The Hard Count

by Ginger Scott

  My brother’s eyes are lasers on Nico as he works his way through the middle of the stands, his thumbs looped in the top of his pockets, his jersey number eleven, unworn since my father wore it years ago. My brother wanted to be his own man. He wanted to be number one, both literally and in life. Nico wants approval.

  The exchange of the mic is slow, and my father says something in Nico’s ear, and I stare as he listens and nods. He grips the mic fully in his hand, his back to me as he watches my father move to the only open seat in the coach’s row. Nico knows the drill. He’s the last one to speak. His job is to set a tone—to make them believe.

  His task feels impossible.

  His wrist twists with the mic, tapping the live end along his thigh, making a few pop sounds through the speakers. He stops as soon as he realizes, but doesn’t lift the mic to his lips just yet. He takes in his audience, gazing down the row of linemen, many who are nodding, but several who refuse to look up, and then he sees his receivers, his offense, and Brandon, who many thought would be the one standing here in his place. He pivots slowly, eyes scanning over the crowd, a tight smile and nod to acknowledge boosters and the school’s faculty. His eyes never really seem to settle as they make their way to the student body, even when they pass over me several times.

  I’ve never seen him lost. He’s always so sure, always right. If there was a task Nico was born to handle, this was it. But my heart isn’t sure this time, and it pounds so loudly that my ears dull.

  “Noah,” he says finally, and I hold my breath. “Dude. You’re a really hard speech to follow.”

  My lips twitch with hope, and there are a few giggles in the crowd. My brother offers a one-sided smile and shrug, and I let my shoulders drop from the tense hold I had on them.

  “Thank you, Coach. Thank you, Tradition…guys. I know what kind of opportunity this is. It’s the kind that, as Coach just said, comes from adversity. And I know that means it’s not necessarily the kind everyone wanted…wants.”

  His eyes fall forward to his feet, and he kicks at the free-throw line on the gym floor, his mouth raised on the side nearest to me, and I smile, too. I don’t know why, but seeing him do so just brings it out.

  “For those of you who don’t know me, I prefer to be called Nico. It’s what my Nana called me when I was a little boy, and it’s what I answer to. I live eleven miles from here. Eleven miles south of here. In West End.”

  His eyes are still down at the tip of his toe, where his shoe is digging at the embedded line as if one of these times it will actually move from his touch. He’s nervous, and I realize that he does this when we debate in class—he focuses somewhere else, almost as if his mind needs the distraction so doubt and fear won’t get in the way of his words.

  His words. They are always so brilliant. Even when I hate them. I breathe deeper, and my muscles relax more. Nico…he’s got this.

  “My boy Sasha,” Nico stops to look up as Sasha yells. He holds up a fist and Sasha does the same. “He’s crazy. Sorry about that. Sorry, Coach.”

  My father holds up a hand and encourages him to go on. The students near me chuckle.

  “Sasha and me grew up together, until he moved. He’s still West End though. You see our neighborhood, it’s a lot like this team. Tradition is such a good word for it, ya know? The first time I heard Coach say that at practice, it settled in my chest. Right here.”

  Nico pats his chest. His eyes close when he does.

  “I know a lot of you guys probably don’t drive around in West End. I get it,” he says through laughter. “Believe me. There are times I don’t drive through West End.”

  The audience laughs with him this time. I laugh with him. He’s winning. He’s closing.

  He has them.

  “But…let me tell you about that world on the other side of the freeway. Where I come from, we don’t have a lot of extra anything. We’re short on things. Ha…we’re short on everything!”

  “Damn straight!” Sasha yells.

  Nico turns to his friend and tilts his head, and Sasha sinks down slightly in his chair.

  “Sorry,” Nico says, excusing his friend. Nobody seems to mind, though. People are listening. The boosters are even listening. Players heads that were seconds ago looking down are now looking up—eyes focused on their new leader. A few are holding out, but Nico will win them over. He’ll own them, too.

  “There’s this great thing that happens, though, when you don’t have everything. You find something deeper. In the locker room…out here today…we call it brotherhood. I like that. Family—that’s what we call it at home. It doesn’t have to be blood. It’s my neighbors down the street. It’s the time Carlos Mendoza closed down his shop to drive me to school because someone stole my board. It’s how his wife went out and bought me a new one. It’s how my mother’s fridge was filled with food when we were hungry; how my brother’s daughter always has the prettiest dress for Sunday school; how my boy Sasha, even though he moved away when we were kids, remained and will always be the best friend I’ll ever have.”

  “Family. Brotherhood.” Nico looks to his team, most of them meeting his eyes now as he says this. He turns enough to glance my way next; his eyes find me, this time stopping, his lip raising, his confidence building on itself so quickly before my eyes, I feel like this may be his superpower.

  “Adversity. Opportunity.”

  The room is silent, filled only with the sounds of the rushing air and crackling building again.

  “I understand this. I take this job. I take this role. And I will be what you need because I know what it’s like to need…to need someone. To need to believe again. I believe…”

  He swallows, his eyes still on me, the intensity so strong that I bend my head forward to peer at him through the lens. Even there, in black and white, he owns me in a way that makes my palms sweat and my nerve endings fire in anticipation. He’s made me want to act, to be better. In a little more than a minute, Nico Medina has made me believe—he’s made most of us believe.

  “I know we are going to win tonight. I know it. I feel it. Right here,” he says, fist to his chest as he turns toward his team, taking steps forward until he’s close enough to reach their hands. “I feel it! Do you feel it?”

  “Hoorah!” They yell, Colton standing and clapping, others following. My father stands and begins to clap with them, his mouth still a hard line, not ready to accept that any of this could be so simple, but relieved to see them willing to try, to go along with his crazy plan.

  “Whose house is this?” Nico says, his voice strong, the words tinged with energy. He’s amped. His legs are steady, and his muscles are flexed.

  “Our house!” They yell.

  “Whose house is this?” His question comes out louder this time.

  “Our house!”

  The response matches.

  “Whose. House. Is. This?”

  It’s always done in threes. This is tradition. And they respond just as loud.

  “Our house!”

  Nico reaches forward grabbing Colton’s hand, their chests crushing together as he makes his way down the line, celebrating and fueling the mass adrenaline with fist bumps, hand embracing, and chants. He reaches Sasha, and they both roar, their smiles large and the worry that was almost dragging Nico into the claws of dread is nowhere to be seen.

  My feet move automatically, and I film it all—my footage a messy scene of chaos, unbalanced shots and unsteady filming. I smile through it all. The scene is brilliant. The story is set. We have to win. Losing is not an option. We all believe.

  I stop the moment my camera focuses on Nico and my brother. Nico’s hand held out, my brother looks around, his eyes working fast to see who is watching, and without a second thought, Noah pushes by Nico, moving his hand aside as he works his arm over his crutch and slings his body forward to catch up to Travis. The two of them walk out through the side door into the locker room, not once looking back, and never acknowledging the power of the celebration th
ey left behind.

  “It’s going to take time,” I say to Nico. He isn’t facing me, but I know he knows I was standing near him. He nods without speaking at first, smiling and shaking hands with more of the guys as they slowly exit the makeshift platform at the back of the gym. My dad is long gone, not one to press flesh with boosters who all have opinions. Nico knew his role, though, so he stayed. I stand with him, and I hold the camera up under the guise that all of this is for my film. I’m not even rolling by the end of it, though. I stayed because I didn’t want to leave.

  I didn’t want to leave him.

  Sasha and Colton are the last to head to the locker room, and Nico lingers behind.

  “I’ll catch up,” he says. Colton smirks at him, and I flush at the way his eyes take me in, assuming I’m something more than I really am to Nico.

  “Yeah, I gotcha,” Colton says.

  I let my camera dangle in my hand, wanting to keep the focus on everything in the small space between Nico’s eyes and mine.

  “How’d I do?” he asks, and I laugh on reflex.

  “Have you ever lost a debate?”

  Nico chuckles and his head dips down, pulling one side of his mouth in for a smile before leveling me with the gold in his eyes.

  “Do you always answer questions with questions?” he says.

  I smirk at him, tilting my head in response.

  “Sorry. You just left me that opening,” he says, swinging his hand forward into mine. My free hand moves without my permission when he does, catching the tips of his fingers in my own, and the sudden touch forces a jolt of air from my lungs, my mouth parting, a sharp exhale audible to both of us.

  Nico’s eyes haze as they focus on our flirting fingertips. He doesn’t dismiss me, but he doesn’t grasp my hand for certain, either. He lets our touch remain in this fleeting, awkward place where I completely submit and let him decide how hard we touch, how long and, most importantly, why.

  I glance from our hands to his mouth, to his jaw—my breath held as I watch his muscles work, his teeth holding his tongue at the front of his lips as they fight against smiling, fight against speaking.

  They just fight.

  They battle until they close, and his eyes flit open to mine with a hard swallow, our fingers still feathers dancing and barely holding on.

  “I’m scared of failing,” he says.

  I can feel his fear—it radiates; it’s in his touch and reflected in the way his eyes tilt with worry. He doesn’t blink, and I hold his stare and force my eyes to remain open, too. I don’t want to breathe too hard. I don’t want to startle him. I want to give him what he needs.

  Seconds pass, and every pass of his thumb and forefinger against mine pushes me forward, each press from one part of his hand on mine like a slow ballad being tapped out on a fragile piano. When his fingers stop moving, my breath hitches, and I react—clinging, my fingers wrapping around his, threading and squeezing tightly. The force is like when two magnets come together in just the right way, and I feel his arm grow stronger as mine falls apart, and when I can no longer squeeze and hold, he takes over—he takes my strength.

  “You won’t fail,” I say, our eyes not once leaving one another, my hand now gripped in his between us. My mouth whimpers a sound that is part cry and part laugh, the product of all of my fears and reservations mixing with confidence in this boy who has invaded me without warning—without asking.

  “You never do,” I say, the nerves that I’ve held in my chest pushing out, making my lips tremble with my words. I want my camera. I want the safety of living this part through the lens. I don’t want to be part of the story, but I am.

  I’m a part of Nico’s story. And he’s a part of mine. I believe in him. More than I’ve believed in anything, and the enormity of it makes my chest hurt. I ache, and I want to escape, my fingers numbed by his tight hold, my face hot under the reflection of his rapidly-growing smile. His dimple. His confidence.

  His power.

  “Nico.”

  The sound of his name. My father’s voice. Our hands drop, and when I shift to the side I see my father’s eyes down at the floor, his hands on his hips. I ball my fingers into a fist, savoring the feeling they had seconds ago, ashamed my dad caught us. Nico does the same, and when I see him flex his fingers, I worry he’s trying to rid himself of the memory.

  “Sorry sir. I’ll be right there,” he says. My father nods, and Nico looks to me, mouthing “thanks” before jogging to the door held open by my father’s foot. My dad pushes it open wider as Nico jogs through, then catches it with his hand before it closes, his eyes coming to meet mine for only a beat.

  My dad looks at me just long enough for me to know that he’s going to pretend he didn’t see us holding hands. He also looks at me in a way that lets me know he doesn’t approve. He’s gone behind the heavy blue door in a blink, and I open my hand wide again, brushing the tips of my fingers along the top of my other hand just to see if it feels anywhere close to the same.

  It doesn’t.

  Not even close.

  8

  The hype Nico infused in the team at the pep rally carried through the third quarter of the game. I have never seen the team look so gelled, so together as one on the field—at least on offense. The score, unfortunately, also tells a story about our defense, and with about four minutes to go, The Tradition sits at forty-six, while St. Margaret’s Prep trails only by four.

  I leave my camera posted on top of the press box and climb down the small set of steps to the bleachers, weaving through the crowd of students all standing with their arms raised—as they have for the last three minutes—until I get to the bottom, to Izzy. I just can’t handle watching the game alone any more. Even though I’m surrounded by coaches, it’s still lonely in the press box. And Coach O’Donahue has kept his mouth shut tight—I think inwardly rooting for Nico to fail. Every time I felt him make a wish for something to go wrong, I made two for something outstanding to happen. My wishes must carry more weight.

  “Hold that line, Tradition! H-O-L-D!”

  The cheer squad is shouting, and I can tell Izzy’s voice is hoarse. Even my best friend is more invested in this game than she’s ever been.

  I sit on edge of the bleachers, poking my legs through the front by the railing and resting my arms on the bar in the middle. I’m just high enough to see the play on the field, and the pass from St. Margaret’s quarterback is almost caught, broken up in the last minute by Sasha. I scream when it works, bumping my elbows on the metal bars—forgetting where I am.

  Nico is standing a few steps behind my father, his helmet on, but tipped so his face is exposed. He’s chewing on his mouthpiece nervously, his hands gripping at the pads by his neck while he sways with the countdown of the clock. On the far end of the field, near Travis, my brother is doing the same, his weight held by two crutches. They’re both almost in sync, the way they look to the clock, then to the field, over and over again as if they’re hoping to somehow speed it up.

  I’m watching them when it happens, I don’t have to look at the field to know that St. Margaret’s completed a pass. Their faces both look pained, and the roar from the other side of the field grows until it absolutely swallows us whole—our fans falling silent.

  “Block it, block it!”

  The guys all shuffle down the field as St. Margaret’s sets up to kick the extra point. Arms waving as those not on the field leap—including Nico—as if somehow they can jump and make a difference from here.

  They don’t. The ball sails through the uprights, and this game shifts into that precarious place with a minute and fifteen seconds on the clock. We can either win—or we lose or tie; despite those options, there’s really only one that anyone cares about at Cornwall. We win. Ties are losses. And no matter how great Nico was tonight, it won’t matter if that scoreboard doesn’t fall in our favor.

  He’ll lose the starting position.

  My father will lose control.

  And we’ll all sli
p deeper into the cesspool of whispers and snide remarks when we run into families from the school off campus.

  My father is holding Nico’s face close to his, his hands gripping both sides of his quarterback’s helmet, his jaw hard, veins exposed, his face red as he yells over the cacophony of screams, drums, and whistles from the refs who want to finish this game, and finish it now.

  I can’t hear him, and I wish I could because not once did I ever see him talk to my brother this way. He isn’t mad. He’s passionate right now. He’s…begging. Willing Nico to go out there and give him one more miracle, on a night that he’s thrown for three hundred yards.

  Nico jogs out to the guys waiting in the huddle, and the cheering around me grows even louder. My brother looks on, standing alone, at least a dozen feet away from the rest of the team. My heart breaks for him because he’s helpless. All he can do is watch. All any of us can do is watch.

  Nico’s hands gesture, moving to both ends of the field, up the middle, then coming to the center of the huddle in fists. He looks each of his teammates in the eyes, then, hands in the center, they all chant “break.” The Tradition all filter to their positions, Sasha and Travis both lining up on the far right side of the field. They are the speed, and if we have any shot at all, Nico is going to need to hit one of them.

  Nico begins to shout, raising his knee once on the count. He repeats everything again, his eyes on his opponents, assessing them and every tiny move they make. He moves in closer to Colton, his hands ready, then shouts something different, his line shifting maybe a second before the ball is snapped, never once offsides, but on the edge enough to force St. Margaret’s to scramble to play catch-up. The move buys Nico a precious extra second, his feet falling into step, his legs carrying the defense to the opposite end while Travis and Sasha divide and sprint forty yards out.