In the years since Joel had seen him, Wesley had suffered only a gentle retreat at his hairline. He’d gotten his teeth fixed, but now seemed shy about showing them, touching his mouth when Joel’s eye ran over it. He wore a thick wooden cross around his neck.

“Science?” Joel said, his ass clenching when he took his seat on the cold bleacher. “For some reason I thought you majored in art.”

Wesley smiled. “My passion is with the church. I lead the youth ministry at First Baptist.”

Christ—Joel couldn’t escape that place. “I just heard about the fire.”

“There’s a blessing in it somewhere.” Wesley fixed Joel with a smile that seemed to add, If you know what I mean.

Joel didn’t, but before he could say more the marching band launched into the opening bars of “My Herd, My Glory” and the Bison poured out of the field house. Joel rose to his feet with the rest of the town, hardly aware he was moving, and cheered wildly at the sight of his brother jogging out ahead of the others. Even under his pads, Dylan seemed to float an inch above the turf.

The Cougars’ captain accepted the ball from the referee, watched his line assemble. Dylan thumped a pale Latino boy on the back and hustled to the sidelines.

“Tomas Hernandez,” Wesley murmured as the Latino boy headed for the end zone. “He knows how to kick a ball when he feels like it. Your brother caused some consternation when he won the coin toss at the top of the game but deferred the kick until the second half. The Bison’re an offense-heavy team. You’d think he’d want to use the o-line while they’re fresh.”

“Is it something to do with the weather?” Joel eyed the black sky.

“The weather?” Wesley said, and in response a strong wind kicked up from the south.

The whistle. Hernandez, the Bison’s kicker, struck the ball hard and the line sprinted after it. Rattichville’s offense fought a humid gust of storm wind. By the end of four quick downs, Bentley had pushed the visitors to within thirty yards of their own goal line.

Joel felt a novel twist of pride—Dylan had checked the forecast this evening. He smiled at the back of his brother’s helmet. Provided the thunderhead moving into town didn’t do anything erratic, Dylan had just arranged for the Bison to play the second half of the game with the wind at their backs.

Dylan made his way to the field with a chorus of cheers. A shouted play. Dylan clapped, caught the ball and lobbed it long. The wind took hold of the pass and carried it snugly into KT Staler’s bony arms. The boy trotted it into the end zone with a pompous little stomp as the stands let out a roar to rival the thunder.

Through the euphoria that followed, Joel caught sight of one player who seemed unimpressed. The Bison’s muscled running back accepted a squirt of water into his mouth and removed his helmet to wipe his face with the hem of his jersey. He had a stomach so grooved Joel could count his abs from yards away.