Forty-five seconds, the Bison’s last down and the goal was miles away. Luke breathed, thumped his chest to keep his heart beating, looked at the faces of the boys assembled around him. What would Dylan do at this moment? He would make a call that Luke would challenge him on, would get in his face about. And what would Dylan do then? He would stick to the call. He would stick to the call and probably be right.

One fucking goal, Luke prayed. Just give me one fucking goal.

The clock ticked down. Luke called “Blue Cherry Forty-Three,” and prayed the boys remembered the twist on the play the number represented. Judging by the incredulous looks on his teammates’ faces he was being optimistic.

The Stallions certainly remembered the call from last time. They looked thrilled at the chance to stonewall the Bison again on the last play of the game.

The crowd went quiet as Luke bent low. “Forty-three!” he shouted again, clapped his hands, caught the snap.

Roy Birch angled for a fake position but the Stallions were smart, remembered that Birch had been bait last time and ignored him. Mitchell Malacek was knocked to his feet before he could even arrive for the play’s fake handoff. Whiskey was in the grass, the other offensive tackles were falling and Luke felt the Stallion with the shark’s smile bearing down on him—sprinting hard, his cleats slicking over the grass—now.

There, past the scrum, by a pure miracle, Ricky Turner had made it nearly to the goal line, just as Luke had prayed he would. Ricky, running like a man possessed, a backfield safety flying his way, raised a single hand. It would have to do.

Luke lobbed the ball, high and hard, and then he was on the ground, gasping for air. The Stallion had landed on top of him, the grills of their helmets clacked together, the other boy’s cup pressed hard against Luke’s thigh. Their eyes locked as the Stallion started to rise, but instead—instead—he let a hand linger on Luke’s shoulder.

The moment passed. The crowd was screaming like a bomb had gone off. Luke knew from the mania in their voices which team they were cheering for. The Stallion tackle grimaced and spat and hauled himself up. He left Luke lying dazed in the grass as the entire town of Bentley rushed the field.

BETHANY

Bethany wove her way through the wilding crowd. She didn’t hesitate, didn’t look over her shoulder, didn’t stop when she reached the little gap between the stands and the south end zone fence that was just—just—wide enough to squeeze through.

Bethany had seen something remarkable in the minutes before halftime. As the Bison had done their best to press through the last few yards to the Stallions’ goal, Bethany and the other girls had kicked and cheered “WE GOT GAME, YES WE DO” and Bethany had waved her pom-poms and smiled till she thought it would break her goddamn face and felt a knot of rage and grief tighten inside her.