At the start of the fourth quarter, the Bisonette cheerleaders piled themselves into an inverted pyramid. From her place in the pyramid’s center, Bethany Tanner—cheerleading captain, blonde darling, Homecoming Queen-to-be—scanned the faces in the stands for her father. If she didn’t see him now, then Bethany might—just might—have a chance of succeeding at the weekend plans for which she’d spent an aeon preparing.
Her father wasn’t here. All the fear floated free of her shoulders as she hit the crowd with her most radiant smile. That smile was a hundred percent genuine. Bethany was a very honest person.
“What’s that sound?” the girls shouted to the packed stands. “What’s that noise? What’s the herd with all my boys?”
The rest of the cheer went great, just great, and by the time it was through, Bethany’s head was so swollen with anticipation she almost missed her cue.
“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.
The portly kid took a few steps away, thinking no one would notice him, and brought the jersey to his nose.
“Y’all should raffle that shit for charity,” said Dylan’s brother, with what was either perplexity or disgust.
“Don’t give them ideas. They’d eat me if they could,” said Dylan. “How was Mexico?”
“Lots of fifty-k.” The boys snickered at some private joke. “You’ll have to come with me next time.”
Bethany cut in to introduce herself, smiling and struggling to conceal how badly Joel Whitley perplexed her. He hardly resembled the boy she’d seen in the scandalous pictures that had caused such a stir around town years ago, the pictures Bethany had sworn to Dylan she’d never seen.
And, the pictures notwithstanding, could anyone really blame Bethany for being surprised to discover that a man with such thick arms as Joel Whitley could have such a faggy voice?
Not that there was anything wrong with that, of course. Bethany was a very modern girl.
She gave Paulette her biggest hug. “Will I be seeing you at the church service this Sunday?” Paulette asked.
“Of course.” Bethany elbowed Dylan in the side. He laughed and squeezed her hip. She said, “At least one of us should be there this weekend.”
“Are you going somewhere?” asked Joel, sounding surprised.
Dylan opened his mouth, hesitated.
Oh, Bethany thought. Joel didn’t know.
“I’m just going for a little fishing trip,” Dylan said after a beat. He hugged his mother without meeting Joel’s eye. “KT’s family got a place in G-town.”
Joel looked confused.
“Galveston,” KT Staler said, stepping over from the sideline with that little sneer he always wore these days. “Down at the coast?”
A flash of lightning broke through the glare of the halogen lights. Thunder followed a moment later, so close Bethany felt the field tremble beneath her feet.
Joel dug his car keys from his pocket, eyed his brother. “I was going to talk to you about something, D.”
“Don’t be out late, sweetheart,” Paulette said, glancing at the sky. “It looks nasty tonight.”
“We’ll be back Sunday,” Dylan told Joel. “I’ll text you in the morning, yeah?”
The brothers embraced again. “Drive safe,” said Joel.
Bethany almost felt bad for him.
When Joel was gone, Jamal said, “He seems chill.”
The four of them started back toward the field house. KT said, “His hair’s gay as fuck.”
“That hair probably cost more than your house,” Dylan said.
“Least my house ain’t gay as fuck.”
“Hey,” Bethany said to KT. “Is Kimbra okay?”
KT said nothing.
Dylan passed Bethany her Sharpie. He patted her ass, murmured, “You ready for tonight?”
Her heart fluttered. She touched her tongue to her lip. “As I’ll ever be.”
They stopped outside the field house. Even after everything this town had put them through, after all of the tumult and tears and baring of the heart, when Bethany felt Dylan focus his full attention on her, when he rested a hand on the small of her back in that easy way of his, she still went warm.
Her boy leaned down close. He parted his lips. Slowly, softly, Dylan slipped into Bethany’s ear the final words he would ever say to her.
“You’re a fucking champion.”