Page 75 of Play Fake
I laugh, breathless, clapping him on the back. The adrenaline’s still buzzing as we make our way toward the locker room, weaving through the chaos.
Inside, the energy is electric—music blaring, helmets clattering against lockers, the sweet burn of victory everywhere. I yank off my pads, sweat soaking through my undershirt, lungs still heaving from the final drive.
Coach barrels in, his voice cutting over the noise. “That’s how you close out a game! That’s how you protect your house!”
The cheers shake the walls.
For a second, standing there with my teammates, my future doesn’t exist. There’s justthis—the high, the noise, the win.
But then I catch a glimpse of one of our assistant coaches off to the side, phone in hand, murmuring to someone in a suit. Scouts. Always watching.
The reminder hits like a punch. And just like that, the storm in my chest starts to build again.
The locker room slowly shifts from chaos to cleanup. Music still thumps faintly from the corner speaker, but most of the guys have either headed out to meet family or started funneling toward the showers. My pads are already hung, cleats unlaced, the post-game adrenaline ebbing into that familiar bone-deep exhaustion.
The hot water hits my shoulders like a damn blessing. I stand there longer than I probably should, head tipped forward, letting the steam work its way into every tight muscle. There’s a particular kind of tired that comes after a game like this—not just physical, butfull. The kind that makes everything else quiet down.
By the time I towel off and change into sweats, the room’s nearly empty. Logan’s still lingering by his locker, talking animatedly with a couple of the younger guys, but I make a beeline for my bag. My phone’s tucked into the front pocket, screen lighting up the second I grab it.
One notification in particular catches my attention.
Sophie: Good game, Harrison!! Congrats on the win.
A grin pulls at my mouth before I can stop it. It’s small, automatic, the kind that hits somewhere low in my chest instead of just my face. I sink down onto the bench, thumbs hovering over the screen for a second longer than I’d like to admit.
She didn’t have to watch. She didn’t have to text. But she did.
I tap out a reply.
appreciate it, Soph. hope the fancy crowd was impressed.
I shove my phone back into my bag, but the grin doesn’t disappear as fast as I’d like. I’m still pulling on my hoodie when Logan strolls over, eyebrows already raised.
“What’s got you looking like that?” he asks, bumping his shoulder against mine.
“Like what?” I sling my duffel over my back.
He gives me a pointed look as we head toward the exit. “Like you just got drafted and kissed your high school sweetheart under the fireworks. You’re grinning like an idiot, man.”
I roll my eyes. “You’re dramatic.”
“I’m observant,” he fires back, pushing open the door that leads toward the players’ lot. The cool night air hits us, still humming with the remnants of the crowd clearing out. “You check your phone, start smiling, and suddenly Mr. Stoic Linebacker’s got dimples. So…who was it?”
I keep my tone even, but my mouth betrays me with another small tug at the corner. “Sophie texted. That’s all.”
Logan lets out a low whistle. “Ah.Sophie.” He draws her name out like he’s savoring it, grinning when I glare at him. “Didn’t realize we were at the ‘game-day texts’ stage of the fake relationship.”
“Logan.”
“All right, all right,” he says, laughing as we approach my truck. “I’m just saying…looks good on you, man.”
I shake my head, but he’s not wrong—the smile’s still there, stubborn. I tug my hoodie up as if that’ll hide it and toss my bag into the backseat before sliding in.
“Let’s just go,” I mutter.
Logan’s still chuckling as I start the engine. “Uh-huh. Whatever you say, Harrison.”
25
