“Ready for dismount,” said Kimbra Lott, one of the sturdy spotters behind the pyramid who nobody came to see.

“Ready for drop,” said Jasmine Lopez, the second-prettiest girl at the school and Bethany’s dearest friend, standing on the pyramid’s flank.

“Bison herd!” Bethany shouted, but the boys had returned to the field and nobody was paying attention to her anymore. Which was fine. Just fine.

Bethany, Jasmine and Alisha Stinson, the girl to her other side, all raised their linked hands. The girls at Bethany’s feet counted to three and heaved her up as Alisha and Jasmine flung her skyward. For one delirious second Bethany was airborne. All she could see were stars.

When she landed in the interlaced arms behind the pyramid, Bethany felt a fingernail burrow itself into the tender flesh of her knee.

“Sorry,” whispered Kimbra Lott.

Bethany winced at the pain, but blessed the girl by ignoring her. Tonight was too good to spoil on someone as pedestrian as Kimbra Lott.

By the start of the fourth quarter, the Bison were sixteen points up, the wind had grown heavier and battered the visiting team every time they worked up a lick of momentum. Maybe the saying was true, Bethany thought: maybe God really did love football.

When He had a boy like Dylan Whitley playing for Him, how could He not?

Her boy, Dylan Whitley. Hers and nobody else’s.

When the town stormed the field at the end of the game—the Bison had won 35–16—Dylan and Bethany posed for photos for the Bentley Beacon, for the school’s sports blog, for underclassmen’s Instagrams. Dylan’s body was taut and hot and clammy where it pressed against her hip. His fingers behind her back played with the top of her bra.

At Dylan’s signal, he and Bethany kissed deep. She popped one leg up behind her. When the little crowd around them went apeshit, Dylan and Bethany laughed into each other’s mouths.

A troupe of grade schoolers brought out a collection of footballs for Dylan to sign. When a coordinator brought Dylan a towel, he wiped his face and offered it to the crowd with a smile. A girl from the middle school snatched it from his hand, giggling at her own courage.

“Can we have your gloves?” asked a pair of sandy-haired boys with the Bison’s logo lacquered to their cheeks.

The boys’ mother, a dowdy housewife in a T-shirt, looked Dylan over and whispered to Bethany, “Who gets to take home his cup?”

Bethany laughed, thanked the woman for coming. Down the line, she saw the other players and their girls holding court—much smaller court—with Sharpies and selfie sticks.

A rumble of thunder made the field lights tremble as Paulette Whitley and Dylan’s brother arrived. The two boys embraced with far more enthusiasm than was strictly necessary.

Bethany tapped Dylan on the back to remind him he had one more duty to fulfill. Her man eased off his jersey with a chuckle, signed a dry spot on the back, passed it to a portly kid from the Mathletes. Bethany struck the boy’s name off a list in her phone. She assured a pimply college dropout with a baby on her hip that she was absolutely scheduled to receive next week’s jersey.