KIMBRA
Her head ached where she’d been struck; her back had gone numb from lying on the stockroom’s concrete floor. She heard a knock on the back door of the hardware store. She flexed her shoulders, stretched her arms and legs, but it was no good: she was tied up tighter than a roast.
The door opened. Garrett Mason spoke from outside. “They said you needed me. I got here as quick as I could.”
The other man said, “About time. Go get your truck.”
There was a low moan from somewhere to her left.
“Fuck,” Garrett said. “He don’t look right.”
“You’ve seen worse.”
A minute later Kimbra heard the sound of the truck rumbling down the alleyway.
“...folks, we’re only ten minutes into the second half and it’s already hard to tell if this little Garcia boy is either brave or crazy,” Buddy Laurie said from a crackling radio. “But he’s throwing himself at these Perlin tackles like a dog at a bone.”
“Christ, that’s a tight fit,” said Garrett, stepping back inside.
“Grab his legs.”
There was a rattling as someone was lifted off the ground. “He’s heavier than his brother,” Garrett said as he and the other man shuffled awkwardly to the door. A few minutes later they came back for her.
It was terrifying, of course, but being carried by her wrists and ankles didn’t hurt as bad as she’d thought it would. Kimbra told herself that this was practically like tumbling practice. When they heaved her into the cold bed of the truck the zipper of her singlet dug into her spine.
“Grab that tarp.”
“Is that a box of five-five-six?” Garrett said.
A pause. “Grab a couple of them too.”
Kimbra heard a soft rattling noise that could only come from one thing: ammunition.
LUKE
The game was a nail-biter. After three quarters of deadlock, Perlin scored early in the fourth only to watch Stevey Turner stick a beautiful forty-yard running goal not three minutes later. Perlin paid him back hard, knocking both Turner boys to the ground. The twins brushed themselves off, and when Perlin took control of the ball again, stuttering Benny Garcia somehow took down a boy twice his size four times in a row and didn’t give the Stallions an inch of room.
Luke had to hand it to Benny. When Garrett Mason had been called home to an emergency during halftime Luke had been certain the defensive line was fucked.
Now, with a minute-twenty left on the clock, Luke and the rest of the offense were on their second down, thirty yards from a goal and jogging slow, breathing hard. The Stallion defense seemed as fresh as could be. Luke shouted a play, bent down, clapped for the snap. The Stallions jumped the call and slammed into Whiskey Brazos before the ball was out of his hands.
The Bentley stands let out an awful noise, something between a boo and a hiss. All night long the town had screeched and screamed and bellowed like all three thousand people were in danger of losing their minds. Luke didn’t want to imagine what this lunatic town would do to him if he spoiled their game.
The ref called the foul in Bentley’s favor: five-yard penalty, still second down. The Bison shuffled up the field, Whiskey spat what looked like a mouthful of undigested chicken into the grass. The score stood 26–21 Perlin.
Luke’s chest ached. His hands burned in their gloves. One minute two seconds left on the clock and he wondered how Dylan had done this, played entire games without a moment’s peace. He wondered why neither of them had tried harder to stay friends.
One of the burly Stallion defensive tackles gave Luke a toothy smile from across the line that made Luke’s nuts tighten in their cup.
“Blue Cherry Forty-Two,” Luke called, the Bison’s code for a sweeping play, and he caught the snap, faked a pass to Roy Birch—a receiver who’d been subbed in for KT—and instead slipped the ball into Mitchell Malacek’s hands as the fullback sped past him. No good. A linebacker decked Mitchell before he could make it two yards.
Fifty-nine seconds. Third down. Luke called for a long pass, did his best to hurl the ball but felt his arm give out as he threw it. The ball flew low and for one ugly second it looked as if it might even stop in the hands of one of the Perlin guards. The ball grazed the guard’s fingers, hit the ground. Incomplete. Thank you, Jesus.
Luke heard a heavy thud from very nearby and turned to see that the Perlin tackle with the hungry smile had come within a foot of sacking him, having been stopped only by stubby Danny Elgin’s solar plexus. The Stallion tackle mouthed something to Luke as he climbed to his feet:“You’re mine.”
Forty-five seconds, the Bison’s last down and the goal was miles away. Luke breathed, thumped his chest to keep his heart beating, looked at the faces of the boys assembled around him. What would Dylan do at this moment? He would make a call that Luke would challenge him on, would get in his face about. And what would Dylan do then? He would stick to the call. He would stick to the call and probably be right.
One fucking goal, Luke prayed.Just give me one fucking goal.
