Page 74 of Play Fake
I chuckle under my breath, tugging on my compression shirt. “Yeah, because I’m the liability here.”
“That’s what I’m saying,” he fires back, grin widening.
Around us, helmets start clicking into place, pads thump against benches, and the air shifts. It’s subtle—banter giving way to focus, laughter tightening into something sharper. Game mode.
I tape my wrists slowly, methodically, letting the routine settle my thoughts. Every sound becomes part of the rhythm—the music, the clatter, the murmured prayers from the corner.
When I glance up, Logan’s already got his helmet tucked under his arm, bouncing on the balls of his feet like a boxer itching to get into the ring. He catches my eye and grins. “Let’s go make some noise, Harrison.”
“Yeah,” I say, the weight of everything else sliding into the background where it belongs. “Let’s do it.”
The cool evening air hits like a jolt the second we step out of the locker room. The stadium lights blaze against the darkening sky, washing the field in that sharp, almost electric glow. The stands are already filling—students in Storm purple and gray, waving flags, faces painted, the drumline pounding out a rhythm that vibrates straight through my chest.
Warm-ups are second nature. Jogging the perimeter with the defense, shoulder rolls, high knees, quick cuts downthe sideline to wake up my legs. My cleats bite into the turf with each stride, grounding me. For a few minutes, it’s just movement—clean, focused, no thoughts about drafts or scouts or the future hovering over my shoulder.
I catch Logan’s eye across the field. He gives me a quick chin lift and a grin that says,let’s go to war.
By the time we’re lined up in the tunnel, helmets on, the noise from the stands has built to a roar. The sunset’s just giving way to night, streaks of orange fading behind the bleachers as the lights take over completely. This is the part I love—the thrum under your skin, the shared heartbeat of the team waiting for that first break through the smoke.
Coach’s voice booms behind us. “Let’s set the tone early. Storm on three. One, two?—”
“STORM!”
The smoke machine hisses. The crowd surges. And then we’re running—bursting out of the tunnel, pounding down the field as fireworks crack overhead. The sound swallows everything.
Kickoff happens fast. We defer, so defense goes out first. My heartbeat steadies the second I step onto the turf, helmet snug, chinstrap locked. The opposing offense lines up. I shift my weight, eyes scanning their formation, blocking out the roar of the crowd.
First snap—run play. I read it before the handoff even finishes, slipping between the guard and tackle, meeting the running back head-on for a clean stop at the line. The impact reverberates down my arms, sharp and satisfying.
Second snap—play action. They try to dump it short over the middle. I drop back just enough to get a hand on the receiver’s hip, driving him into the turf before he can turn upfield. Third and long.
Logan smacks my helmet as we reset. “Atta boy, Harrison. You’re locked in.”
Yeah. I am. For now, it’s just the game.
The first quarter blurs into controlled chaos—hits, whistles, the thud of bodies meeting in the trenches. By halftime, we’re up by a touchdown, and the adrenaline hasn’t let go.
As we jog toward the tunnel, I glance briefly across the field. No Sophie on the sidelines tonight, but the thought surprises me by slipping in anyway. I push it down quickly, following the team inside for adjustments.
There’s still another half to finish.
The third quarter kicks off, and we set the tone fast. First drive, they try to stretch us wide on an outside zone. I read the blocking scheme clean, cut inside, and drop their tailback for a two-yard loss. The crowd roars, the band fires up, and the adrenaline spikes in my veins like a live wire.
We rotate through coverage and blitz packages seamlessly, Logan shouting calls like he’s got a bullhorn in his chest. Everything clicks—the kind of night where every hit lands right, every read is sharp.
Late in the third, they’re driving deep in our territory. Third and goal. Quarterback rolls out right. I follow, closing the gap fast. He hesitates—bad move. I plant and explode, wrapping him up clean for a sack that sends the stadium into chaos.
Logan’s the first to reach me, smacking the back of my helmet. “Let’sgo, Harrison!”
The offense feeds off the energy. Two possessions later, they punch in another score. Up by ten.
By the fourth quarter, it’s all about discipline. No hero plays. Just execution. They push hard in the final two minutes, no huddle, down the field quick. But with thirty seconds left and no timeouts, it comes down to one final play—fourth and five near midfield.
They line up trips right. My heart thrums. Ball snaps. The QB looks short, then tries to dump a slant over the middle. I break on it like I’ve seen it a hundred times, drive through the receiver, and knock the ball loose before he can secure it. Turnover on downs.
Game.
The whistle blows and the field erupts. Students pour over the railings, storming the turf in a wave of purple and gray. Helmets are flying off, guys are shouting, hugging, jumping like kids. Logan grabs me by the shoulders, shaking me hard. “You’re a damn monster tonight!”
