Page 140 of Play Fake
45
BECK
The second quarter starts with their offense backed up deep after a perfect coffin-corner punt. The crowd is loud, trying to give them momentum, but we’re locked in.
We huddle tight—pads creaking, breath visible in the cool air. I make the call, a zone blitz disguised in a 4–2 look. We’ve scouted their tendencies all week. They like to hit a quick curl or a delayed screen on these downs.
“Watch the back!” I bark as I shift up into the B-gap.
The snap comes. I blitz on a delayed step, forcing the right guard to commit. Their quarterback tries to check down, but our defensive end reads it perfectly and tips the pass. The ball flutters into no man’s land.
Instinct kicks in. I pivot, eyes locked, andlaunch. The ball brushes my fingertips, and for a split second I think I’ve got my first interception of the season—but it slips through, spinning away like a bar of soap.
“Damn it!” I slam my hands together, helmet rattling as I get up. Our d-line claps my shoulder pads anyway. “You were right there, Harrison!”
Next play, they try to run wide. Bad idea. I scrape laterally and meet the running back two yards deep. The hit echoes across the field, a clean pop that gets the crowd roaring. Third and long.
We switch to nickel coverage. I drop into my zone, reading the quarterback’s eyes. He panics under pressure, sails the ball too high. Punt.
I jog off, heart hammering, adrenaline humming. That missed pick stings, but we forced another three-and-out. The defense is humming.
Logan jogs back onto the field with the offense. He’s moving smooth—too smooth. That’s what worries me. He hides pain behind swagger better than anyone.
First snap of the drive: play-action bomb. Logan streaks down the sideline, defender trailing by a step. Quarterback launches it deep. Logan extends—beautiful over-the-shoulder catch at midfield. The crowd goes nuts.
He pops up quick, chest heaving, but I catch the slight limp as he jogs back to the huddle.
The offense grinds downfield, leaning on quick outs and short runs. When they reach the red zone, Logan lines up slot right, motions across, and runs a shallow drag. The QB hits him in stride. He cuts upfield, takes a hit at the five-yard line, and stays on his feet long enough to fall forward for first and goal.
The next play is a simple run up the gut. Touchdown.
10–0.
The energy on our sideline spikes. Helmet slaps, chest bumps, coaches yelling encouragement. But when Logan jogs back from the end zone, I catch him rubbing his thigh for a half second. Not enough for trainers to notice, but enough for me.
They answer back on the next series with their best drive yet. Their quarterback starts using quick tempo, not giving ustime to substitute. Their running back finds a couple of creases, picking up chunk yardage.
We adjust on the fly—tightening the box, calling out shifts faster. I can feel the rhythm of the game pulsing under my skin, each snap like a drumbeat.
Second and six on our thirty-five. They line up in a stacked twins look. I read the screen before the snap, yelling, “CHECK, CHECK!” and sprinting toward the flat as soon as the QB drops back.
The running back slips out for a swing pass—exactly what I expected. I cut off his angle, wrapping him low. It’s clean, again textbook. Loss of three.
Third and long.
They try to get cute with a delayed slant. I drop underneath again, shadowing the QB’s eyes. He hesitates, double clutches, and our edge rusher buries him. Sack. Fourth down.
Their kicker nails a long field goal. 10–3.
With just under two minutes left in the half, we’re leading, and the offense is in hurry-up mode, trying to tack on another score before the break. I stand on the sideline, helmet tucked under my arm, eyes tracking the formation.
Logan lines up wide left. Second and ten. Midfield.
The QB claps for the snap. Logan explodes off the line, fluid as ever. He sells the vertical route hard, thenplantshis right foot to cut back on a deep comeback.
That’s when it happens.
His cleat sticks. His knee twists at a sickening angle that no body part should bend. There’s a sharppop—the kind of sound that slices through crowd noise like glass breaking.
