by Ginger Scott
“Oh, sorry,” I say.
His smile is modest, maybe a little embarrassed.
“Makes it easy to clean. I can literally hose it off if I want,” he says. I pinch my brow pretending not to follow, but he rolls his eyes. “I know you were wondering about the floor.”
“Oh…yeah, it’s just…different,” I say.
“It’s shit poor, but whatever,” he says, walking past me and back through the front door to the car. His bluntness stuns me, so I fall a few paces behind.
I open my mouth once or twice, trying to find the words to make it better, but when Nico lifts the last bag from the car and shuts the trunk, I decide I should just let him have the last word on this topic. I jog back to the front door and hold the screen open for him and follow him back into his kitchen, where his mom is unloading the bags into the refrigerator.
“Thank you for helping,” she says to me.
“My pleasure,” I smile. She graces me with a smile that tugs her cheeks high and forces her eyes to squint. It’s a real smile, different from the one my mom wears, and it makes me feel good to have earned it from her.
“I’m Valerie, by the way,” she says, rubbing a towel over her hand, then taking mine.
“Nice to meet you. Reagan,” I say. She nods with a tight smile, and her eyes squint like her son’s do.
Nico grabs a soda from the fridge and holds one up for me. I shake my head no, but he tilts his head to the side and wiggles the can in his hand one more time.
“Okay, yeah. Thank you,” I say.
He reaches in to grab another cola, handing it to me and shrugging me to follow him to the front room, away from his mom. The little girl, now free of her ponytails, barrels around the corner from a short hallway that I can tell leads to what looks like three small bedrooms.
“Is that your sister?” I ask.
“Niece,” he corrects quickly.
I let that soak in, mentally working up to my next question, but Nico fills in the gaps for me.
“My mom watches her for my brother. She stays with us most of the time, but…sometimes…when he has a place,” he trails off, sitting on the arm of an old sofa backed against the front wall and looking out the main window, his eyes careful not to meet mine as they dart around. I can tell he doesn’t want me to ask what he means about his brother, so I let him have the last word on that topic, too.
“What’s her name? Your niece.”
Nico looks down at the soda in his hands, pulling the tab back and bringing it to his lips quickly to suck away the fizz. His eyes flit to mine for a second, just long enough for a half grin to dimple his cheek.
“Alyssa,” he smiles, and it strikes me how much his looks like his mom’s.
“She’s cute. Is she in kindergarten?” I ask.
“Next year…maybe. She’s a summer birthday,” he says, taking another big drink.
I fill the pause by opening my own can and gulping down several swallows, enough that the carbonation burns my chest, and I wince. Nico chuckles, but his smile fades quickly.
“You were looking for me?” he asks.
I was. That’s right. I’m here for Nico, to convince him. It seemed like such a cut-and-dry plan, and I felt so confident when I drove here half an hour ago. All audacity is gone now, though. I have a feeling, before too long, I’m going to end up begging.
“I’m here to tell you to try out for the football team tomorrow,” I say, managing to hold in the swallow that is begging to slide down my throat in front of him. Nico’s eyes don’t blink for several seconds, and his expression remains void of any sign that he heard me at all. And then the laughter comes.
“Uhhh, not just no, but hell no,” he says, laughing so hard that his mom peers around the corner to check on us.
“You okay out there? Can I get you guys something for lunch?” she asks.
“We’re fine, Ma. Thanks, though,” Nico says, dismissing her.
I never take my eyes from him, and I search for that last vestige of inner strength for me to be the girl who pitched this wild idea to her dad an hour ago.
“Why not?” I ask, setting the rest of my soda down on a small coffee table and standing with my arms folded in front and my posture as straight and rigid as I can hold it.
Nico laughs silently, locking his gaze with mine for a few seconds before blinking and glancing down. He sets his soda next to mine, then stands in the same pose as me, his smirk—his armor—in its place.
“For starters, I don’t need the football team,” he says.
“You’re right. But we need you,” I say, surprising myself. I practiced this on the way here, however short that rehearsal was. I knew I wouldn’t be able to trick Nico. I’d have to appeal to his empathy—I’d have to ask, make him feel needed and wanted. Frankly, he is.
His smirk drops a little at my reply, which makes my chest loosen just a little. I breathe in long and deep, but the longer he looks at me without speaking, the more my fingers twitch and my feet grow restless until I break my folded arm pose and bring my hands to my eyes, rubbing while I pace a stride or two in either direction.
“My dad needs you. The team needs you,” I say, opening my eyes to see him still staring at me, his smirk now gone completely.
I sigh, then tug my hair loose from the knot at my neck, scratching the sore spot where the band pulled it tight. Everything about me feels awful and uncomfortable right now, and I hate that Nico is looking at me. I’m already here, though, and I’ve already said the hard part, so I stare into his eyes and wait until his arms uncross, so I know he’s feeling a little off his game, too.
“Friday night…when I watched you with your friends?” I wait for him to nod; to know he’s willing to at least listen to me. “You guys were…you were really good,” I say through a nervous laugh. I suck in my lip, needing something from him to encourage me to keep going.
“I’m sorry about your brother,” he says, and my heartbeat kicks up at the mention of Noah.
My eyes fall to my feet, and I shift my balance, looping my thumbs in my pockets while I nod lightly.
“Thanks,” I say.
When I look back up, Nico’s gaze is now on the ground between us, and he’s chewing at the inside of his cheek, which means he’s thinking. I know he is, because I’ve seen him work through things in class—bide his time before he could speak and make a well-rounded, hard-to-argue-with point. I can’t let him hit me with a foolproof defense before I get one last shot at this.
“He broke the tibia and fibula; he’s going to be out for the season. My dad…” I stutter, my breath catching hard, because I know this move could be a defining moment for my father. Win or lose means in or out for Coach Prescott, and his fate is literally in the hands of his quarterback. “I know what I saw you do out on that field. I’ve watched my dad coach the best, and I know how they move. You…you look like my father’s been working with you for years.”
“Yeah, well, he hasn’t,” Nico snaps, his eyes still down and his mouth tight.
“No, I know,” I say. “But I showed him…”
Nico’s body jolts at my words, and I pause long enough for our eyes to meet. His are wide now, and I think maybe this is the only time I’ve ever seen him on edge, unsure of the next move or what side of the coin he needs to pick.
“I showed him the video I shot. And he can’t ask you to come out, because of your scholarship. It can’t be part of recruiting. But if you decided that football was maybe something you wanted to try…if you, say, stopped by his office hours in the morning and asked about a supplemental tryout…”
Nico doesn’t blink. He also doesn’t frown or smile or react in any way. But he hears me.
“Look, I’ll understand. Or…well, no, I probably won’t. Because…” My gaze falls down, and my lips push together tight, because, gah! This guy pushes my buttons, but damn it, I need him. And he’s talented. And I can’t deny that. My stubborn side does not want to pay him a compliment, but there’s this other
part of me, maybe a desperate part, that needs him to hear some good things about him.
“You have a gift,” I say, my voice small. I can’t look at him and admit any of this. My lips are actually quivering. “My dad would be good to you. I think maybe you’d like him. And…he won’t say it, because…well…you get it, but you’re better than my brother, Nico. You just are. It took me two minutes to tell. It took my dad ten seconds of video. So, please…just think about it. It might open some doors, is all. My dad…he has a way of getting people to pay attention.”
Nearly ten seconds pass without a word, and when I sneak a look, Nico’s attention is once again lost to the streets outside his window. Someone nearby has turned on loud music, and I can hear a few people laughing outside. I think he’d rather be there—anywhere but here, with me. I take it as a sign that my last effort probably wasn’t good enough, and bend down to pick up my half-full soda, raising it even though nobody is watching.
“Thanks for the drink. I’ll see you in class,” I say, moving to the screen door, and counting in my head to fifteen as I open it, step through, and hear it slam closed behind me. The party at the house on the corner has grown. That’s the music I heard, and more neighbors are gathering. People don’t gather on my street.
“Hey!”
My eyes blink wide as I look over the top of my car to the busy yard a few houses away. My brain takes a few seconds to catch up to the fact that the voice I heard was Nico’s, not just some neighbor late for the party. I turn and lean against my car to see him standing in his doorway, one arm holding the screen open completely, the other resting on the side of the doorframe, his body filling the space. Dressed for church, he looks years older than the eighteen I know him to be, and while I won’t say this part out loud, I will at least whisper it to myself—Nico is handsome.
His hair falls forward just enough to cover one eye, and he flips it back casually. I breathe in quickly when he does, glad for this distance between us, and that he can’t hear my response.
“Can Sasha tryout, too?” His eyes linger on mine, and I sense the slight crinkle in them over his hatched plan to get his best friend in on the action, too.
I bite the tip of my tongue with just enough force that I feel it to keep myself from smiling too big. I’m not sure how my father will handle it, but if it gets Nico out on that field tomorrow, I’m pretty sure my dad will be up for anything.
“I don’t see why the same rules don’t apply to him,” I say loudly. Our eyes make a non-verbal agreement, and we both leave each other with the same nod and faint smile, like poker players each sure the other is bluffing.
Maybe we both are. But at this point, I’m all in. Nico’s story as a part of the team is going to elevate my project to the kind of film that gets people to watch. My interest is selfish. It’s for my dad, and for my future. I have a feeling, though, that Nico knows exactly what a run in the state playoffs with the Tradition can do for his college aspirations. And the one thing I’m sure of is that my father is going to love him.
4
My father hates Nico Medina.
I could not have been more wrong, and the longer I watch practice from the bleachers, the more I consider scrapping my documentary all together and rushing home to begin searching for new coaching jobs for my dad.
Things started off okay, but when my dad began running drills—swapping Nico out every other squad with Brandon to see how he could throw—Nico’s lack of true team experience became glaring. He can’t take direction; and just like in class, he’s defensive by default.
My father’s frustrated, and they’ve faced off maybe a dozen times. Yet…neither has quit. My dad hasn’t sent him packing, and Nico hasn’t left. That’s the only reason I’m still sitting here with my tripod between my feet and my eyes shifting from the version of the action on the screen and the real field on the other side of the lens. I watch as more plays run out, and my father finally throws his clipboard down and whistles for a water break.
I push PAUSE and slide around the camera, careful not to disturb the perfect position I’ve got it in, and jog down the bleacher steps to catch up to my dad. He sees me coming, and holds up a hand as he gets to his water jug.
“Not now, Rea,” he says gruffly, twisting the lid from his jug and drinking down gulps.
“It just needs time, that’s all,” I say, ignoring his wishes. He rolls his eyes at me over the lid of his drink, then runs his arm over his chin as he tilts the thermos back and twists the lid in place.
“It just needs to be scrapped, I’m afraid. This…whatever I’ve spent the last hour doing—Reagan? This is a waste of time,” he sighs, letting his water fall with a clunk onto the metal bench.
I open my mouth to put up a fight, but stop when my dad pinches the bridge of his nose and lets his head fall forward. He wanted this to work, too. He still does. He just doesn’t know how.
“Scrimmage them,” I say.
My dad’s shoulders rise with his short chuckle.
“Why? So they can get slaughtered? So I can destroy that kid’s confidence? Not that I could…I mean, hell, Reagan, that’s half his damned problem! I don’t know how to coach that! He doesn’t hear a word I say. I keep telling him one thing, and he does exactly the opposite!”
My dad’s hand moves to his neck now, and he rubs it. I follow his gaze to see him watching his players all watch the two new guys, all of them whispering or laughing at jokes that are likely about Nico and Sasha, feeding my dad’s doubt more.
“You need to see him play his game,” I say, my eyes watching the two boys not walking back to the field slowly with the others, but who are already on the fifty-yard line, waiting for more.
My dad sees them, too. He might not think Nico’s listening, but a player doesn’t hustle to be first on the field for more abuse unless he really wants to be here—unless he has something to prove. My dad needs to let him prove it.
I don’t suggest it again, but I wait next to my father while he watches the rest of his team slowly amble back to the line of scrimmage along with his coaching staff. Nico’s bullheaded, but he respects my father...maybe more than the others. My father sees that—he has to.
My dad pulls the whistle to his lips and blows loudly, and I take the sign to return to my camera. When I get to my seat, I watch everything play out through the viewing screen. I can’t hear the words my dad is saying, but I can tell by the movements being made that he’s breaking them up into squads.
Without pause, I lift my camera from the tripod and climb down to the field level, moving close to the small bench and medical kit near the trainer’s table by the end zone. I don’t want to be distracting, but I also don’t want to miss any of this…in case my hunch is right.
It takes the squads a little time to figure out their positions, where everyone needs to be, and I notice Nico’s team is flailing more than the other side—players arguing, everyone jockeying to be the leader.
Nico takes a few slow steps away from the group, a ball clutched between both hands and the white practice jersey loose over his borrowed pads. The arguing continues, but eventually, when Nico is several steps away, some of the players look up and watch him. Once he has their attention, he steps onto the field, taking his place on offense. He tosses the ball in one hand a few times, then bends down and sets it on the line, backing up a few more steps before folding his arms over is chest.
My father is watching, too. Sasha is the first player to walk over and take a spot several yards to Nico’s right. They nod to one another, but still nobody says a word. The arguing seems to have stopped though, and slowly, one by one, the players on his squad walk toward him, filling in the gaps on the line, taking their positions.
“We’re ready, Coach,” Nico says, standing behind the guy playing center. That’s Colton Wimsby, and he’s one of my dad’s favorite players. He’s always the first to arrive and the last to leave. He’s large, weighing about two-eighty, but nimble on his feet and quick with his hands.
He’s been my dad’s starting center since his freshman year, and the fact that he gave him to Nico is telling. Colton twists back and says something to Nico, who nods, and they both pound their fists together.
The other team is lined up for defense, and Brandon is waiting on the sidelines, standing at attention. He’s confident in a different kind of way. His feet are steady, and he doesn’t even seem to be interested in the play about to happen on the field. It’s as if this is all just a routine for him that he expects to fail, so he can get on with doing the real work.
My gut starts to twitch with my heartbeat, and the dose of adrenaline surprises me.
I’m rooting for Nico.
Colton sets up on the ball, crouching with his head down, until Nico shouts something that sounds like “Blue!” He says this a few more times, and Colton’s head snaps up just as Sasha darts to the far right, almost out of bounds, and then…
It’s beautiful. As if it’s rehearsed. But there’s no way. I know there isn’t. My father knows there isn’t. The other coaches doubt, I’m sure, and the team on defense is left trying to play catch up. They fail.
On the hard count, Nico switches the play, lining Sasha up against the other squad’s weakest defender, sending him sprinting until he’s almost twenty-five yards away. Nico gives him time, trusting Colton and his line, who hold the pocket as long as they can until Nico’s feet take over, smooth and in charge. While he gains ground to the left, the defenders scramble to grab any piece of him their fingers can find. He slips out of every attempt, and just as Sasha hits the center of the field, Nico rockets the ball to him, hitting his hands while his feet are in full stride. His best friend’s speed does the rest, and just like that—Nico’s team is up by six.
Brandon no longer looks relaxed, his weight shifting from side-to-side, the cool and calm from before has now been jacked up to full-on anxious. He’s so wired that he drops the ball when Sasha walks by and tosses it to him for his squad’s turn to try to score.
I laugh, but cover my mouth with my fist, hiding the sound and expression.