I’ve been back to see Benny a few more times, and his mom is so thankful that we’re doing this for them. I keep telling Lauren we aren’t going to raise a million dollars selling cupcakes and maybe we should have thought of something else. And she keeps telling me you never know what might happen. For a girl who hasn’t exactly had an easy time of it, she sure has a good attitude. Maybe some of it will rub off on me.

It’s Friday night, after the game, and I’m in her aunt and uncle’s kitchen, baking pies with Lauren. I imagine heaven smells like this kitchen right now.

As she carefully puts the crust on the top of a berry pie, I ask her, “You know, maybe we should have picked something easier to make.”

“Like what? Rice Krispies Treats?”

“Right. What do those have, like, three ingredients?”

“You can’t make good money on something like that. These pies will go for a lot.”

“You really think so? How come?”

“Because pies are special. Pies say, ‘I’m good and old-fashioned.’ ”

“Rather than, ‘I’m cheap and easy’?”

She laughs. “Exactly! Who wants something cheap and easy?”

I raise my eyebrows. “About ninety percent of the football team?”

She pokes me with her elbow. “Stop it. You wait and see. These pies will fly off the tables tomorrow.”

I look at the clock. I honestly don’t know how much longer I can stay standing. “You mean today. It’s after midnight. Are we going to be done anytime soon?”

“While this one bakes, we’ll whip together a chocolate cream one, and then we’re done.” As she pinches the last of the crust, she studies my face. “You know what? I can do the last one by myself. You should go home.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m positive. See, it wouldn’t be very helpful if you fell over from exhaustion and landed in the pies. Not helpful at all.”

“Okay. Thanks. Do you want me to pick you up tomorrow and take you down there?”

She looks around at all the pies: nine so far. “Oh God. I didn’t even think about logistics. How are we going to get all of these to the sale?”

“Easy. I’ll put a sheet in the bed of my truck. We’ll set them back there, and then fold the sheet over.”

“A sheet?”

“Yeah. Why not? We’ll tuck them in tight, I promise.”

“You are so cute, you know that?” she says as she opens the oven door before she pops the pie inside. I want to tell her she’s cuter, but I’m pretty sure that would be approaching flirting territory. That’s a place we’re both trying to stay far away from.

When she turns around, she says, “Okay. Your plan sounds good. I want to be there by eight. All the other volunteers are supposed to be there by eight thirty.”

“I’ll pick you up about fifteen minutes before eight, then.”

We say good-bye and I let myself out. From the driveway, I can see her silhouette, no doubt starting in on the chocolate pie.

“You’re cuter,” I whisper into the cool night air. And then I get into my truck, glad I get to see her again in only eight short hours.

When i pull into the driveway and see that the lights are still on in the house, I curse my dad. I consider turning around and finding somewhere else to sleep so I don’t have to walk in there and deal with him.

I’m so tired. I just want to go to bed. I don’t want to talk about the game, what I did wrong, what I did right, how so much is on the line with every game I play.

Damn it. I just want to rest.

I get out and go inside. I tell myself the whole way I will not engage him. I will not let him talk to me right now. I will tell him I’m going to bed and I will mean it and I will do it.

I’m barely in the door, and he’s right there, like mud on a pig, “Colby, what the hell? Where have you been?”

“There’s a fund-raiser for Benny tomorrow, remember? I was helping a friend bake some pies.”

“Well, I’ve been thinking all night about that play. In the second quarter? When you missed the pass. Colby, what happened? It was a good throw. You should have had it.”

This is where I should walk away. This is where I should say, not now, I’m tired, I’m going to bed.

I look at him. He wants an answer. He wants to talk about this to death and know that I learned something from it so it  won’t happen again. Even though there’s no guarantee of that, ever.

“I don’t know, Dad. The throw was a little long, and I missed it. I’m sorry.”

“We’ve talked about this before. You could have had it if you . . .”

He moves toward the kitchen table, and I follow him. We sit down. He keeps talking.

And I keep listening. Just like he wants me to.