by Ginger Scott
Unlike Brandon’s squad, Nico’s is a man short, the rest of the defense, made up of the players that see less time, is at the other end of the field running drills. My dad notices and begins to pull his radio from his pocket to let the coach with them know he needs one more player, when Nico steps in and takes a position at corner.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing? I’ll get someone to step in there, go sit your ass down,” my dad says, his typical tell-it-like-it-is tone he uses on the field.
Nico is unfazed by it, and just as my dad has the radio to his mouth, he sees his quarterback hopeful line up ready to sprint. Brandon doesn’t waste any time, and the ball is snapped before my dad can step in and stop the play. My eyes work to take it all in—my father reaching for his whistle around his neck, Brandon sliding away from the safety of his offensive line, Nico seeing opportunity, tracking the receiver, until the ball leaves Brandon’s hands and somehow ends up in his own.
He only makes it ten yards before someone tackles him, but he makes his point, tossing the ball end-over-end to Brandon as he walks by. Nico doesn’t say anything to provoke him; his actions have done enough. Within a blink, Brandon has Nico flat on his face, his fingers gripping the collar of his pads from behind, his arm pushing Nico’s mask into the grass, digging it into the ground.
“You piece of shit!” I hear him yell.
My father’s whistle blares, and coaches and players run into the mix, yanking Brandon away while Sasha rushes to Nico, his hands flat on his friend’s heaving chest. His jaw is rigid, and he’s chewing at the inside of his mouth, his eyes narrow, and his mouth is ready to shout, rip, and tear down the guy who just blindsided him because he was embarrassed about being shown up.
“Fucking pussy!” Sasha yells, pulling on Brandon’s jersey. My dad jerks Sasha’s arm, spinning him until he can look him straight in the eye.
I tuck my knees in, wanting to be smaller, but I keep filming.
My dad points his finger at Sasha’s face.
“Get off my field!”
“What about that dickhead?” Sasha shouts back to my father, shrugging his shoulders and losing the grip my dad has on his arm.
“You worry about your own ass. I’ll worry about my team, which, right this moment, you are not a part of! Take your helmet, and sit your ass on the bench outside my office. I’ll deal with you after practice,” my dad says, his words still coming out angry and loud. The entire team has now circled around the scene, and I notice Sasha’s eyes scan to see them all until he stops on his friend, still adjusting his pads and picking grass from the helmet he’s just pulled from his own head.
Their eyes lock for a moment, and Sasha drops his arms to his side, leaving the helmet on the ground.
“Man, I don’t need this shit. Fuck y’all,” he says over his shoulder, his stride long, but slow—almost dramatic, like a child wanting to be asked to please stay.
He won’t get begged from my dad. I just hope this doesn’t mean Nico’s gone now, too.
My father brings his hand to his face, running it over his eyes and cheek, dragging it to his neck while he turns slowly and takes in his broken team.
“That’s it for today. Clean up, and tomorrow—come out here ready to work. Tomorrow won’t be easy,” he says.
The team breaks with a clap, everyone participating but Brandon and Nico. Both stand about a dozen feet apart, and my father’s face moves from one to the other a few times before Coach O’Donahue puts a hand on my father’s shoulder, whispering something and gesturing for his nephew to come closer.
My father nods once, but never looks him in the eyes. Brandon steps closer to his uncle, and the two walk toward the locker room together, his uncle playfully jabbing at his nephew’s shoulder a few times before putting his arm around him when they get to the top of the hill. My dad sees it all play out, and he keeps his eyes on them until the locker room door slams shut behind them.
Nico hasn’t moved a single step, but he has found me. His gaze is on mine, and I’ve now closed the view screen on my camera, shutting it off and setting it down next to my feet. I see him through my own eyes, and I wait for all of the familiar gestures, the expressions—I wait for the fight.
My father looks toward him, but he’s slow to raise his eyes all the way. I think he’s struggling to find the right words. I know I am. Nico is a wild stallion full of promise and gifts, and I’m not sure if he can be tamed.
I’m not sure if he should.
My father steps forward, pulling his hat from his head and running his fingers through his thinning hair, his mouth poised to speak as the authority, only Nico beats him to it.
“I want to apologize,” he says, his hand out for my father. My dad puts his hat back in place, and holds his hands on his hips for a breath, clearly surprised. He doesn’t take Nico’s hand right away, instead looking him in the eyes first, forming a standoff.
“What for?” my dad asks.
I shift my weight and lean back on my palms, and they both turn to see me.
Nico’s eyes stay on me, even when my father turns back to face him. He doesn’t grin. There is no dimple. His jaw is relaxed and his eyes look almost scared.
He wants this.
“For not respecting your field, your rules. I apologize for that,” he says, blinking his eyes shut and opening them on my dad.
My father takes in a short breath and lets out a small laugh.
“Fair enough,” he says, taking Nico’s hand. They hold their grip for a few long seconds, and Nico stares at their touch before they break.
“So is that it?” Nico’s question lingers, and his eyes move from my dad to his right foot, which kicks at the dry grass. Eighteen, yet still such a young boy. All he wants is approval. He has no idea how to ask for it, though.
“You show up here tomorrow. Three. Sharp. Be ready to go hard. And—” my father pauses until Nico looks up, “be ready to listen.”
The standoff continues long enough for me to dust the grass from my legs. When I look back, my father has his hand on Nico’s shoulder, a hard pat that I know is his way of telling him he’s impressed, but also reminding him who calls the shots.
I wait at the table, pushing myself up to sit on one end while my legs dangle out in front of me, swinging, so my toes can catch the tips of the grass. Nico walks toward me, expressionless, his eyes on my camera as he kneels down in front of me and picks it up, handing it to me.
“Thanks,” I say, sucking in my top lip, and flipping open the viewing screen. I push the playback button and drag the icon to the middle of my film, stopping it on Nico’s great play.
“So do I get any residuals or…how does this all work? You know, since I’m starring in your movie and all?”
His fingers tap at the top of my camera, and I adjust my hands to avoid his touch, my heartbeat picking up while I struggle to find a safer place to hold my gear, a place where his hand doesn’t come near mine, where I don’t react like this.
He’s Nico. We don’t play nice.
When I look up at him, the left side of his mouth is pulled into a grin. I give back a reserved smile to mask my nerves, then look down at my camera in my hands, turning it to show him the video I shot of him.
“You wanna see it?” I ask. My heart is still thumping wildly.
His eyes flit from mine to my hands and back, then his lip tugs up a little higher, and he nods yes. He leans closer to me, so I slide down the table, making room for him to sit beside me. He’s wearing pads, and his bulky leg mashes up against mine, which only makes the heavy beating in my chest feel harder.
I’m sure my hands are trembling, so I lay the weight of the camera on my lap, paying close attention to my touch on the screen, willing my fingers to behave, not to shake, not to care that I’m sitting next to him. I don’t want to care. That wasn’t what any of this was about.
“I rewound it to the good part,” I say, giggling nervously. I feel better when he laughs with me, until he speaks.
“So I’m the good part, huh?”
His leg nudges mine, and I react with a nervous sort of snort-laugh. I cover my mouth immediately and shut my eyes, my pulse now so loud that I’m sure I wouldn’t be able to hear my own voice—if I could talk, that is.
Nico nudges me again, and I open an eyelid to look at him. He laughs once, snorting through his nose and pretending to push up glasses on his face.
“You’re such a nerd,” he says, leaning into me with his upper body now. There are no pads on his arms, so we touch—skin against skin—and I resolve myself to the fact that I feel it.
“You’re a bigger nerd than me,” I say back, my cheeks burning because I’m flirting, and while part of me wants to stuff my silly, girlish words back into my mouth, another part of me wants to dole out more.
“I am so not a bigger nerd than you. I mean, look…” Nico twists the view screen on my camera, his hand now basically in my lap. He laughs, then flips the screen closed before looking at me. “One of us is in the AV Club.”
I do my best to narrow my gaze on him and hold my eyes squinted, my mouth hard, as if I’m really pissed, but I break character, and my mouth betrays me, bending at the corners first until my own laughter escapes.
“You’re right. I am the bigger nerd,” I say, jerking when I feel a tickle at my arm. I sigh in relief when I notice it’s just the wave of my hair from my ponytail.
I tug the band loose and let my hair fall down before sweeping it back up and into a knot again. When I look back to Nico, his expression is softer, and I like that he watched me do that. Maybe that’s why I let my hair down—to see if he’d notice.
“So what do I look like on film?” he asks, his attention back to the now-closed screen in my lap. I’m relieved at the change in subject.
I flip the screen open and prop the camera at an angle he can see, then press PLAY.
“You won’t get any sound, not that you really need it, but this is that great play you did,” I say, twisting my lips because I’m not sure if I should be feeding his ego. Nico was great. But he was also undisciplined and difficult.
I look up to watch his eyes as he watches himself. He doesn’t look proud. Instead, his expression looks critical, and when the play runs out, he taps the icon on the screen to pause it.
“Can you rewind so I can see that again?”
I nod and play it again for him.
I watch with him this time, and I wonder what detail he is fixated on. I pay close attention to his feet, to the way he moves, and every step is as if it’s choreographed—it’s the same thing I saw the night I taped him and his friends. It’s raw, but it’s brimming with potential. Maybe it’s even more, maybe it doesn’t need to be touched. Maybe, Nico’s style of play is just the thing my father needs.
“I’m too slow. Look,” he says, pausing and dragging the player backward. He lifts his finger and looks to me to show him how to start it again. I press the button and he nods. “There, look. I know that guy—Garrett. I’m so much faster than he is. He shouldn’t be that close to me, let alone close enough to get his hand on my jersey. I’m too slow. How do I fix that?”
I watch it again, and even though Nico makes the same remarks, this time in whispers, I ignore him and try only to see what he sees. I think we are looking at it differently, though. He’s seeing his flaws, which are all things my dad can help him with. I’m seeing the things he does right. He does so much right.
“He has a head start on you. The line always will. But, look…here.” When I stop the video this time, I drag it in so we can view the touch better, the way Nico instinctively bends and twists out of the defender’s grasp. “You knew what to do.”
“I don’t know anything,” Nico says quickly, lifting from the table and picking his helmet up from the ground. My leg is suddenly cold from his absence. He turns to face me, his eyes on the screen at first, then on my face. Even the air stops, the breeze taking a pause to fill the quiet between us with a little more urgency, until Nico’s gaze breaks away.
“Tell your dad I’ll see him tomorrow.”
The video remains paused in my lap, and the boy on the screen walks away from me in real life, never once looking back. I watch it again when he’s out of sight. I watch it through his eyes, and after the fifth time, I finally see it.
Nico doesn’t want to get caught.
5
Last night I dreamt about Nico. It was one of those odd sort of dreams, only partially making sense. He and I were partners in a game where we had to find a secret room in a house that somehow always had a hallway that led to more rooms and more secret doors and hallways. I slept for six hours last night, but my dream felt as if it lasted for twenty. The search went on forever, and the secret room that held some prize we needed never showed up. But in those few seconds—right before I awoke—Nico turned into me and kissed me on the lips.
I felt it.
It felt…real.
I jolted out of bed and froze, and it took me nearly fifteen minutes to convince myself that it was all just my weary head, the Cheetos I ate for dinner, or the super-sized Mountain Dew. It’s probably due to the hours I spent last night watching my film footage. That’s what I’m telling myself, anyhow.
But sitting here, only five or six bodies away from Nico, the side of his face in full view—the side that turned and kissed me in my dreams—is messing with my head. It’s thrown me off my game, and I haven’t spoken up at all while we discuss the excerpts we’ve read from Plato’s Republic. For once, I honestly can’t find fault with Nico’s position and questions.
I blame the damned dream!
“Plato’s concept doesn’t allow for exceptions,” Nico says. He’s responding to one of our classmates, Megan, who just argued that Plato’s Republic is a sound blueprint for peace. Megan’s father is a Superior Court Judge. Nobody is surprised that she’s arguing that class systems work and put people in place to succeed.
“Exceptions create chaos,” Megan says.
My fingertips tingle, so I tap them on my notebook that I have folded to my chest, my eyes switching between Nico and Megan as if I’m watching a slow game of tennis. I want to join in, but I know I don’t need to. Nico is saying everything that’s in my head. We agree. My God, we agree on something.
“Exceptions are responsible for pivotal moments in history,” Nico says. In typical fashion, his head is down, his chin tucked at his chest and his hands gripping the top of his desk, as if he’s too disgusted by his opponent to look at her.
This is how he argues with me…
“Abraham Lincoln was born in a one-room cabin, the son of a carpenter. Are you saying our world would have been a better place if only he had stuck to his born position in life and built things out of wood?”
“Of course not. Lincoln is different, he’s…” Megan stumbles, her words trailing off. She tries to mask it with a few ums and head-waggles, as if she’s searching for the right words, but Nico doesn’t let her off the hook.
“No, you want to apply it to our world, where guys like me work at Mountain Burger, slinging grease-slathered food into paper bags so we can make eight bucks an hour. While you pull through the drive-thru in your red convertible—Daddy bought for you when you were sixteen—on your way to some college class you only show up for half of the time, because it probably won’t matter since Daddy’s law firm has a spot held for you when you’re done playing college.”
My mouth hangs open. My eyes shift slightly to both sides to confirm that everyone else’s mouth is in the same WTF mode mine is in. And then I realize something even more amazing. Nico’s hand is on the back of his chair, his body twisted so he can look Megan in the eyes, leveling her with a heavy dose of reality—both his reality, and hers. He isn’t wrong. But he is being unfair.
I don’t enter the argument this time. For once I don’t have a good counterpoint. I’m stumped completely. The awkward silence lingers in the room until Mr. Huffman fills it with his off-color humor, saying, �
�Da da da, and until next time…” just as the bell sounds and the quiet is covered with backpack zippers and the clatter of students rushing out at the end of the day.
For the second time in only a handful of days, Nico and I are the last to leave the room. I waited for him. Though now that we’re alone, my mind is divided—the loud half wishing I hadn’t stuck around. I stand at the closed door while he drags an overstuffed bag out from beneath his desk, swearing under his breath when one of the straps is caught on a chair leg, and when he finally pulls it free, his head tilts up and his eyes find me waiting.
“What?” he snaps.
I manage to keep my mouth shut. My eyes, on the other hand, can’t hide my reaction, and they open wide, my brow lifting.
He’s like an angry bull right now, his nostrils flared while he breathes, standing from his desk chair and tugging his heavy bag over his shoulder. He pulls his hat from his back pocket and smooths his hair back before sliding it in place. When he looks at me again, his rage isn’t as obvious. He breathes in deeply, then releases it in a gust.
“Sorry,” he says. “I shouldn’t take that out on you. I just…sometimes it feels personal.”
“I get it,” I say.
“No, you really don’t.”
Head down again, Nico walks toward me, to the door. Just as he reaches for the handle, I grab it in my hand and step in front of it, clutching it behind my back in a move that brings my toes and Nico’s only an inch apart.
I have nowhere to go, unless I decide to break down and let him leave with the final word. My fingers twitch, wanting to push the handle down and slide back into the hallway, releasing us both into the crowd. I squeeze the metal hard and hold my breath.
No.
Maybe because of the dream.
Or maybe because I don’t want Nico to think he can sum me up that quickly, too, because I do get it. And the fact that he can dismiss my empathy so easily really pisses me off!
“You’re being a jerk,” I say.
“Am I?” His response is fast, and snarky.