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signaling at an airplane. As a result, Coach
Wells blew his whistle, then came up behind his assistant and clocked him on
the back of the head with a clipboard.
    “Better go. It's probs your fiancée,” Denny grunted in my
ear, extending a hand so I could peel myself off the green.
    “Fuck you, asshole.”
    “You're taking her last name, right? Like someone
who's really pussy-whipped?” Clay Hoskins—massive fullback, exemplary bio student—jogged
up to our little time-out, as the coaches conferred on the sidelines. His
dreadlocks looked especially heavy in this muggy Texas air.
    “Leave Landy alone, Dee. Jay-Z took Beyonce's name.”
    “That's the kind of thing only a pussy-whipped brother knows.”
    Denny ducked, expecting a slug to the face, but Clay just
rolled his eyes and thumped me on the back. It was common knowledge that Clay
had long been engaged to one of the hottest girls at UT—Victoria Jenkins,
formerly known as Miss Texas 2013. We could make fun of that dude all we
wanted, but the fact was that he'd always have the supreme upper hand in the
lady department. Didn't hurt that he was a decent guy. Wouldn't hurt a fly, off
the football field.
    I saluted Clay, then trudged off in the direction of the
sidelines. Wells gave me the stink-eye (rightly so, given the day's
performance), while Yeardley turned to guide me toward the locker room. When we
reached the door to his office, he gestured at a dangling pay phone in the
corridor.
    “Hope it's not an emergency, kid.”
    “Thanks, Coach.”
“I'm serious. Emergency would be one more reason for you to keep your head up
your ass, as 'posed to on the ball.”
    I smiled tensely, then pulled my practice padding over my
head. I watched the phone swing back and forth on its ancient cord for a
second, mind racing with possibilities. There was only one person I could think
of who wouldn't know to contact me on my cell phone.
    “Landon? That you?” croaked a voice. Pop's question
immediately replaced itself with a coughing fit. I held the phone away from my
ear.
    “Pop, is everything okay?”
    “Oh, sure, son. Everything's peachy.”
    I pushed my hair back from my face, irritated by its falling
into my eyes. I never knew how Clay could play the game with all that hair
weighing him down—didn't it make it harder to run? From the doorway to his
office, Yeardley was indiscreetly peering at me over the lip of a playbook. His
eyes were narrowed with curiosity. He no doubt suspected a rat.
    “Well, I'm in the middle of drills, Pop. Can I call you back
maybe?”
    “It's actually a mite urgent, son. Everything's peachy, but
it's a mite urgent.” I could practically hear the geyser kicking back in his
recliner, angling to keep a TV dinner on his lap. A wall clock revealed that it
was one p.m. on a Thursday. There wouldn't be any services today, so Pastor
Sterling would be spending his day at home.
    “I do believe I've finally found someone to care for me,
into my old age.”
    “...like a nurse?”
    He croaked out a laugh, which turned into a cough again. I
sighed, away from the receiver. Across the hall, Yeardley ruffled his papers
like a fussy bird fixing up its nest.
    “A man of God will take what's his, Landon! No, no...I've
found you a pretty little stepmother.”
    From nowhere, I felt bile beginning to rise in my throat.
Perhaps it was the pancakes from Dee's—Denny and I had kinda overdone it on the
carbo-loading that morning, plus Yvette had sent over a plate of bacon the size
of the state.
    “Son? What do you make of all this, now?” Even through the
phone, I could sense his voice hardening. It was like when I was a kid and he'd
walk into the house twirling a switch between his fingers. The choice is
yours, Landon ,he'd always start. You do stuff to getcha hit,
it's my 'sponsibility to hitcha.
    “Well, I want you to be happy. Sir.”
    “That's nice to hear.”
    “And you've always said we were meant to go two by two in
this life.”
“You're