The Hard Count

by Ginger Scott

  “He asked me about you,” she says, and I look from my lap to her in an instant. “Yeah, I thought that would get you. I knew he wasn’t into me. That night at Charlie’s, after I left you in the bathroom, I ran into Nico. His very first question was if you were all right.”

  “He was probably just worried because Noah was being…Noah,” I say, still not ready to admit that Nico feels remotely the same way for me as I do for him.

  “He asked about you several times, Reagan. And when he saw you talking to Sasha? On that bench? He did not like that…at all!”

  I smile with her last few words, looking down at my hands, which are nervously zipping and unzipping the camera bag, then looking back at my friend, meeting her eyes.

  “He didn’t?” I bite my lip.

  “Nope,” she says, pushing up straight and wiggling her head in a triumphant display.

  “Are you still going to the dance?” I ask, hoping that my friend will be there. I can’t rely on Nico alone. I need allies, people to stand awkwardly with me on the sidelines, to dance badly to pop songs and to sneak out balloons meant to be decorations. This is what Izzy and I did at last year’s homecoming. I was looking forward to the repeat, and I don’t want a boy to get in the way.

  “Of course I’m going. Uhm, hello…someone gets a crown!” I roll my eyes because Izzy won’t win, but every time there’s a dance with pretend royalty, she acts like she has it all sewn up. My brother and his girlfriend Katie were the frontrunners, last I heard, but I haven’t seen them together in days. I’m not sure if that matters to the voting student body, but maybe…just maybe it will play in Izzy’s favor.

  I chew at the inside of my cheek and glance from my friend to my lap a few times before squinting and looking up at her again.

  “He really asked about me?”

  She closes her eyes and laughs.

  “Yes, he really asked about you,” she says, grinning through her words, but cocking her head to the side the second she finishes, her smile falling. “But…what’s his deal today?”

  “What do you mean?” I ask, my brow pinched.

  “He wasn’t here at all. He missed the entire day, and word on the street is Brandon might get the start tonight,” my friend says.

  I pull my phone from my pocket, hoping for some message. There isn’t one, though. I haven’t given Nico my number yet, and the only person who ever calls me is sitting next to me right now.

  “I knew he missed humanities, but I just figured he was excused, or maybe left early with the team,” I say, looking around the quickly-emptying student lot. Sasha’s car is in its place, and Travis’s Jeep is here, which means they’re accounted for. I stand, lifting my camera bag with me, and I start to wonder if Nico made it on the bus or not.

  “I guess we’ll find out. You’re going to the game, right?”

  I nod in response, my mind now lost to wondering where Nico is and if he’s okay. A few of the other cheerleaders walk up, nodding hello to me, so I excuse myself and walk to the film room to tug on the door. It opens easily; I step inside, my eyes adjusting to the darkness until I can find the switch to flip on the lights.

  “Hello? Anyone still here?”

  My voice echoes, and I don’t expect anyone to respond. My dad travels with the team, and most of his coaching staff does, too. I yell out a few more times, testing the room before walking to my dad’s office near the back. My dad doesn’t keep secrets in this building, so I know it’s safe to inspect his office. The only clue I get is the list of ineligibles on his desk, and there’s only one name listed under truancy—Noah Prescott.

  Maybe Izzy’s wrong. Or maybe she only has half the story. I decide the latter is probably the most likely, and I close up the office and film room, flipping down the lights as I exit the building just in time to see the cheer squad pulling out of the lot.

  I walk to my car with a little more speed than normal, anxious to get to Metahill to see if Nico’s warming up or Brandon. When my hand hits my car door handle, I pause, something catching my eye on Sasha’s silver car parked only a few spaces away. I let go of the handle of my car and move to his, realizing the closer I get that the blue thing flapping against his window is actually paper.

  Pulling up the windshield wiper, I tug the paper clear and unfold it so I can read whatever message is scribed on it in black marker.

  Your boy ain’t playing tonight. And you’re going to get your ass flattened.

  I look in both directions, the lot empty and the building behind me now completely quiet. I crumple the note up, knowing Sasha probably never saw it before the bus left, and not wanting to leave it behind for him to find later. I drop it in a trash bin near one of the parking lot light poles between our two cars, and I get into mine, backing out so quickly my tires squeal. I pull away from the school fast, and by the time I make it to Metahill, my dad and his team are just taking the field for warm-ups.

  My mother came along with Linda, Travis’s mom. They almost always ride together. Travis’s parents are divorced, but his mom kept the house. Our mothers grew close when that happened, and they both serve on the booster board together. Sometimes, I wonder if Mom talks to her about leaving Dad. Football, when it’s played like this? It has a way of tearing up families.

  I pared my equipment down for tonight’s game. I have my small video camera that I’ll set up on top of the press box, but I left the heavier one that I use for interviews at home. Tonight, I want to focus on still photos. Bob, the team trainer, set me up with one of the state certified press passes, so I should be able to get on the field—at least for a little while.

  I stop at the front of the bleachers, where my mom is setting up her bleacher pad along with Travis’s mom. My mom and I aren’t close. It’s not that we fight or that I resent her or harbor any angst. We just aren’t close. I’ve always been more interested in the things my dad does. My mom has always been more interested in doting after Noah. My father rides Noah hard, and he’s soft and sweet with me. Such is the Prescott family circle, I suppose.

  “You planning to take some nice shots of the team tonight sweetheart?”

  My mom is probably pointing out my access to the field to show off to the few other parents who are setting up their seats around her. Travis’s mom is used to it, and she smiles at me amiably then busies herself with her phone. A few of the others oooh and ahhh at my camera, asking me questions about my project, my plans after high school, and what my angle for the film will be.

  “I needed some still shots to fill in some of the voiceover, and I just kind of like the effect,” I say, my mom’s smile outlined with bright-red lipstick and wide eyes. Her ears didn’t hear a single thing I just said.

  “Sure hope this film has a happy ending, unlike last season,” one of the older men, sitting a few rows up, says.

  My mom’s eyes flinch, and her smile shifts at his words, but she keeps her appearance up—as always. Coach’s wife is the ultimate cheerleader. She’s also the ultimate liar.

  “Oh, now…last season was old news. I think this year is shaping up to be pretty exciting. Chad says the boys are really gelling,” my mom lies. I know it’s a lie, and most of the people listening do, too, but nobody seems to want to call her on it. Or at least, I don’t think they do, until I lean forward to hug my mom and hear the same older man contradict her.

  “That’s not what I’m hearing,” he says. My mom’s hands grab at my sides, so I squeeze back, then rub my hand in a circle on her shoulder, signaling that I heard him, too.

  “I hear that new kid from West End is a show boat. That’s what my grandson says, anyway. Such a shame Noah got hurt the way he did. I bet he really could have used a good season to prove last year wasn’t all his fault,” the old man says, clearing his throat with a harsh cough that rattles something deep in his chest. He chuckles to himself while he stands and pulls a pack of cigarettes from his back pocket. “Hell, I bet you all could have used Noah to have a good run. But maybe this will end up workin
g out. What do I know. I’m gonna go get a smoke. You wanna come, Bern?”

  The old man nods to the heavier man sitting next to him, but he just waves him on, uninterested. My mom’s smile has shifted to the restrained kind, and she responds only with shrugs and head tilts. It’s her way of dealing with it, pretending she doesn’t understand the intricacies of the game. I know better. Lauren Prescott was a University of Alabama cheerleader, which is where she met my father. He was a receiver—second string. When I was little, she was very involved in my dad’s game-day plan. It was the talk of the dinner table, and I loved every second of it. Somewhere along the way, though, an invisible line was drawn, and our dinner table became quiet—except for bitter quips and digs about alienating us from the boosters or planning expensive parties to ignore real problems.

  “Well, I know Chad’s really excited to see what Nicolas can do,” my mom says. Nobody is really listening any more, but I have to correct her anyway.

  “He goes by Nico,” I say.

  “Oh, like a nickname. How nice,” she says.

  Yes. How nice. And you’ll get to meet him, after he takes me to the dance next Friday, and you can pretend you knew his name all along, or worse—be all of those things that Noah says you are. Be…racist.

  I did not inherit my mom’s ability to pretend, so I leave before I have to, excusing myself to the press box where I set up my camera and begin to scan the field in search of Nico’s profile. I find him quickly—up front—between Sasha and Colton. I’m not sure what happened to him today, or where he went, but he seems to be cleared to play. At the very least, he was allowed to dress.

  Once my video camera is set, I power it down to save space for the game film, then take the bleachers two steps at a time until I get to the field. The air is crisp tonight, the slight breeze enough to turn my fingers pink. I tug my Cornwall sweatshirt from around my waist and slip it on over my long-sleeved black T-shirt that hangs below the sweatshirt’s bottom. I’m grateful for the extra fabric when the wind picks up, cutting through my thin leggings and sending shivers over my body despite my attempt to dress warm.

  I decide to move around the field to get my heartrate up, so I jog to the far end and lie on the grass, taking shots of the team stretching, of my father talking with his staff—of him having a more private and stern conversation with Coach O’Donahue. I zoom in, thinking I might just be able to read their lips, but my view isn’t clear enough. My father holds up a hand, turning his back on Coach O’Donahue, who stands still for several long seconds before shaking his head and slipping out a swear word on his way to the sidelines.

  When the cheerleaders begin to trail onto the track, I walk the long way around the field up to Izzy, nodding toward Nico so she sees he’s here.

  “Huh, he must have had a really good excuse for missing,” she says, shrugging it off.

  “Yeah,” I say, pulling the camera up to my eye, focusing on Nico’s face while the team gathers in two halves—defense and offense.

  My father and Nico talk, and it’s off-to-the-side and quiet, away from the others. There’s a moment where my dad puts his hand on Nico’s shoulder, their heads coming in close—a beautiful display of mutual respect. My brother never had that.

  My brother never had that.

  I scan the sidelines, finally seeing Noah. He’s alone, balanced on his crutches, a water bottle in his hands, his eyes watching Nico take his place. My brother is so broken and bitter. I would be, too. If only he knew Nico more, I think it would help. I think he would root for him. But then…maybe not.

  The crowd is beginning to fill in empty spaces, so I leave Izzy and the others and climb back to my corner on the roof of the press box. Coach O’Donahue is already standing on the other end, his headset on and his own camera filming the team. His head turns while I step up the final rung of the ladder and position myself behind my camera.

  I feel his eyes on me for several seconds before he speaks.

  “You going to be filming every single one of these games?” he asks.

  I keep my eyes on my viewfinder, pretending to tune the focus.

  “Yeah, I plan on it,” I say.

  His eyes are still watching me. I can sense it—see from my periphery that he’s studying me—and eventually I can’t pretend I have anything to do other than look back at him. I smile when I do, but it’s the careful kind I give someone I don’t trust.

  “I could just give you my film. No sense in two of us being up here,” he says. It doesn’t come out as a kind gesture at all, or maybe I read it that way.

  “It wouldn’t match. My camera films in HD. But…thanks,” I say, taking pleasure in the fact that his eyes fall a tick in disappointment.

  “All right then,” he says, after a few seconds pass. He flips a toothpick around in his mouth, and his eyebrows lift as he shifts his focus back out to the field.

  The entire first half passes without another word from him to me, only his chatter to the coaching staff below, reading the other team and trying to predict for defense. While we don’t talk, though, I catch him watching me every few minutes. It’s usually after he says something in the radio, or when he criticizes Nico, or a passing play. I never once react physically to his words, but I do pull my phone out and text Izzy when his comments become almost unbearable.

  ME: I don’t think Brandon’s uncle is a big fan of Nico.

  Izzy usually has her phone in her bag, so I know she’ll get my message at some point. I just need someone to commiserate with, and I hope she sees what I’m seeing.

  Nico is struggling. He just can’t seem to find time, to get his footing right. He can throw, but the coverage is too tight. Sasha can’t break free, and Travis…he isn’t trying. Nico’s been sacked three times, and had the ball stripped once, and the scoreboard is proof that something is wrong. We’re down twenty-one to seven, but we’re making a good run right now. It’s almost halftime, and somehow—through a fifteen-yard run on his own and one pass that manages to find Sasha’s hands—Nico has us twenty yards out.

  We need this touchdown.

  He needs this touchdown.

  I move to the field, leaving Coach O’Donahue and my camera behind. I slip through the railing on the bleachers near Izzy, sitting on the small bench behind the cheer squad while they hold their hands linked as they stand behind the sidelines, urging the rest of the crowd to follow and have faith that the Tradition will score. I glance behind me to see my mother standing, but no one else from her camp. Most of the students are up on their feet, but the rest of the stands are a group divided.

  They want him to fail.

  “Come on, Nico. You can do this!” I shout, my voice raspy, I scream the words so loudly. I move to the edge of the field, making use of my pass, and when one of the coaches looks at me suspiciously, I hold the pass up like a shield. He rolls his eyes, but I don’t care.

  I sit on the corner, near the other team’s end zone, and I zoom in with my camera, snapping shots of Nico waiting for the ball. He’s calling the count—he’s shifting the offense.

  They’re out of place, but Colton snaps on signal as he’s told, and Nico has to fight. Colton holds the middle, but the line crumbles around him, and Nico has to run. He leaps over one defender, only to find another waiting for him. Completely exposed, the clock ticking down to the last two seconds, Nico makes one final push.

  He’s hit so hard that his helmet flies off. Whistles blare as I stand to my feet, my chest heaving in panicked breath. The referees run in, hands waving, and Bob sprints to the middle of the field with water and his medical bag tugged against his side.

  He makes it to Nico, pushing people away to give him room, but before he can tell Nico to lie flat, he’s on his feet, charging toward Travis and a guy named Zach, who was supposed to protect his left side. Zach’s a three-time all-state left tackle. He doesn’t miss, though he’s frequently called with penalties—for holding. He didn’t hold anyone during that last play. He let them right through.

/>   Chaos settles in fast, Nico’s hands flying to Zach’s chest, shoving, while Travis grabs Nico’s pads. The rivalries make themselves apparent quickly, Colton sticking up for Nico and Sasha, Travis and several of the other guys shoving to get into the circle, pushing and throwing punches. The referees start tugging on collars, pulling players apart, and my father and his staff do the same. Eventually, my dad is standing between Travis and Nico, one hand on each of them, his clipboard at his feet and his face burning red in anger and frustration.

  “Get your asses in that locker room…now!”

  My father’s voice carries over the hushed field and stadium. It takes the team several seconds, but eventually they all relax their tense muscles and begin to file toward the end of the field, to the visitor’s locker room, in a straight line.

  I snap a few photos as they walk past me, Nico’s face hard and his eyes set on the guy in front of him. He doesn’t even notice I’m here.

  I pull my feet in as the rest of the team passes, a few of them glancing at me, but only briefly. The coaches walk by, and I begin to trail behind everyone, when my father stops me, his hand heavy on my shoulder, urging me to stay put.

  “Sit this one out, Reagan,” he says. My eyes meet his briefly, and I nod with a tiny movement.

  I watch them all disappear behind the heavy doors, and I imagine the words being said the moment they close. My father always has something to say—the right thing to say. I don’t know what that could possibly be now, though.

  I walk back to my mom, who is talking with Travis’s mom and a few of the others. There are whispers about changing to Brandon, about how something isn’t right. A few women tell my mom they’re worried for her husband. “This must be so hard on Chad,” they say. My mom smiles and thanks them, assuring them he can handle it.

  He can handle it. But can she? The crack in her armor shows, and I think others can see it in the small slant of worry in her eyes, the constant repetition of “it’s going to be okay.”