cameronandmy dad did. They didn’t want their precious bestie to miss being on the sideline.”
He mutters something and the two of them bicker the rest of the way down the sideline, which, honestly, might be the mostnormalthing about today.
The other team receives to start. Their quarterback’s slick—mobile, smart, likes to extend plays. On the first series, hecompletes a quick slant, but we shut their run down cold on second and third down. On third and five, I fake blitz, drop into the throwing lane, and nearly pick it off. It’s enough to force the punt.
The roar from the home stands is deafening.
Offense capitalizes fast. Short passes, quick routes, chewing up yards until our running back punches it in from the five. 7–0.
Their next drive is more aggressive—no huddle, tempo offense—but our defense matches step for step. I break through on a stunt, hit their QB just as he throws, and force an ugly incompletion. Three-and-out again.
Sophie’s near the fifty with the cheer squad, hair in a braid, cheeks flushed from the cold. I catch her eye between plays, and damn if I’m not the one with the butterflies.
They come out firing in the top of the third. A long kickoff return sets them up in great field position, and within a few plays, they tie it 14–14 with a deep post that threads through tight coverage.
Momentum’s starting to shift.
Their QB starts rolling out more, buying time. I adjust our calls on the field—drop into coverage on a critical third down instead of blitzing, and he hesitates just long enough for our end to take him down from behind. Sack. Crowd erupts again.
Our offense grinds out a 21–14 lead midway through the quarter with a power run that eats up the clock.
Later in the quarter, I read a draw perfectly, slip past the right guard, and meet their QB square in the chest for my second sack of the day. Logan’s yelling himself hoarse from the sideline; Sloane pretends to roll her eyes but adjusts his blanket when she thinks no one’s looking.
They drive inside the ten with five minutes left. First down: stuffed run. Second down: rollout, incomplete. Third down: QB scrambles, I cut him off at the pylon and flip him out of bounds just shy of the end zone.
Fourth down. They go for it.
Snap. Quick slant. I read it, jump into the lane, and deflect the ball. It bounces into our corner’s chest.Interception.
The stadiumerupts. Logan throws both arms up like he’s the one who caught it.
Offense eats the clock, and with less than a minute left, our running back breaks free down the sideline. Touchdown. 28–14.
That’s game.
The final whistle blows, and the stadiumeruptsonce again. Students surge toward the railings, cheerleaders are screaming, helmets fly into the air. It’s chaos—the best kind.
I rip off my helmet, adrenaline still burning hot through my veins. The noise blurs into a wall of sound. Somewhere off to the side, Logan’s laughing, shouting something at Sloane. Coaches are yelling. The band’s blaring the fight song.
And then I see her.
Sophie.
She’s running across the field, braid bouncing against her back, eyes locked on me like I’m the only thing she sees. The second she breaks free from the cluster of cheerleaders, I start moving too.
She launches herself into my arms, and I catch her easily—hands sliding around her waist as I lift her clean off the ground. She wraps her arms around my neck, breathless and laughing, and I spin her once—just once—before kissing her like I’ve been holding it back for too long.
The world disappears.
It’s just her. Her hands fisting the back of my jersey, her legs hooking lightly against my hips for balance, her mouth against mine. Stadium lights blaze overhead, the crowd roars around us, but all I feel is her.
When I finally set her back down, she’s grinning so wide her cheeks are pink from the cold, her fingers still curled in the fabric at my shoulders like she’s not ready to let go. I don’t think I am either.
