Page 168 of Play Fake
“You with me, Logan?”
I nod. At least, I think I do.
The lights blur overhead. My knee’s throbbing, swelling under the brace. Every pulse feels like fire.
I’ve taken hits before. Broken fingers, dislocated shoulder, cracked ribs; I’ve played through all of it. But this… this feels different.
They call for the cart.
The crowd starts chanting my name, but it sounds wrong, like it’s echoing for someone else.
Coach Harding crouches beside me, voice rough. “Hang in there, son. We’ve got you.”
The wordsonalmost undoes me. Nobody’s called me that in ten years.
They lift me onto the board. The movement sends another bolt of pain through me, stealing what little breath I have left.
The cart rolls forward. The stadium slides past; lights, noise, faces blurring together. I’ve dreamed of being carried off this field, but not like this.
Not like this.
My chest tightens. I blink up at the sky; cold, endless, merciless.
If this is it… if this is the last time I wear this uniform…
Then everything I fought for, every ounce of pain, every night I went hungry just to make it here, ends under these lights.
The crowd claps as they drive me through the tunnel, the crowd fading behind us.
And for the first time in my life, I have no idea what comes next.
