Nash nods with a proud grin, shrugging to himself. “I’m thorough, if nothing else.”

Harley looks down at the glass in his hand, taking a moment, and I glance from him to Nash, and back again, my eyes pricking with tears. “My father never made it to that game,” he continues. “When he realized all his liquor was gone he smashed up most of the house and went to the bar instead of coming to the high school stadium. And I played one of the greatest games of my entire football career that night. And I can confidently say that it’s because of this man right here.” He indicates Nash with a wave of his hand. “Without him, I might never have got my scholarship to State. All my dreams came true that night, because of him.”

Nash smiles tightly, but then his eyes find mine, a look within them so full of meaning, despite his failing smile. You see, I know the truth about what really happened that night. What happened is a secret Nash and I will take to our graves. To everyone else, Nash’s bruises were a result of him falling off his bike in the woods, through the shortcut from his house to Harley’s. Nash never told Harley the truth about that night, because he didn’t want him to feel responsible for his best friend receiving the beating of his life just for helping him. But I know firsthand what happened, and to this day it still breaks my heart.

In a town like Graceville, Georgia, Friday nights were for football games, noisemakers, giant foam fingers, and not a lot else. But for me, Friday nights were for pajamas, Eighties teen movies and way too much ice cream. I didn’t care for football. Even if Harley Shaw was QB1. I’d rather stick gum in my hair and spend all night trying to get it out, than sit in the high school football stadium surrounded by overzealous fans waving clappers in the air every time some footballer did something not even remotely exciting.

I was halfway through my all-time favorite movie when my cell phone chimed from my night stand, alerting me to a new text message. Curious as to who the hell was messaging me on a Friday night when everyone I knew was at the game, I blindly reached out and picked up my phone.

Nash: Can you please come here?

My brow furrowed in confusion.

To the game? I replied, my face already scrunching up at the sheer thought.

Nash: No, to my house.

I looked up, craning my neck to see out through my window. The street was cast in darkness, and the big elm tree in our front yard was in need of a trim, so I couldn’t see all the way to Nash’s house. But, immediately, my heart began racing in panic because I knew something must be wrong for him not to be at the game watching his best friend play such an important game. I jumped up, shoving my feet into my Converse and, without even stopping to second-guess myself, I hurried as fast as I could.