The prayer was more than called for. Dan spotted Cady Bloom in the rear of the cheerleader formation. Entirely too cute with her blue and gold pom-poms, short pleated skirt, and, well . . . Chesty but not giving it away like White’s Caballeras and Baby Bulls—two competing dance teams of tasseled and sequined cowgirls.

Dan stared at Cady for the long moment he walked past, baffled and crushed as a senior male cheerleader—some redheaded doofus named Embry Martindale—grabbed Cady’s ass and hoisted her into the late-evening Texas sky. Dan took a sip of 7-Up and sucked his teeth in panic. Damn it. I need a plan to get this girl’s attention before some mouth-breathing jock moves in.

The sun in the west was a drop of burning gold that slid nearer and nearer the sill of the world as the national anthem was played. Loos Stadium was underlit; the distant stanchions of floodlights cast shadows on both sides of the field. Dan found his buddies in the nosebleeds where the bleachers met the flightpath for Addison Airport. This was the crew’s go-to hangout spot, where they could judge the action from a sarcastic distance.

“Let’s go Rangers!” Rick yelled in Dan’s face as he came up the steps. “Get jacked up, Malone!”

“I’m totally pumped.” Dan drew an invisible six-shooter, just like the Jesuit mascot, Sam the Ranger, then pressed it against his temple and pulled the trigger.

Rob nodded to Dan’s can in hand. “Whatcha got there?”

“Carbonated lemon-lime soda, Mr. McGhee.”

“I can smell the booze from here. Where’d you get that?” Rob asked while mimicking the cheerleaders’ semaphore routine.

“I grabbed this out of your mama’s fridge.”

“Hilarious, Malone, what’s in there?”

“Nothing.”

Sticky shook his head. “You are a fuckin’ idiot—how did they not catch you with that?”

“I have a system—and I’m not a suspicious criminal like you.”

Stick made a move at Dan to lift him and throw him over the bleachers, but Dan danced away in time.

The Rangers received the kickoff. The sophomores did have one player—one of their own—to root for. For the first time in the forward-pass era Coach Pasqua was starting a sophomore at quarterback. A cheer went up as number 16, Mike Goldenbaum, jogged into the huddle.

Here we go, Rangers, here we go.

First snap. Guard pulled and Holliday burst through the trap before the White linebackers could fill it. Twelve yards and a shoestring tackle by the weak safety.

“Let’s go—run it down their goddamn throats.”

“Same option right. They’re cheating on it.”

And despite that, the sophomore QB took it right, faked the pitch to Holliday in the flat, juked the outside linebacker, and was into the secondary. He crossed midfield in a blink.

“Go, G-bomb! Fuckin’ go!”