Page 21 of Play Fake
8
BECK
Game day.
My helmet rests at my feet, gleaming under the fluorescent lights of the rowdy locker room. I sit on the bench, taping my wrists slowly, making sure they’re supported, the noise fading into the background.
Logan’s voice cuts through the chaos, louder than the rest. “Defense wins games, boys! Don’t let them forget it!”
The guys around him whoop, banging helmets together. My lips twitch, but I keep my head down, finishing the last strip of tape.
Coach Harding pushes through the door, face carved into that serious game-day scowl he always wears. “Listen up!”
The room instantly snaps to attention.
“They’re fast,” he says, pacing in front of us. “They’ll try to wear you down, keep the tempo high, but they’re not tougher than us. Linebackers”—his eyes sweep to me, sharp, deliberate—“I expect you to control the middle. Nothing gets past you.”
“Yes, sir,” I say, voice even.
A hand claps my shoulder—Logan. “Lock it down, Harrison.”
I nod once, sliding my helmet on. The world narrows to black padding and a metal face mask. My breathing steadies as my heart kicks a little harder.
By the time we line up in the tunnel, the roar of the crowd is already rattling the walls. Students chant, the marching band blasts, the cheer squad shouts over the noise. My pulse thrums in time with the stomp of cleats against concrete.
The announcer booms our names as we take the field, but I don’t pay much attention to it. Not really. I’m already locking onto the other team, their jerseys lined up across the grass like targets.
The game is a grind from the start. Their offense comes out swinging—fast tempo, quick routes, and running backs who dart like they’ve got rockets strapped to their shoes.
But this is my territory.
We adjust. We hit harder. We hold the line.
By halftime, the score’s tight, and the stadium is buzzing with restless energy. Coach huddles us in, voice sharp and cutting through the chaos. “They’re getting desperate. Stay disciplined. Harrison, you call the reads.”
I nod, helmet tucked under my arm, sweat running down my temples. My lungs burn, my muscles ache, but none of that matters. This is where I live—on the edge of exhaustion, where every choice is instinct and training.
When we break from the huddle, I catch a flash of movement near the sideline. The cheer squad lines up at the edge of the field, pom-poms catching the stadium lights. For half a second, my gaze snags on Sophie—smile bright, eyes locked on the crowd as she chants.
I drag my focus back to the field before it can linger. Not the time. Definitely not the place.
The second half is a blur of collisions and calls, whistles slicing through the air. Third quarter, I read the quarterback’seyes before he even sets his feet. He launches the pass over the middle, and I’m already there, leaping high. Fingers close around leather, the ball ripped out of the air.
Interception.
The roar shakes the ground as I tuck the ball and drive forward, jerseys lunging at me. Ten yards. Fifteen. Someone clips my ankle, and I hit the turf hard, the ball still cradled tight.
The sideline erupts. Teammates swarm, pounding my helmet, shouting over the deafening crowd. I hand the ball off, jaw tight, adrenaline burning hot.
Defense doesn’t usually get glory. But right now?
The stadium belongs to us.
Fourth quarter, two minutes left, we’re up by a touchdown. They line up, desperate, no timeouts left. Their quarterback drops back, scanning, but our coverage holds. He tucks the ball, tries to run.
Big mistake.
I close the gap fast, lowering my shoulder. The hit lands solid, driving him into the turf. The ball pops loose. One of the other defensemen scoops it up, sprinting the other way as the whistle screams.
