Page 91 of Play Fake
Her voice is easy to pick out now, high and clear above the cheer squad’s chant, like she’s pouring everything into it. I glance down the sideline, just for a second, and there she is.Ponytail swinging, cheeks flushed, a smile taking up her entire face.
My heart starts pumping a notch higher than normal, but I know it has nothing to do with the game, and everything to do with the pretty blonde whose focus is right on me.
Logan knocks into me, a knowing smirk on his face. Before I have time to say anything, the whistle blows, pulling my thoughts back to the field.
It’s game time.
The first quarter is a grind—three-and-outs on both sides. I read their tight end twice, shutting down their short-yardage attempts. In the second, they start leaning on their run game. Bad idea.
We line up third and four, their running back eyeing the left gap. I adjust my stance, weight balanced forward. The QB snaps, fakes right?—
I’m already moving.
I cut through the B-gap, slip past their guard’s lazy hands, and meet the back two yards behind the line. He goes down hard, the crowd erupting before the whistle even blows.
When I push off him and glance up, Sophie’s on her feet, arms raised, yelling like she’s the only person in the stadium. She catches me looking and beams. I can’t help the small grin that tugs at my mouth before I jog off the field.
The second half is cleaner. We control the tempo, forcing them to throw deep, and I break up a slant on third down that hasLogan chest-bumping me like we just won the Super Bowl. By the fourth quarter, we’re up by two scores, and all that’s left is to shut the door.
Final drive. Thirty seconds. They’re desperate, throwing quick outs to the sideline to stop the clock.
They line up trips right. I shift with the motion, reading the quarterback’s eyes. The snap comes, and he tries to hit his slot receiver on a short post?—
I jump the route.
Helmet to chest. The ball pops loose. Our defense piles on top of it before they can recover. Our ball. Game over.
We win 28–17. The field floods with players and students as the band blares the fight song. Helmets come off, adrenaline surges, and I’m scanning through the blur without meaning to.
Then I see her.
She’s weaving through the crowd toward me, still in her uniform, hair sticking to her forehead from cheering. Her smile is wide, her eyes locked on me like I’m the only one here.
Before I can think, she launches herself forward.
I catch her by the waist, lifting and spinning her once. Her laugh cuts through the noise—bright, breathless—and it hits me dead center. For a heartbeat, it’s not the roar of the crowd I hear. It’s her.
When I set her down, my hands don’t fall away immediately. They stay at her waist, fingers pressed against warm fabric, like they don’t want to let go. Her hands rest lightly on my shoulders, and suddenly the world tilts just a little.
She’s close. Closer than she’s ever been. Her cheeks are flushed, eyes shining, lips parted from laughing.
And then it hits me—sharp, clear, unshakable.
I want to kiss her.
Not just some vague idea of it, butreallykiss her. Feel the curve of her smile against mine, taste the leftover sugar fromwhatever candy she inhaled at halftime, slide my hands up her back and pull her all the way in.
The thought catches me off guard. Hard.
“Nice tackle, Harrison,” she says, still smiling.
“Nice cheering,” I shoot back, trying to sound normal when my pulse is doing anything but.
She rolls her eyes, but her grin lingers. Her squad calls her back toward the tunnel, and she takes a step away. The space between us suddenly feels too wide.
I watch her jog off, chest buzzing in a way that has nothing to do with the game—and everything to do with the fact that, for one wild second, I wanted to close that space and feel her lips against mine.
I take the stairs two at a time, throwing a hat over my still damp hair, the low thump of bass getting louder with each step. The house is packed—shoulder-to-shoulder in the living room, kitchen overflowing, someone already trying to crowd surf in the hallway. Typical night after a win.
