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The field seemed to organize itself around him. He pointed, shifted people, read the offense and started moving before everybody else had figured out where the play was going.

Clayton ran the offense.

Chief ran whatever side of the world he happened to be standing on.

“That boy came out sixty years old,” Sunshine said.

Riot snorted without taking his eyes off the field. “He came out in charge.”

Marion took a sip of her drink. “Bossy.”

“Like you,” Riot muttered.

She ignored him.

A few plays later, an offensive lineman shoved Chief after the whistle.

Marion shot to her feet. “What the fuck was that?”

Every head around us turned.

Tiny. Blonde. Furious.

The sweetest woman I knew looked prepared to go onto the field and solve the problem personally.

Riot looked up at his wife with something suspiciously close to pride.

The flag came out.

Marion sat. “That’s what I thought.”

Genetics explained a lot.

By the second quarter, the separate sounds had blurred together enough that conversations required leaning close.

For a few hours, football felt like the only thing in the world.

Rook leaned forward from the row behind us. “Y’all want anything from concessions?”

Sadie sighed. Not a small sigh. A burdened one.

Rook paused. “What?”

“I hate that word.”

“What word?”

“Y’all.”

Every Bishop within hearing distance turned toward her.

I smiled.

This was going to be good.

Rook rested his forearms on his knees. “Why?”

“That’s the problem.” Sadie made an irritated little gesture. “It’s too useful. One syllable. Plural. Gender neutral. Completely inclusive. It has range.”