by Ginger Scott
“Why do you do that?” I ask, grateful when he takes a step back, giving us distance.
“Do what?” he sighs.
“That’s your thing. You respond to every argument I ever give you with a question,” I say.
His lip quirks up.
“Do I?” Amused by himself, his shoulders shake with his quiet laughter.
My head tilts, and I catch his eyes.
“Are you going to give me a real answer?”
Nico runs a hand down his face, holding it still after a few passes before cracking his fingers open over his eyes to look at me. My palms are sweating, and I can feel my pulse in my fingers that are still clutched around the door handle behind me. I’m in a room alone with Nico Medina, and he’s just stared at me from two feet away, and his eyes match the ones on the version of him that kissed me in my subconscious. They’re golden. They’re so different. My dream got them just right.
“You know you just answered me with a question…right?” he says.
It takes me a few seconds to register his words and then replay my own in my head. My eyes look up while I think, and my head bobs slightly as I say my own words in my head, and in the end, all I can do is growl.
I growl. Like a petulant child mad that she didn’t get the color she wanted from the crayon box. I’m one foot-stomp away from making this a truly spectacular display of my maturity. Add to it the burning feeling creeping up my chest, over my flesh, making me want to shut my eyes and maybe vomit a little. I don’t like any of this.
My hand pushes down on the handle, releasing me from my prison, and I step to the side, my back against the now-open door as I wait for Nico to step through in front of me. He doesn’t though. Instead, he leans on the closest desktop, his dimple deep and his smirk on the verge from dropping him into a fit of laughter—at my expense.
“You frustrate me,” I say, my words sharp and a little louder than they probably need to be. The few people still walking in the hallway glance my way, and I hold up a hand to wave. They look away immediately because, frankly, I’m not that important.
The afterschool crowd thins quickly as lockers slam closed and people clear out for home or practice or special clubs. My shoulder aches from my equipment bag, which makes me think of Nico’s, so I finally give in and turn to face him. When our eyes meet, he pushes up to a stand and steps closer.
“I’m glad I frustrate you. Good; we’re even,” he chuckles, walking past me, but stopping a foot outside the door. “Are you coming to practice again?”
I twist my lips, so completely rocked by everything he says. We’re nowhere near even. And…I frustrate him? He’s standing here, waiting to walk with me. I wonder if there’s a pill I can take that will keep me from dreaming, because…he’s waiting to walk with me. I like that, and that…that’s all the damn dream’s fault. I know it!
“Yeah, I’m coming to practice,” I say, stepping away from the door and falling in next to him.
The door slams shut behind me, and we’re now the only two people left in the hallway. When we get to the end, Nico holds the glass door open for me, then stops with his hand out. I stare at it, my stomach actually swimming, unsure what he means by this gesture. I bunch my brow and look from his hand to his eyes, to his smirk which breaks quickly into a laugh.
“Can I help you carry some of that? Your bag always looks so heavy,” he says.
“That’s because it is,” I snap.
“Wow,” he responds quickly, eyebrows lifting with the single word.
I pull my mouth in tight and squint. I’m being short.
“Sorry,” I say, not liking this emotional yo-yo I’m on.
“I get it,” he shrugs, but can’t hold in his laugh as he mocks what I said to him earlier.
“No, you really don’t,” I say back—just like he did. I’m unable to keep a straight face, and soon we’re both laughing.
Nico reaches for my bag, his fingertips running along my shoulder as they sweep underneath the strap. The touch hits me with such surprise that I let him take my bag without any protest; whatever will get his fingers off my bare skin faster because…holy.
“Touché, Reagan Prescott. Touché,” he says.
All I can think of while we walk across the main lawn is how Nico is carrying my bag along with his, and how they both look to weigh a good thirty or thirty-five pounds. I’m sure he’s carrying his books along with his practice clothes and shoes, but then it hits me—something’s missing.
“Where’s your board?” I ask.
“Sasha’s driving me home,” he says.
I stop walking, but Nico continues on a few steps before his feet finally halt. His legs bend slightly and lift up quickly as he adjusts the weight on both shoulders before turning to face me.
“I need your advice,” he says, his eyes making it to mine briefly before getting lost in the activity of the parking lot behind me. I know what he’s going to ask, and part of me wants to make him go through the painful task of mustering up the words and having to make his case to me because I’m going to be a hell of a lot easier than my dad, but then again…I’m going to be a hell of a lot easier than my dad. He needs to save his strength.
“You want him to give Sasha another shot,” I say.
Nico grimaces.
“My dad doesn’t do that,” I say.
“I figured,” he says.
He leaves it at that, but he doesn’t move. His eyes stay on mine, wearing away at me until I have to avert them. I pull my hair loose from the twist, my fingers pushing the band down around my wrist as I cross my arms over my chest, letting the breeze unwind my hair around me. I watch as players file one by one into the locker room door, some of them leaping to tap the metal sign on the way in that reads TRADITION OF BROTHERHOOD—the answer to the question on the other side—WHOSE HOUSE IS THIS? I think some of them believe it. Some. Not all, though. Definitely not all.
Nico and Sasha do. What I saw that night on the field. What I saw in practice yesterday. One leads, one follows—neither abandons.
“All you can do is ask,” I say, not looking at him until I’m done talking, not expecting his eyes to be waiting for me. They’re sincere and hopeful, and my small sliver of a boost pushes his mouth up on one side.
“A’right,” he says, slipping my bag down his arm and holding it out for me to take. I grab it and pull it up on my shoulder, letting the weight of the tripod rest on my hip.
“Good luck,” I say, my eyes squinting from the bright sun. I hold my hand up to my brow to shield my eyes, and Nico’s are still looking at me just the same as they were before. My body reacts with an instant rush of chills, followed by a suffocating flash of heat.
“You should wear your hair down more often. It’s pretty,” he says. He’s walking away before I can blink. And I stand on the bottom of the hill outside the boy’s locker room stunned stupid, because I’m not sure if he really said those last words at all or if my crushing alter-ego made them up because of a damn dream.
Whatever the case, I tuck my hairband into my back pocket and move forward, planning to wear my hair down again tomorrow, and maybe the next day, too.
I’ve never really seen my father compromise. I’ve never really seen him give in. But Sasha is here. Granted, he’s been running up and down bleachers for the last hour, but still—my dad let him put on a practice jersey and take the field…on his way to the bleachers.
Nico must have asked. My dad must really want Nico to feel comfortable.
The circle of wants, needs, and punishment is in full effect as Sasha’s heavy feet clunk down the bleachers next to me. The team is on the opposite end of the field, and it’s clear—even from where I sit—that they’re a squad divided. Nico’s half is smaller. It isn’t even a half. It’s…maybe six or seven guys.
“So how long do you think your dad will make me do this shit?”
Sasha’s steps slow completely, and I turn just in time to see him taking a seat behind me.
; “Probably a lot longer if he sees you taking a break,” I say, craning my neck to look over my shoulder.
Sasha’s eyes meet mine, and he smiles on one side of his mouth, running his arm over his forehead, clearing it of sweat.
“You’re lucky you’re not in full pads doing this,” I say, just as he dips his head. He pauses and tilts his chin up enough to look me in the eyes. I nod to confirm I’m not kidding.
Sasha rolls his eyes along with his shoulders, adjusting his position and sinking more into the bleachers as he leans to one side and spits through the small opening to his left.
“Why are you even doing this?”
He doesn’t look at me when I ask, his focus on the loose drawstring dangling from the waistband of his gray practice pants. He tugs the string between his thumb and forefinger, pushing the end in the elastic. When his face comes up, he looks beyond me, out to the field. Leaning to his side again, squinting, he holds his finger out straight and points.
“That’s my boy, right there. He’s never quit on me. Not once.” His gaze shifts to mine, his expression tired but hard—determined. “He asked me to be here. So I’m here.”
I look from Sasha back out to the field, where my father is talking to Nico.
“You better get up, then, before my dad sees you,” I say.
When I turn around, Sasha’s already five steps up and climbing again. His pace is steady, and his legs look exhausted. But he’s not quitting.
Sasha runs the entire practice. My dad calls him out to the center of the field when he dismisses everyone else, but Nico stays behind, walking over to me. I don’t shut my camera off, and he’s quiet when he sits next to me. We don’t say a word as we watch my father speak with his best friend—both of them standing closed-off, their arms crossed over their chests. When my dad moves his hands to his hips finally, I hear Nico breathe in deeply. He doesn’t exhale until his friend reaches a hand forward and shakes my father’s.
I shut the camera off when they both walk out of the view from my frame, and as I’m packing up, Sasha and my dad are both at the bottom of the bleachers.
“We good?” Nico says, his feet tucked underneath the bleacher seat, and his hands gripping the metal front as he leans forward to make eye contact with his friend.
Sasha nods.
“Yeah, we all good,” he says.
My dad twists the leather band of his watch on his wrist, repositioning it and checking the time. The sky is transitioning from orange to violet behind him. “I’ll see you at home,” he says, his eyebrows raised just a hint. I’m sure only I would notice the difference in his expression, but I know my dad means it’s time for me to quit hanging out at dusk with two boys on the bleachers—two boys he’s called at-risk at least a dozen times at home.
He’s being protective. It’s sweet. But it’s also…I don’t know...something more. I kind of want to stay. Maybe I feel like I owe it to Nico, because he walked over here to sit by me. I would be abandoning him. And maybe I want him and Sasha to think that I’m better than the eighty percent of the football team who doesn’t seem to be on board with the idea of Nico taking the lead.
“I won’t be far behind,” I say to my dad, and the way his eyes level on mine, I get the subtle warning and nonverbal translation. I may be eighteen, but there will always be a curfew for me when boys are involved.
“A’right then,” he says, pulling a pack of gum from his pocket and unwrapping a single piece. He pushes it into his mouth, chewing vigorously, and I smirk because he’s being so very much a dad right now.
I watch my father walk around the end of the bleachers toward his office where, while I know he said he’d see me at home, I suspect he will be for the next several hours reviewing plays and thinking about how his offense could run if he really goes through with this.
When I turn back, Sasha has climbed the steps to sit on the rail near us. He pulls the tape from his ankles and balls it up, throwing it in the trash while he and Nico talk about meeting up with Colton.
“Dude, I need to get my ass home. My mom’s already pissed that I’m getting a C in Government,” Sasha says.
“That’s because you keep skipping,” Nico says, tilting his head toward his friend.
“Yo, I do. And it’s worth it every time. Damn Brittany Shafer! Fuck, man…that girl is so fine,” Sasha says as he brings his knuckles up to his mouth, biting them to show exactly how fine he thinks Brittany is.
“Pssshhh, dude, don’t be like that in front of Reagan,” Nico says, which only makes Sasha roll his eyes.
The entire exchange makes me suddenly aware of every inch of my skin, and I push my feet farther under my seat, tucking my hands under my thighs and looking down to notice the goosebumps raised on my pale white and freckled skin.
“No, it’s fine. I get it. Brittany’s pretty fine. I’m with him on this one,” I say, mostly to deflect.
Sasha begins laughing instantly, holding his palm out for me to slap. I do, and as lame as my attempt to fit in probably is, it feels good to do this stupid little thing with him.
“Hey, just go with her,” Sasha says when he leans back on the railing. “Reagan, you’ve got your car here, right? Can you take my boy to Charlie’s?”
My mouth feels dry and fat all at once, but I manage to mutter out a “Sure.”
At some point, Sasha tells me I’m, “Awesome,” and we slap hands again, this time my palm numb and my head spinning, trying to figure out what I just agreed to. The longer it takes Sasha to leave, the more I realize that I’m going somewhere with Nico, together, and I start to work out the excuses in my head. I’ll need to get him home, because that wouldn’t be cool. But I could do that; take him home? I know my way in and out of West End now, and I could go now, and still get home way before my dad does, and nobody would need to know any of it…
“You don’t have to go. Really. I can walk,” Nico says, already standing and slinging the small gym bag, that I know is only a fraction of his things, over his shoulder.
“Oh…no, really. I don’t mind. I was just going to go home, and I don’t really have anything to do,” I say, suddenly overwhelmed with the need to erase any evidence that excuses were ever floating through my mind. I stand nervously, and my bag tumbles open at my feet, my camera and several memory cards spilling out along the grated metal landing.
“Here,” Nico says, dropping his bag and helping me pick up my pieces quickly. My heart is racing ridiculously, and my fingers can’t seem to work right to flip open my camera and test it. Nico notices, and when his hands cover mine, squeezing them to calm down, it has the opposite effect, and everything starts to feel faster—the world brighter, my legs wobblier.
“I’m sorry, I…” I don’t finish, instead just sitting down and giving over my camera to his steadier hands. I tuck my nervous ones back under my thighs and suck in both my top and bottom lip to quell my anxiety while my inner voice prays that my camera isn’t broken.
Nico kneels in front of me, his lip raised without laughing, and his able fingers flip open my view screen easily. He doesn’t know where the power button is, so I reach forward to show him, my hand still trembling with the jolt of adrenaline, and he nods. I pull my hands back in, this time pushing a few of the nails on the edge of my teeth. It’s a bad habit, and it’s the reason I don’t have long, pretty fingernails. It’s also the reason I can type wicked fast, though.
“Am I supposed to see you through this thing,” Nico says, holding the camera up to face me. He stands when I reach for it, and then holds his arm out to stop me when I stretch forward again. “Oh no, it’s your turn. Tell us, Miss Prescott. The academy wants to know why film is so important to you.”
“Oh my God, stop. I don’t like being on camera,” I say through nervous laughter. My hand finally snares the sleeve of Nico’s jersey, and he brings his left hand down, gripping mine tightly while he holds the camera steady on me with his right. “Nico, I’m serious!”
I am serious, but I’m also l
aughing hysterically, and I’m holding his hand…or rather, tug-of-warring with his hand. I battle with him, squealing and using my other palm to block my face when I finally give in and sigh, folding my arms over my chest before pushing my now-tangled hair out of my face, blowing the final strand out of my eyes before pursing my lips in the best pout-face I can make.
Nico keeps the camera on me for a few seconds, his face hidden behind it as his laughter subsides, until he lets it slide a few inches down, still recording though he’s no longer viewing. His smile is sweet and simple, no dimple or bragger’s rights painted on his expression. It makes my breath stop, but I hold my pose, praying I can bluff my way through this without giving anything away—without him realizing exactly what that look does…to me.
The heavy locker room door slams in the distance, and it breaks the strangeness we were both just living in. Nico looks down at the camera he’s holding, turning it off and flipping the view screen back in its place. He puts it in my bag, zipping it and handing it to me. I clutch it tightly this time, and I stand as he takes a few paces back to his own bag.
“Really, I can walk,” he says, looking up at me sideways as he lifts his bag back up to his arm.
I give myself exactly three seconds to consider my options, and I do consider them. I could go home, where my mom is sleeping thanks to her heavy prescription and my brother is locked in his room, pretending that he isn’t feeling the pangs of disappointment. I could wait for my dad, like I usually do, only to have a short conversation with him in front of the refrigerator while he kicks off his shoes and drinks milk from the carton. Or I could take Nico to Charlie’s Custard, and take him home when he’s done, and maybe help him find a way to convince people other than my dad, Sasha, and Colton that he’s just as good at leading as Noah.
He’s better.
“I swear I really don’t have anything to do. And I’d…” I stop for a breath. This part wasn’t planned. “I’d like to come.”
His lip ticks up as he winks, and there’s absolutely nothing cocky or arrogant about it. His eyes avert, and his cheeks are either red on their own or the setting sun is painting them. Either way, he can’t look at me when he says, “Thanks.”