Far to the southeast of town, Luke Evers, the Bison’s muscled running back, loaded two shells into a shotgun. He brought the gun to his shoulder, trained it on the wild expanse of open country behind Coach Parter’s property and shouted “Pull!” The Turner twins released a pair of clay birds. Luke held his breath, cleared his mind of everything but the sights of the gun, waited.
The first bird exploded. The second. The twins cheered. They wore a pair of matching Ray-Ban sunglasses that Luke would never have thought their poor parents could afford.
Tomas Hernandez, the Bison’s pale kicker, took the gun from Luke and socked him on the shoulder. He made a show of wincing. “You’re like hitting a rock.”
“Don’t wear out that arm now,” shouted Coach Parter, ambling down from the house, followed a few steps behind by Garrett Mason and Mitchell Malacek. Bringing up the rear, somehow carrying a large case of Bud Light in both hands while to-go bags from the Egg House dangled on her wrists, was Coach Parter’s wife. Luke struggled to remember her name: Juney? Junelle? Whatever it was, Luke’s father would have pronounced it (and her) to be “low-rent.” Luke thought she was nice.
Mrs. Parter eased the beer onto a spindly little table, unhooked all the food with a wince. “Anything else, dear?” she asked, laying a plump hand on the coach’s shoulder. He dismissed her with a coy squeeze of the thigh.
“Joel Whitley was asking questions at the diner,” Garrett said, and a hush fell over Tomas and the twins. They all took their seats at the table, the metal shedding rust on their fingers like pollen.
Luke accepted a beer from Parter, trying to look as concerned about this news as the other boys. Today was getting stranger and stranger. Luke Evers had few friends on the football team (he had few friends at all, for that matter). Mitchell and Garrett, Tomas and the Turner twins, they had always formed a tight little knot at the heart of the Bison. Luke had often seen them together with Dylan and KT Staler, hanging around after practice in the locker room and laughing with their voices low, disappearing after games, tearing through town at night with their trucks’ mufflers pierced and bellowing. Years ago, the boys had made it very clear to Luke that they had no room for him in their gang.
But now here Luke was, at their invitation, and here they were, kind as country, and Luke was too flattered by their sudden interest in him to acknowledge any misgiving.
Coach Parter took a long pull from his beer. He was a big man, pelted with wiry hair from the chin down but curiously beardless. A faded sailor’s tattoo of an anchor and a cross was sketched over his meaty forearm. He wore a tight watch around which sweat always seemed to pucker.
“We hear we might be needing a new quarterback soon, Mr. Evers,” Parter said.
Luke’s heart stuttered. He sipped the beer and suddenly it was all he could do not to gag. He’d never actually drunk beer before. He’d never had anyone to drink it with.
Luke forced himself to swallow. “Is that right?”
“Did D never tell you?” said Ricky Turner. “You was first pick to be quarterback back in the day.”
“I was what?”
“It’s true.” Mitchell Malacek smiled with those perfect teeth of his. “Dylan only got the spot ’cause the team was desperate for a running back that year and he couldn’t catch for shit. Ain’t that right, Coach?”
Parter nodded. “It is, indeed. I always wondered what would have changed had things gone the other way. If we might not have got us a fatter trophy last year.”
Luke couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Football tryouts in the summer before freshman year had pretty much ended his childhood friendship with Dylan. Luke had wanted to be quarterback more than he had ever wanted anything in his life. Dylan, on the other hand, had never wanted much of anything and somehow always got everything.
And look at them now.
“There’s more to the job than just throwing balls and calling plays, you know,” Tomas said.
“We might need your help with little things here and there sometimes.” Garrett Mason wore no shirt, and in the falling sunlight Luke saw a strange scar on the boy’s pec that he’d never noticed in the locker rooms: a tidy white dash, running just beneath the nipple. “The town might need your help. Do you understand?”
A thick, sudden silence sprang up, broken only by the drone of insects. Luke had no idea what they were talking about.
“Of course,” he replied.
The boys laughed, sounding excited, relieved. Luke laughed as well, though he felt the strangest sensation, like he had just swum into a cold current in a still lake. What exactly had he signed himself up for?
“Very good, Mr. Evers,” Coach said. His lazy smile reappeared. “Now—I believe you boys have work to do.”