The man looked panicked. He shouted, “The girl! She’s bleeding bad.”

“What? Who?”

“Kimbra! Hurry, please, she’s—”

But Joel was already running, fueled by a sudden swell of guilt and shame. He’d put her in danger, just as he’d feared.

Out on the quiet street, there was only a soft thump when Joel was struck on the back of the head. Another thump when he hit the ground. The boards of the storefronts rattled and squeaked when the ground shifted, when something beneath them rose a little closer to the surface, let out a rumble of what just might have been satisfaction at these fresh drops of blood, at this sudden splash of fear.

And then silence again.

LUKE

Luke had never heard anything so loud. The drums rattled the lights of the field house. The roar of the crowd floated, trapped, in his open locker like the ocean in a shell. His ears still rang from the screams that had gone up when he’d correctly called heads at the coin toss. All of last night’s misgivings had left him when that coin had slapped the ref’s palm. Luke could see the future: glory, state championships, his face tagged in other people’s Instagram feeds. Friends.

The hip-hop on the field house’s soundbar was cranked down. Coach Wesford and Coach Ruiz shouted their speeches, and now big Coach Parter stood in the center of a ring of boys and said, “I ain’t a man to tell you what Jesus wants. I’m a man to tell you what I want and what I want is for you to take these goddamn Stallions to the grass and keep them in the grass.”

“Yes, sir!”

“Put ’em in the fucking hospital!”

“Yes, sir!”

All eyes on Parter, wide pupils, Adderall and Oxy, their hands squeezed in their gloves, black paint dulling their cheeks.

“Because this is the only goddamn game you’ve got. You ain’t got school—school we’ll take care of. A job? That’s later. You boys, all you boys have is this.”

The boys piled out of the field house and corralled beneath the goal. The Bisonettes, stacked atop each other’s shoulders, had formed a wall to conceal them. Two pairs of girls—Bethany and Alisha, Jasmine and April (where, Luke wondered, was Kimbra Lott?)—held up the wide swathe of painted paper the team would tear through. A tall ghostly Bison was all that stood between them and the field.

The marching band caught someone’s signal. A moment later everyone in the Bentley stands was singing.

“My herd, my glory; my autumn years, my rightful story.”

And suddenly all forty Bison were staring at him. Staring at Luke. Of course. Somehow, without realizing it, Luke had been brought right to the front edge of their scrum, just where Dylan had always stood. And what would Dylan say now?

Dylan would say, What are you doing, Luke?

Garrett nodded to him. Mitchell. Tomas. The Turner twins. His boys. His brothers.

“Don’t fuck up!” Luke shouted.

“Hallelujah!” the Bison shouted back.