by Ginger Scott
The clock is at fifty-six seconds; Nico stops hard, changing direction and shirking two defenders, one gripping his pads and nearly pulling him off balance. His feet recover quickly, and his speed only grows with the close call. He works his way back to the center, the ball clutched in both hands as he pumps once…twice…getting his timing just right, waiting just long enough until he lets it go right before a defender’s hands find the center of his chest, shoving him to the ground so hard he bounces and skids. Nico pushes his tackler off him so he can get to his knees to watch as his best friend runs as fast as he can, his right hand out as the ball begins its decent. My head works to calculate the angle, and it seems so impossible.
Tradition players crowd down the field, running in step with him, bodies low and crouched with hope until they explode in leaps, arms pumping as they all chant “Go! Go! Go!”
I can’t see Sasha through the bodies, but I do see Nico. He’s on his feet in a blink, his arms over his head as he rushes toward the rest of his team, the crowd behind me the loudest they’ve been tonight. I know he pulled it off. I don’t need to see the scoreboard. I only need to see the sheer elation exuded in every step Nico takes until his chest collides with his best friend’s, the ball that a breath ago passed into the end zone still clutched in Sasha’s hand. Sasha lifts Nico, who hugs his friend’s helmeted head, his palm patting it in pride. This is what makes football great. The moments when impossible happens; the boys who make impossible happen.
My eyes scan the field while our team kicks an extra point, and as I trail down the sidelines to where my brother stands, I see a different emotion. His hand runs over his face, and his jaw hangs open. Travis runs up, raising a hand that Noah takes, clutching it as they come together to bump chests. My brother smiles when Travis celebrates, but he doesn’t give him everything. He holds something back.
Envy.
I get lost watching it—not really coming out of the scene my eyes can’t seem to tear themselves away from until I feel a tug on my dangling feet. I startle and look to see the top of Izzy’s head. She steps up on a block below me so we can look eye to eye, her hair teased out in a ponytail, her face sprinkled with golden glitter.
“That was seriously the best game we’ve ever had!”
Her red lips stretch into an enormous grin, and her eyes are vibrant, almost twinkling like the gold on her skin. She talks rapidly, her hands moving with every word.
“Oh my God, Reagan. Seriously…I thought we were going to lose, and then no…Nico just says no, and it’s like awesome, and he almost gets tackled and then he doesn’t and then he throws the ball. I mean, that was far, right? So far!”
I giggle the more she talks, and eventually she smacks my bare knees playfully.
“Don’t make fun of me. I’m excited!” she says.
“I’m not,” I say through laughter. “It’s just…I watched the game, too. You don’t need to give me the play-by-play.”
“Right,” she says, nodding with a short breath, lips closed in a tight smile. I hold her gaze for a second, and then roll my eyes.
“Go ahead,” I say.
“Oh, thank God. I just can’t quit talking about it. That was seriously the best thing I’ve ever seen. And Sasha is so fast! And Nico…oh my God, Nico! Reagan, he is so freaking hot!”
I force the same look on my face, but the second she shifts from being excited about the game to being excited about Nico, my body does the strangest thing. My skin goes numb, and there’s a rush through my veins that feels like morphine—tingling until my stomach drops and clenches. She’s talking so fast that I hope she doesn’t notice the small flinch that I can’t control. I blink it away.
He’s hot. She thinks he’s hot. It’s nothing. It’s just the game. The excitement.
I preach to myself over and over, but my friend mentions Nico one more time before she’s done. And I can’t lie to myself this time.
“I am so into him, Reagan. He better be going to Charlie’s for after-game,” she says, and I get to my feet, letting my eyes focus on the rail I hold, on getting my feet back under my body, on the crowd exiting behind and around me. I turn so I face them, and I keep my eyes down while my head begs “no!”
I’m not sure what that no means—no, Izzy cannot be interested in Nico, or no, I should not care. I think it’s both.
“Hey, I’ll meet you at Charlie’s, okay? I have to go change!” my friend shouts from the field level. I raise my hand with a thumbs up, and I turn enough to see her grab her pom-poms and weave through the stream of friends and family all making their way out to the field.
The stands empty quickly, and I give a polite nod to Coach O’Donahue as we pass on my way back into the press box to get my camera.
“Hell of a game,” he says.
“Sure was,” I say, turning to watch his back as he takes the steps down one at a time. He’s faking, too. I recognize it, because that’s the way I walked away from Izzy—like everything’s fine. He wanted Nico to fail, and he’s going to want that every single Friday until it happens.
I get back to the press box rooftop and my hands grip my camera, turning it to power it down and begin packing up, but my sideways glance also catches a glimpse of Nico…and Izzy. I leave the camera running and point it on my surveillance targets, every piece of me feeling childish, just not enough to stop. I look through the lens, but can only tell Nico is smiling and Izzy’s head is bopping up and down, her hands still wild and her hair vibrating with every word she says.
I almost quit watching, but then Alyssa comes running up, and Nico bends down, sweeping his niece into his arms, holding her on his hip and nuzzling noses with her. He looks to Izzy and says something, and Izzy hands Alyssa one of her pom-poms, which she grips and shakes against her chest. The sick feeling rushes back, so I drop my camera lower and power off, promising myself not to look again.
I keep the promise, packing and carrying my equipment to the film room, dropping most of my things in the locker in my father’s office so I can keep them safe while I go to Charlie’s. I’ll pick them up again over the weekend. I keep the small handheld camera out, holding it in my lap while I shuffle to the training table in the back of the room, sliding into my familiar seat, my legs stretched out in front of me and my father’s favorite assistant and trainer, Bob Melch, by my side.
“Hey, Reagan. You get that dandy of a game on film?” Bob asks.
I smile and nod.
“Sure did,” I say.
He places his large, wrinkled hand on my shoulder and pats down twice. Probably even more than my dad, Bob is excited about the film I’m making. He’s been the trainer here for two decades, and this year—it’s his last. While most of the members of the coaching staff fall into that football-coach stereotype, Bob bucks the trend. He has sixteen grandkids, and not a single one of them plays football. I asked him about it once, and he told me he’d rather they got into the arts—or took up film, like me.
“This right here? It’s just a game. What matters are the relationships inside of it,” he told me.
I was maybe thirteen when we had that talk, and I’ve never forgotten those words. I hope I never do. I wish my brother heard them. I’m not sure he would understand, though. Noah’s programmed to win, and the rest doesn’t really matter much to him.
It’s almost twenty minutes before everyone is showered and sitting on the rows of benches in front of my dad. His arms are folded, the playbook still tucked under his forearm. He hasn’t changed positions since he entered this room several minutes ago, looking up only slightly to congratulate certain players on specific plays he thinks they went above and beyond on. His mouth is a hard line, and his players begin to quiet as they nudge each other until the room becomes so still that I hesitate to breathe.
“Congratulations,” my dad says.
Several seconds pass without a response. He doesn’t want one. They know. No shouts, no “hoorahs” right now. They look him in the eyes and he nods, taking in the youn
g, naïve faces in front of him.
My head falls forward to check my camera view, and I zoom in tighter on my dad.
He lets his arms move to his sides, the playbook clutched in his right hand where he taps it against his thigh.
“You’re not celebrating. That’s…that’s good. I was afraid this would be harder, but I’m glad to see that you recognize what this really is…what…tonight…really was.”
I register a few swallows by players in the row closest to me. Nico is at the front, nearest to my dad, his head down and eyes at the place where my father’s shoes hit the floor.
“Defense,” my dad begins, pausing to breathe in deeply through his nose. “Boys, tonight was pitiful. I’d like you all to line up here right now. Come on. Line up. Up front. On your feet!”
Players look around the room, staring in one another’s faces, as members of our defensive squad get to their feet and amble toward the front of the room, standing in a line facing my father, their backs to the rest of us.
“Gentleman,” my dad says. My heart is beating with the power of a sports car’s engine as I wait for his voice to rise, for the shouting to begin. I knew my dad would not be happy with just winning. Winning—that closely—is still failing in a lot of eyes around here, and even though Coach O’Donahue is his point on defense, the responsibility falls squarely on my dad’s shoulders.
“Turn around,” my dad says, his voice sterner, but still in control.
I zoom out to capture the entire line of juniors and seniors, many of the faces those I grew up with, all standing bulky shoulder to shoulder, freshly showered, but still showing the red, purple and blue cuts and bruises from the field.
“I’d like you each to shake Nico’s hand. One at a time. And I want you to thank him,” my dad says, the words coming out through gritted teeth. “You thank him for saving your sorry asses! For turning around your shit performance and somehow pulling something out of his ass with less than a minute in the game! You apologize for putting him in that position, for putting us in danger, and then you get your shit, go home, and show up here again at five in the morning and prepare to work!”
“Yes sir!”
The response is in unison, and the handshakes commence, each more awkward and full of fear than the last. Nico doesn’t respond, and his jaw flexes with every new grip, his eyes flitting from face to face, and his mouth growing tighter every time.
As soon as the final shake is done, the defensive squad, minus Sasha, who my father had play both ways, slips through the side door into the locker room. My father waits as the door shuts, walking close to the door to listen, to see if anyone dares to speak when they think they’re safe. Satisfied that they don’t, he turns to face the rest of the room.
“Nico,” he says.
Nico nods, his eyes still on the closed door behind the line of guys my father just shamed.
“Game ball,” my dad says, catching the toss from one of his assistant coaches and pitching it to Nico’s hands. “You earned it. It doesn’t mean shit, because now we look to next week.”
“Yes, sir,” Nico says.
Their eyes freeze on one another in a short standoff until my dad looks out around the room.
“Go home,” my dad says, leaving without another word, his office door slamming shut behind him.
I let my camera roll while everyone’s slow to move at first, eventually grabbing their bags or belongings and standing. I close my camera and slide from the table, passing by Colton, Travis, and my brother who are lingering outside my father’s door.
“I wouldn’t go in there,” my brother laughs.
I meet his eyes, and for the first time I can remember, I see something unkind in them. He’s almost reveling in the spiral, loving that things weren’t quite perfect without him. And there’s something a little menacing in his stare, too. I don’t respond, instead opening my father’s door and letting it close behind me. I don’t speak, moving right to the locker and placing my small camera in the bag with my other things, clicking the door closed and fastening the lock.
“You can pick it up Saturday. I’ll be here early,” my dad says, his eyes down at the paperwork in his hands which are resting in the fakest pose ever on his desk. He’s looking at spreadsheets, and I know he’s not really looking at anything.
“Okay,” I say, moving back to the door.
“Are you going to Charlie’s tonight?” he asks. I pause with my hand on the door handle and nod.
“I was thinking about it,” I say, my answer honest. I’d planned on going with Izzy until my stomach twisted seeing her talk to Nico. Now I kind of want to go home and sit in the shower until the hot water disappears and my body can’t stand the cold.
“Nico going?” my dad asks, his eyes raising slightly from the papers, but not fully to me. His question catches me off guard, and I shift my weight.
“I…I don’t know,” I say.
He nods a few times, then glances up at me through raised brows.
“I don’t want you giving him a ride home,” he says, and he waits for my response.
My brow pinches, and I let out a short breath through my nose, but nod in agreement.
“Okay,” I say, turning my full attention to the door and leaving.
My brother and Travis are gone, probably already on their way to Charlie’s. The parking lot gets full fast, with families and players crowding in for the free ice cream the owners give out after wins. We always pack the lot until midnight, until the neon lights are shut off, and sometimes well past then.
And tonight is the first one ever that Nico Medina will be there for any of it.
I snag the last spot in the lot. It’s near the alley, and it isn’t really a parking spot, but I know nobody is picking up the trash this late on a Friday night. I have to slide against the metal garbage bin to get out because I have to park so close. I’m sure I’ve smudged some dirt on my white shirt, but I brush the front and worry less about the back as I get closer to the party.
A few girls I recognize say hi, but I don’t stop until I get to my favorite picnic table closest to the building. Izzy is already sitting on the table, the straw from her chocolate shake lodged between her teeth as she tugs it free from her cup with her mouth then pokes it back in for a new position.
“Hands free, huh?” I tease as I sit next to her.
“My hands get cold, so I leave all the work up to my mouth,” she says, just loud enough that Travis hears and stops at our table to comment.
“I can give your pretty mouth a work out, Izz. Whataya say?” Travis reaches into his pants as if he’s really going to do anything. Izzy waits him out, not even blushing with embarrassment, and eventually he has to push his hands in his pockets and laugh to avoid feeling foolish.
“My mouth will never touch any part of any of you, Travis Wickersham,” my friend says, her lips wrapping over her straw then slowly stretching into a closed-mouth grin. She sucks in a taste of chocolate while Travis looks on, and he holds his hand over his chest.
“You break my heart, Izzy. But I’ll get over it,” he laughs.
“She just won’t give in because my sister is in love with you,” my brother says, his voice behind me and instantly sending my head three years into the past and my temper a dozen levels hotter.
“Noah!” I shout, twisting in my seat to look him in the eyes, only to notice Nico is just over his shoulder, hearing everything.
“Awe, there’s enough of me to go around, Reagan, but I don’t think your brother will approve,” Travis chuckles.
My eyes flare and dart from person to person, in quick panic. All I want is for this to stop, for my brother and Travis to move on, for the subject to change. This friendly banter—or not-so-friendly at the moment—is typical Prescott-twin activity. My brother and I have been pushing each other’s buttons since the days of long car rides to our grandparents’ lake house in the summer. We’ve always been competitive—even though our skills don’t match. I’m the one who g
ets straight As and takes first prize at the science fair, and Noah hits the ball over the fence in Little League. We fight over shelf space, over whose trophy, medal, certificate—whatever symbol of our achievement—gets to take up more real estate and is placed in the very center of the mantle.
But there’s something in my brother’s tone tonight—an edge that’s just a little different. Something…bitter. When I step in closer, mostly to keep my brother’s voice down, I realize he’s also working on a pretty nice buzz, the smell of whiskey from our dad’s favorite stash, strong. I’ve gotten used to this smell over the last year, too. It’s on him when he crawls into the house from parties—it was on him the night he crashed the car, too.
“You’re on pain meds, Noah. Don’t be an idiot; what are you thinking,” I say, doing my best to keep my voice a whisper, but gritting the words through my teeth so he can see how serious I am—how disappointed I am.
I can almost see it coming before I’m hit with it, but I’m not fast enough. My brother’s hand grabs my shoulder, and he pushes me out of his face.
“You’re not my fucking babysitter, Reagan! You have such an enormous stick up your ass. Always Miss Perfect. Oh, look at me, Daddy. I’m making a movie. Can I make a movie about you? Guess what, Reagan? Nobody gives a shit about your dumb-ass documentary—not even Dad! He just wants you to be busy, and he’s always complaining about how you get in the way out on the field. The coaches fucking hate that you’re in the press box. What are you going to do when you go to college and realize that the only people who think you’re talented at all are fucking related to you?”
My fingers tingling, my face red, I glance around to see dozens of eyes on me—including Nico’s. I clench my jaw to keep my emotions as even as I can, and I stand, but the little girl who doesn’t want to let her brother get away with it gets the best of me, and I let my shoulder fall just enough into my brother as I pass that I nudge his arm from his crutch, causing him to hop.
“Asshole,” I say under my breath.
“Bitch,” he says back without pause. His word comes out crisp and loud, and it stabs like a knife. I stop in my tracks instantly, my hand swelling with blood. I’ve never wanted to hit him. I’ve never hated him so much.