Hickham looked back at his players and wondered whether school buses were getting smaller, or high school boys were getting bigger. He thought that perhaps his tradition of dressing his team in their home locker room before road games might be doing more harm than good. The players were jammed into the seats like sardines with shoulder pads. But he was pleased to see that they looked calm and focused. Most sat with their heads back, eyes closed. The rest stared into the night through the rain-splattered windows.

Hickham came back around, closed his eyes, and listened to the dull moan of the engine.

“You thinking about Logan?” Coach Tucker asked minutes later.

“No.”

“Bullshit. You’re gnawing the inside of your cheek. You only do that when something’s bothering you.”

“Yeah. Maybe I was thinking about him.”

“You think he’ll show?”

“Doesn’t matter if he shows now or not. The rule stands. He doesn’t make the bus, he doesn’t join the team on the field.”

“Did you really expect him to show?”

“No,” Hickham said. His eyes moved to the window. “Hell, I’m not sure I would have, either.”

Coach Tucker tapped a fist on Hickham’s knee. “Don’t worry about it, Jimmy. I’m sure you did the right thing.”

“Yeah? So you’re the one.”

“Relax. These things have a way of working out. Besides, I think Teddy Smoot is gonna fill in just fine as QB.”

Teddy Smoot vomited into his helmet.

Seated in the back row of the bus, he had been struggling to hold his sickness down since they had pulled out of the high school parking lot. His nerves had finally gotten the best of him.

Shane Butler’s head appeared over the seat in front of him. “Oh, this is perfect!”

“Who farted?” Phil Meeken whispered from a few rows ahead.

“It’s not a fart. The freshman’s back here pukin’ his tits up. This is just what we need. Our quarterback’s scared shitless!”

“You worry about your own self,” Teddy spat. “I’ll be fine.”

“You better be, freshman.”

“Bite me, Butler.”

“Cut out the chatter back there,” Coach Tucker barked from the front seat.

The boys went silent.

Shane Butler turned back around in his seat.

Teddy Smoot threw up again.

Cole popped the clutch and revved the throttle, raising the bike’s front wheel off the pavement as he came out of a tight corner. He rode the wheelie for a quarter mile, came down, and punched the throttle harder. The speedometer needle passed fifty, then sixty.