I laugh. “Yes, Birdie. He’s playing the left side.”

“Now if they could only fix your protection. You might actually have a fighting chance against Taylor this year!”

“Hey, now! That hurts!” I laugh again.

“A quarterback’s only as good as his protection,” Birdie quotes, carrying the bright pink wheel of tickets out to the car.

Elijah comes out of the guest room in a clean shirt, his hair pulled back into a tight ponytail again. “Is this okay? Do I look nice enough for bingo?” he asks me.

His shoulders strain against the frayed sleeves of his V-neck T-shirt, and I notice a few tiny stains on his khaki pants. My gut hums in protest as my eyes follow the worried lines on his forehead down his freshly shaven cheek. “You look fine.”

“It’s the nicest thing I have with me,” he says, a concerned look settling across his full lips.

“I promise, it’ll be fine. You’ll be sitting down at a table for most of the night, anyway. Help me with this cooler,” I tell him, heaving up one end of the heavy ice chest Birdie has left in the kitchen.

I sit in the back seat in the car while Birdie and Elijah talk about practice all the way to the church. Well, Birdie talks. Elijah nods along in agreement and offers a word or two when he can get them in.

I help Birdie set up the bingo cage on the stage near the lectern while a few of the other football players trickle in. Nate and Bucky help me pull a few tables in a line near the door to sell cards, and Elijah and Camille soon get to work putting chairs out.

I avoid talking to Elijah, even though he’s barely left my side all night. He’s there while I set up the popcorn machine, breathing loudly and not talking. I’m not sure what to say to him. The realization that he really doesn’t remember what happened in the locker room three years ago, or at least that he doesn’t care to talk about it, circles around in my head, and I can’t get past the bright, stinging buzz of it.

Camille’s dad sets up the audio for Birdie, and her mom busies herself with the cash box and the bingo cards and daubers.

I help Professor Robles-Garcia stretch a long white tablecloth over the front table and set it up with the cash box. “You remind me more and more of your father the older you get,” she tells me. My cheeks burn and I look at the floor. I never know how to respond when someone tells me how much I am like him. It makes me feel like I have something to live up to, which makes me feel both proud and anxious. “We should have you and your granny over for dinner soon,” she says.