“I’m fine,” Hickham replied. “Just got game film I could be watching.”

Coach Tucker straightened in his chair. He leaned in closer to be heard over the crowd. “Hell, I know this part ain’t really your thing, Coach. But I’ve been at this school for a long time. I ain’t never seen this town as worked up as they are right now. Just look at ’em. If you can’t take any pleasure from the rally, I hope you can at least take pride in the fact that things had never been as exciting around here till you came along.”

Hickham looked at him.

Coach Tucker grinned, then spat tobacco juice into the Gatorade cup in his lap. “Not to change the subject, Jimmy, but I don’t suppose you know where Logan is, do you?”

Hickham peered down the row to his right. Cole Logan, who wore jersey number 8, should have been the second player in the row after the placekicker. Hickham hadn’t noticed the empty chair until then.

“He wasn’t at roll call?”

Coach Tucker shrugged. “I thought maybe he was in your office watching film. Want me to go make a call or something?”

Hickham shook his head. “Let’s give him a few minutes. When he does show, make sure he comes to see me right after the rally.”

“Will do.”

Bedlam reigned in the gym for the next few minutes. The crowd was treated in quick succession to a cheer from the pom-pom girls, a dance number from the drill team, and a head-pounding performance from the drum line. Things didn’t even begin to settle until the baton twirler started her spotlight solo.

It was toward the end of the twirling routine—the gym still bathed in darkness and wrapped in Brahms’s Lullaby—that an exterior door burst open, piercing the darkness with a shard of white light.

The baton fell hard to the floor. The music stopped. All eyes turned to the silhouette in the doorway. The crowd held its silence as the overhead lights flickered to life and Cole Logan stepped into the gym.

“Sweet Jiminy Jesus,” Coach Tucker whispered.

Hickham came to his feet as his starting quarterback moved across the floor on unsteady legs, a blood-soaked bandanna wrapped around his hand.

Cole offered no acknowledgment to the crowd. He walked up to a slack-jawed Principal Hodges, who still stood at center court. The principal looked Cole up and down, then stepped back to keep his loafers clear of the blood that trickled in steady drops from the glistening bandanna.

Cole told the man he had something to say.

Mr. Hodges blinked out of his trance long enough to say, “Uh…sure thing, Cole.” He raised the microphone. “Well, um . . . ladies and gentleman, I know this man needs no introduc—”

Cole ripped the mike from the principal’s fingers and angled his body toward the team.