‘Wow, cowboy.’ Jordan nods in approval. ‘Bare minimum. May’s horse’s name.’

‘Uh … Rocky?’

‘Okay!’ Jordan taps her lacrosse stick against her palm with a grin. ‘I see you. You got chops. If May could eat only one food for the rest of her life?’

Damn it. I gulp, trying to call back something – anything – from high school. Or even now, honestly. I’d take it. In the end, I come out with, ‘She doesn’t like pasta, does she?’

‘Ugh, Big Time!’ groans Jordan. She throws her hands up in despondency. ‘You were on a roll! And you know the way to a woman’s heart is through her stomach, don’t you? What if she asks you to grab a plate from the buffet? What’re you going to get her? Repeat after me, champ. Nashville hot chicken.’

This monstrosity of a trivia match goes on for another thirty minutes before Jordan finally clicks to a slide of the entire team, leading to a large-font THANK YOU. ‘You did good,’ she says sternly. ‘Hope you took some notes. But you did good.’

‘Thanks.’ I shoot her a grateful smile. Then, I wonder, maybe I could get some context on May’s last year from Jordan. Not reasons. Just context. ‘Jordan … could I ask … everyone seems to mention May’s bad last season. Off-seasons happen, though. It’s not something horrible … right?’

‘You gotta ask May about that, you know.’

I raise an eyebrow. ‘Is it something I should know?’

‘Well, I think part of the reason she can’t stand the sight of you is because if you’d stayed in Oklahoma …’ Jordan shrugs, her expression one of slight pity. ‘It would one hundred per cent be something you would know.’

But you didn’t stay. The words she doesn’t say are louder than the ones she does.

Savannah slides the breadbasket my way, crossing her eyes. ‘All that’s left is wholegrain, dingus.’

‘Thanks,’ I grumble, but I still take a roll from the basket. It’s fresh, still warm. Wholegrain be damned, I’ll take one of my mom’s homemade rolls in any form. Sav can have her all-purpose flour.

Ma, happy and content with my healthy choice, shoots me a smile. That’s definitely not all she’s keen on, though, and it’s certainly not all Pop’s keen on, judging from how glowing and excited they’ve been since the game. They know as much as the rest of the town – the rest of the state, possibly – and are riding a wave of satisfaction because of it.

‘How’s May?’ asks Ma, setting the salad bowl down on the table as Pop comes in with the steak. How they put this stuff together every night after Ma’s full day of teaching and Pop’s twelve-hour days performing trauma surgery at the hospital, I’ll never know.