Luckily, the sky opens up and Coach can’t continue to rip Julian up one side and down the other in the middle of a Texas gullywasher. We make it into the locker room just seconds after the fat raindrops start to fall from the heavy clouds. I wait for Julian after practice near the football trophy case. Inside, trophies are crammed in so tightly that you can barely see the lettering on most of them. On the back wall of the case are framed team photos taken at the end of each season going all the way back to the late 1970s, when the school was built. I marvel at some of the haircuts back then until my eyes fall onto the pictures from twenty years ago. I lean in close to see if I can find my father in any of the photos. Once I find the right year, spotting him in the crowd is easy. His white-blond hair sticks out, and his wide smile is recognizable to me even through the dusty, smudged glass of the trophy case. I trace the names at the bottom of the picture. E. Vance is standing right next to J. Jackson.

Julian’s father.

I glance back up at the picture.

One blond-haired and one dark brown–haired kid stare back at me. The two boys stand shoulder to shoulder, smiling widely for the photographer. Both the same height. I follow down the line of pictures and find them together for three years in a row, standing side by side. Their senior year, I only find Julian’s father.

“Hey,” I call to Julian when he finally comes out of the locker room, his hand holding onto his ribs. “Come look at these pictures.”

He drops his hand and stands next to me. “Man, look at these haircuts.” He laughs.

“Tell me about it. But look, it’s our dads.” I point to the three pictures of them together. “Did you know they played together?”

“Huh,” Julian says, the laughter in his voice fading. “Look at that.”

“Do you think they were friends?”

“I don’t know,” he says, his palm pressed to the trophy case.

His left hand travels to his ribs again, and his eyebrows pinch in the middle of his forehead. “I never really paid too much attention to these pictures before.”

He stares for a long time at the case and the pictures inside. I wish I had the courage to ask him what he’s thinking.

“Hey, let’s get you home. You look like you’re hurting,” I say instead.

We don’t talk all the way back to Julian’s house. The rain that was falling earlier has slowed to barely a drizzle, and steam rises from the blacktop as we make our way down Main Street.