Two Hundred Eleven

They won, barely — a two-point conversion in the final ninety seconds that sent half the student section over the fence. Callum was still buzzing from it in the parking lot, shoulder pads slung over one arm, when Coach Prentiss caught up to him and Warren both.

"Ochoa." Prentiss nodded at Warren the way he always did — not *Mr. Ochoa*, not *Callum's dad*, just *Ochoa*, like Warren was staff. "Your boy's playing at a whole other level out there tonight. You see that read on the option?"

"Saw all of it," Warren said. "Same seat I always see it from."

Prentiss laughed, but there was something almost reverent under it. "Twenty-some years coaching, I've had exactly one parent who's never missed a game. Rain, heat advisory, your kid's ninth-grade JV game that nobody else's dad bothered showing up for — you were there." He shook his head. "That's not normal, Warren. That's a record."

"It's not that hard," Warren said, already reaching for Callum's bag. "You just show up."

Callum only half-listened, still thinking about the unknown text sitting unanswered in his phone. But in the truck, waiting at a light two blocks from home, he found himself doing the math out loud.

"Coach says you've never missed one. Like, ever."

Warren kept his eyes on the road. "Missed a couple. Snowed out sophomore year. Your grandpa's surgery, that one Thursday freshman year."

"How many's a couple?"

A beat. "Four."

"Four out of how many?"

"Don't know. Never counted."

But he said it too fast, and too flat, the way people say things they've counted plenty.

At home, his mother Noelle was still in her scrubs on the couch, half-asleep after a double shift at the ER, phone face-down on her chest. His little sister Junie was passed out sideways on the other cushion, thumb near her mouth, oblivious to overtime dramatics. Noelle startled awake when the door opened, blinking at Callum like she was checking he was in one piece.

"We won," he said.

"'Course you did." She pulled him into a hug that smelled like hospital soap. Then, quieter, over his shoulder: "Anybody call you tonight? Text you anything weird?"

Callum froze. "Why would you ask that?"

Noelle's face did something complicated — relief and panic trying to occupy the same square inch. "No reason," she said, too fast, hands finding each other and gripping tight. "Wrong question. Forget I asked."

She was lying. He'd never once seen her lie badly before tonight.