Page 8 of Play Fake
Another snap. This time, it’s play-action. I don’t bite. Drop back into coverage, shadowing the tight end as he breaks across the middle. He cuts hard inside, and I stick with him, shoulder-to-shoulder until the ball’s in the air. One step, one reach, and my hand bats it clean away.
Whistle.
I hear a couple claps from my teammates as we reset. I don’t grin, don’t celebrate. I just nod once, reset my mouthpiece, and line back up.
That’s the job. Anticipate. Hit. Reset.
No distractions. No feelings. Just the game.
The next few plays blur together in a rhythm I know better than anything. Read, react, collide. Drop back in coverage, explode into the line, fill the gap before it opens. Linebacker work isn’t about glory. It’s about seeing what no one else sees and closing it before it matters.
By the time Coach blows his final whistle, my jersey is soaked, and my lungs burn in the best way. I yank my helmet off, sweat dripping down my temples, and drag in a breath of sharp, cool air. This—this is the only thing that makes sense. The only thing that doesn’t leave room for second-guessing.
“Wrap it up!” Coach yells. “Film tomorrow. Hydrate and don’t be late.”
We jog off the field, cleats biting into the turf, pads clacking as helmets knock together in a tired sort of celebration. The chatter is easy—guys ribbing each other about missed assignments, a freshman bragging about a hit that wasn’t nearly as clean as he thinks. I let it wash over me without joining in.
The locker room is loud again, steam already clouding the showers, music bouncing from someone’s speaker. I peel off my gear, dump it into the bin, and step under the spray. The water hits hot, pounding against sore muscles. For a minute, I just stand there, letting it scald me clean.
This part is supposed to be simple too. A shower, a change, a night out with the guys.
“Yo, Harrison.” One of the linebackers—Rico, a sophomore with too much energy—pokes his head around the row of lockers. “We’re hitting O’Malley’s later. You in?”
Another voice chimes in. “C’mon, man. First weekend back. Don’t be lame.”
I shake my head, scrubbing water through my hair. “Not tonight.”
There’s a chorus of groans, a few good-natured insults. They’ll go without me. They always do. I’ve earned enough respect from my teammates that no one presses too hard.
But when the noise fades and the water runs hotter, my stomach twists.
Celiac.
The word still feels foreign, like it doesn’t belong to me. But the diagnosis was clear. Years of stomach issues, getting sick after meals, the colds that lingered too long, the energy that never stayed consistent—it all had a name now, something to blame.
I lean a hand against the slick tile, shutting my eyes against the sting that has nothing to do with the water.
Gluten-free. No more late-night pizza. No beers at the bar after practice. Every bite from here on out has to be checked, double-checked, sometimes even triple-checked. One mistake, and I’m wrecked for days.
Did you know that even some tooth paste has gluten? And shampoo? I didn’t either, but it’s true. Don’t even get me started on the limited beer selections. Any party I attend, my cups now consist of water or another safe option, normally courtesy of my good friend Jack.
It shouldn’t scare me this much, but it does. Because this body is my shot, my future. If I can’t trust it, what else do I have?
I stay under the spray until the voices fade, until I know the guys have moved on, talking about shots and wings and girls. Until I can pull myself together again.
When I finally shut off the water, all I let myself think is one thing, the only thing that matters.
My future.
Only, right now, I don’t quite know what that looks like.
The locker room empties out, one by one. I change fast, tug on a hoodie and jeans, then slip out before anyone else can corner me about tonight. My keys jingle in my hand, the sound sharp in the quiet corridor.
The night air is cool, carrying the faint tang of cut grass from the practice field. I make my way across the lot to my truck, climbing in and shutting the door behind me like I’m sealing off the rest of the world.
The engine rumbles to life, but my head isn’t clear at all.
The highway stretch between campus and my house is short, familiar. Trees blur past in the dark, headlights sweeping across old fences and quiet sidewalks. My hands grip the wheel tighter than they need to, like maybe if I hold on hard enough, the questions spinning in my head will settle.
