“It just takes one state championship to turn a town around,” Mrs. Malacek whispered.
The dog in Mrs. Mason’s bag eyed the hot dog in the woman’s hand. “And Heaven knows we need it—these stands are liable to rust right out from under us.”
“Has Dylan told you which way the wind is blowing?” Mrs. Malacek asked Joel.
“Well, there’s a storm to the southeast.”
The women showed their teeth when they laughed. Mrs. Malacek said, “You always were too clever for me. His college, silly. We got us a pool going at the teachers’ lounge. I have my money down your brother’s going to pledge to Baylor University. I know he’s a good Baptist boy at heart, even if this mother of yours has started dragging him around with the Methodists.”
Mrs. Malacek and Mrs. Mason went very still. They fixed Joel with stares so fervid he felt a flush creep over his cheeks. He decided to test a theory. “What do you think would happen if Dylan decided he didn’t want to play football in college?”
His mother’s head snapped up from her phone. The two women raised their eyebrows.
“But we love Dylan too much for him to quit,” Mrs. Malacek said brightly.
Mrs. Mason laughed and set Raul the terrier trembling again. “I think this town would kill him if he tried.”
* * *
“Jesus,” Joel said as he and his mother made their way toward their seats, leaving Mrs. Malacek and Mason to make a run on the convenience stand. “Since when did you hang out with the skinny moms?”
“Since they started calling me. Are you saying I weren’t always skinny?”
Joel marveled at the people around him. Here was Mr. Lott, the cartoonish man in the overalls and bow tie who somehow still ran the county’s oldest hardware store, followed by his tall wife and her permanent scowl. Here was the girl who had dropped out of Joel’s class to raise the boy who now trailed behind her with a Nintendo in his face. Joel had thought more people would have left this town. He couldn’t imagine what kept them here.
“How can nothing change in ten years?”
“You mean you didn’t notice on the way in?” Paulette arched an eyebrow. “The old church burned down. It was the talk of the summer.”
A little chill prickled in the back of his scalp. Sure enough, when Joel turned to look down the highway he saw that the electric cross of the Bentley First Baptist Church’s steeple, the white cross that had once burned bright enough to be seen for miles, was gone.
“Then thank God summer’s over.”
His mother gave him a patient look. “I figured you’d see it as an improvement.”
A roll of thunder made the pilings of the metal stands rattle. Paulette pulled two green ponchos from her bag, a bottle of water, a sack of trail mix. They made their way to the front row, where two empty spaces awaited them, not fifteen feet from the sideline.
Joel checked his phone, swiped away emails, saw he’d received a message from his brother. It was a selfie from inside the locker room—Joel would recognize those green cinder blocks anywhere—with Dylan and two other boys grinning in their pads. KILLING IT, the caption read, and nothing more.
“I thought that was you,” said a voice to Joel’s right, and a moment later Joel let out a laugh of surprise. It was Wesley Mores, a man who had been a year older than Joel in school and one of the few football players who had always treated him decently.
The two men embraced. Wesley’s broad back was still stiff with muscle.
“I was wondering if you’d moved back to town,” Joel said.
“Back? I hardly left. I teach science at the junior high.”
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.
“Is that Luke Evers?” Joel asked. Luke and Dylan had once been inseparable.