The Hard Count

by Ginger Scott

Is it?

  When I notice Izzy walking over to the cheer bench with a small bag of chips and a soda, I walk over to sit with her, wanting to avoid the chatter happening amongst the boosters. She tears the bag open and tilts it toward me, so I grab three or four chips and begin nibbling on them.

  “That was bad,” she says after a few minutes of silence. The band has started to play, which drowns out a lot of the chatter I still feel like I can hear from the people in the stands.

  “Yeah,” I agree. I pop an entire chip in my mouth and let the crunching sound drown out my thoughts. It works for a few seconds, but when I’m done chewing, my mind is thinking about the note I found again.

  “It’s like there are spies, or defectors or…I don’t know, I can’t think of a really good war analogy, but it’s clear that not everyone is on Nico’s team,” she says, turning her gaze to me and holding the soda out. I grab it and take a drink, swallowing slowly.

  “Someone left Sasha a note,” I say, turning to meet her eyes again. She tilts her head. “I found it, right before I came here. It was kind of threatening, and it basically said all of this was going to happen.”

  “Shit, Reagan. Like, they’re bullying Nico?”

  I shrug my shoulders, and Izzy shakes her head.

  We both stare at the field, watching the other school’s band form shapes and blare their horns for about six minutes, playing to the home stands on the other side. When they begin the fight song, Izzy stands, knowing that our team—in whatever form that might be right now—is about to come out for the second half.

  “Boys are stupid,” she says, not looking at me as she walks away.

  I chuckle to myself, but not for long. I pull my legs up and finish my friend’s chips, rolling the bag into a ball and tucking it in my back pocket, noticing my phone. I pull it out to find a message from her, replying to the one I sent earlier.

  IZZY: I think they’re trying to push Nico out. I heard one of the coaches tell your dad it’s time to pull him.

  I read her words a few times, sighing heavily each time I finish. Nico is better than all of them, but believing in him is going to ruin my dad.

  When the quarter starts, I climb back to the top of the press box, and I don’t allow myself to look at Coach O’Donahue, even though I feel him staring at me.

  Nico’s face is the same hardened one that marched to the locker room. It matches the expression on everyone’s face. The only person who seems to be fired up is Sasha. He’s moving from player to player, patting their backs and helmets, trying to rile them up, to get them to come alive. He’s getting absolutely no response, though, and the more I watch, the more worried I become.

  We start with the ball, and just like the last half, our side goes three and out. Nico doesn’t get sacked, but despite how hard he scrambles, he just isn’t able to make that ball move ten yards. Our kicker moves the ball far, so I hold onto hope that our defense will be able to hold the other team, to give us a fighting chance.

  “It’s time, Chad,” I hear Coach O’Donahue say. I don’t look at him. I don’t want him to know I’m really listening. There are four or five of us up here now, but his voice still carries. “The kid isn’t getting it done. Let’s let Brandon take a shot, maybe a different approach will work.”

  I watch the field as our defense slips, letting the Metahill team move to midfield. They’re almost in field goal range at the very least.

  “Chad, you need to let this go! Get over your goddamned failed experiment, would you?”

  Coach O’Donahue is turning to face the parking lot behind us, trying to be more discreet, whispering through clenched teeth into his headpiece. “Come on, Chad. If you can’t make this call, people are going to want more things to change…not just what’s on the field.”

  My jaw grows rigid, and I grind my back teeth together hard while my hands clutch the metal of my tripod.

  “Shit!”

  I glance to the side enough to see Coach O’Donahue pull his headset from his ears. He’s running his hand over his face, fuming. I turn my attention back to the field before he catches me watching.

  Another play by the other team gains six or seven yards, and my father holds up his clipboard, smacking it with his hand over his head repeatedly, trying to get someone’s attention. I watch the disarray, his players not really knowing where to go or what to do, and my dad finally calls a time out.

  The defense comes to the side slowly, but my dad meets them several yards onto the field. He urges the players on the sideline to come out with him, and he pulls everyone in close. I zoom in to see his hands moving wildly, more smacking of the clipboard until eventually it cracks in half. My father drops the pieces to the ground and holds his hands out, his eyebrows lifted high.

  He breaks the team and sends the defense back out, only this time, I notice that Nico and Sasha are both out there. Nico…his quarterback.

  I lean forward to look at the crowd, seeing the whispers I expected to see. My mother gets to her feet, her hands clutched in front of her. I don’t need to see her face to know what expression she’s making.

  The play goes off, and our defense battles, Nico breaking through on the right, Sasha on the left. Their quarterback stumbles, and Sasha capitalizes, gripping the guy’s arm, dragging him to the ground, the ball popping loose into Nico’s hands.

  It’s sixty yards, and the people in his way seem too numerous, but he takes them one at a time, sprinting to the middle, spinning loose, twisting. The only person trailing Nico down the field is Sasha, running just as fast, diving, and tripping up the only other player on the Metahill team that possibly had a shot at catching them. The crowd in the stands starts to hum, the sound of anticipation growing to screams and chants of “go” the closer Nico gets to the end zone, until his feet are finally inside.

  He takes a few more long strides through the middle, holding the ball in one hand and jogging through the end zone to the referee, handing him the ball, then running to the sidelines where my father waits to smack his helmet and shout “good job!”

  Nico heads to the water, guzzling while our kicking team takes the field. My father comes over again and stares at him, talking to him, encouraging him to breathe—to rest.

  “That was amazing,” I say, turning to Coach O’Donahue. His headpiece is still off, and his fingers are pinching the bridge of his nose. He pauses to look at me, his eyes barely open, just enough to show his disgust.

  “That was a goddamned circus trick; that’s what that was,” he says, slipping his gear back in place and adjusting his posture, as if he just hit some reset button and is ready to go again.

  “Well, it beats quitting,” I say, meaning that in every single way a person could take it.

  He doesn’t look at me again.

  The Tradition wins twenty-eight to twenty-one, and Nico ends up playing both ways for several plays. Another interception from Sasha helps tie the game, then Nico runs in the final play with a few minutes left on the clock. Our defense holds them to win.

  The walk to the bus is quiet. I film it, but stop, because it makes me sad. We just won a tough game, and nobody is celebrating. They aren’t celebrating because their egos are mad about petty shit that doesn’t matter. I don’t even know why half of them have decided to work against Nico, but I know the reason can’t possibly be rational. It’s spiteful, and it’s built up on rumors and lies, I’m sure.

  Near the end of the bus, I hear a woman squeal a happy sound, so I turn and see Nico being embraced by his mother, Alyssa wrapped around his leg. A man who looks a lot like him, only many years older, stands with his hand on Nico’s shoulder, facing him and nodding silently. Nico glances in my direction, and I smile, lifting my hand for a subtle wave. I didn’t want to interrupt his family, but he jogs over to me, gripping my hand in his and urging me toward them.

  “I want you to meet my Uncle Danny,” he says, grinning at me bashfully, looking up at me from the side then back down at his feet. I notice his mom spot our ha
nds as we walk up, and she pinches her lips into a tight smile, raising her eyebrows at her son.

  “Danny, this is the girl I was telling you about. This is Reagan,” Nico says.

  My insides drop and my head feels light hearing him admit to talking about me to a man I know he admires. I turn to Nico, who’s once again looking at his feet, then give my attention to his uncle, reaching out to take his hand.

  “It is so nice to meet you,” I say.

  “The pleasure is mine, Reagan,” Danny says, covering the top of my hand with his other. He squeezes once, then lets my hand go, pushing his own into his pockets, just like his nephew always does.

  “Some game, huh?” I say, and Nico laughs once next to me, lifting his head to look at the bus, and the few players still walking up from the field. He shakes his head and breathes in deeply, so I brush my arm into his to let him know I understand.

  “It sure was,” Danny says. “I never thought I’d see this kid play again. He was always the best player on our team. Thank you for getting him back out there.”

  “Oh, I don’t think I did anything,” I say.

  “That’s not what I hear?” Danny says with a wink.

  “I gotta go. I’ll see you at home, Mom,” Nico says, cutting the conversation short. My face is burning at his uncle’s teasing, and I’m sure his is worse.

  “Thanks for inviting me out, Nico. I’ll head over to Cornwall next week. I want to see you take that field,” his uncle says, pulling Nico under his arm. They break apart and tap their knuckles, and Nico glances to me briefly, showing a hint of his embarrassment as he turns to head to the steps for the bus. I catch my father waiting for him at the entry, his eyes moving to me after Nico passes by. I raise a hand to wave, but my father ignores it, getting on the bus with his team.

  “I have to drive back, too. It was really nice meeting you,” I say, shaking Danny’s hand again, then moving on to Nico’s mom. She pulls me in surprisingly for a hug, tilting my face and kissing my cheek, and I smile at her gesture.

  I feel warm and loved all the way to my car, and I drive home in silence, not wanting even my favorite music to break my momentary bliss. It all ends the second I pull into the school lot, the bus arriving right before me, and Sasha and Travis shoving one another under the orange glow of the parking lights.

  More players tag along, and pretty soon, fists are flying and blood is spilling. I catch Noah standing near the exit of the bus, and I walk over to him.

  “What’s happening?” I say, my head shaking while the coaches all struggle to stop one brawl while another starts.

  “They’re falling apart,” Noah says. I nod to agree with him, but when I look to his face, I see the smile spreading along his lips.

  “Noah!” I shout.

  He flits his eyes to me, but doesn’t try to mask his expression.

  “He shouldn’t have played tonight, Reagan. Quit trying to act like he’s so perfect. He ditched school today. I told Coach O’Donahue. Dad’s the only one that wanted to start him…”

  “You told Coach O’Donahue? Are you insane?” I interrupt, my face falling at my brother’s confession.

  “They wouldn’t have played me,” he says.

  “You don’t know that. You don’t know why Nico was missing today. Jesus, Noah. Are you trying to get Dad fired? You can’t play, so what…Dad should lose his job, too?” I’m shouting, but the words seem to run right through my brother. He shakes my temper off and pushes forward on his crutches, moving to a few of the players on the other side of the crowd.

  The buzzing sound is loud and impossible to ignore. It blares three or four times until everyone turns to see my dad standing in the center of the fight, a bullhorn in his hands, his finger pressing on a red button. He holds it the final time for several seconds, the shrill sound echoing off the bus, school, and neighboring houses.

  Eventually, fists stop and bodies shift, every player and coach standing to face my dad, even the ones who I know aren’t in his corner.

  My dad spins in a slow circle, looking every single person in the eyes, including me.

  “I have coached for two decades. I’ve assisted before this, and I sat there on the sidelines, like many of you, on a team that had a lot of integrity and reputation for greatness. I wore Crimson in Alabama, and I wore blue and gold here. I understood what an honor it was just to put on that goddamned uniform every Friday or Saturday night.”

  My father’s nostrils flare with his breath, and I can feel him struggling to remain composed—as much as he can—in the middle of his team’s self-destruction.

  “What did I tell you at halftime?”

  It’s silent, and my dad waits for almost a full minute before someone finally steps forward to speak. When I realize it’s Travis, I hold my breath, worried that he’s only going to make this worse.

  “You said nobody’s job out here was guaranteed, sir,” Travis says.

  “Damn right,” my father responds, loud and quick.

  He begins to pace, and I lean against the bus, my eyes moving from him to Nico, who is watching my father quietly and respectfully. His face is bruised, and he is finally showing the wear from tonight’s game.

  “Monday, we begin again. We…start over. I’m going to post a list. If you’re on that list, then you are on the team. The rest of you better show up ready to try out. Nobody is guaranteed, and I don’t give two shits who your dad or uncle is!” My father shouts his ultimatum, and a few of the coaches flinch at his choice of words. Jimmy O’Donahue snickers to himself and looks away.

  “I suppose Nico gets to be on that list?” Travis says, stepping forward more, backing up his opinion. I think he was expecting others to join him, and when they don’t, he starts to sway on his feet and look around.

  “You all can probably guess the few names that will be on that list. And if you think they’re going to be there, then guess what?” My dad stares into Travis’s eyes, moving closer until there are only inches between them. “That means you know who’s really playing with their heart and who’s doggin’ it. Quit pretending you don’t. And quit being an embarrassment to this program. You embarrass me, your parents, and yourselves.”

  My dad holds Travis’s gaze until my brother’s best friend blinks and his eyes fall down to his feet. He knows my dad’s right, and he knows he’s acting like a child. I don’t know why he’s taking over for acting out on my brother’s aggression, but it’s not winning him any points in anyone’s eyes but Noah’s.

  “I don’t want to be on that list,” Nico says, breaking the silence. Heads shift and my father turns to look at him quickly, his brow pulled in. Nico steps forward. “That’s part of the problem, Coach. I know you mean to reward hard work, but that’s just not how it comes across.”

  Nico turns to look down the line of players, most of them the guys who gave up on him tonight and let him struggle.

  “You all think I’m getting some sort of special treatment. I’m not stupid. I hear the shit you say—sorry Coach, no disrespect with the language,” Nico says quickly, holding up his hand. “I hear you, though. I know I’m the scholarship kid. I know that Sasha and I, and maybe Jason and Malachi over there, are the only people with brown skin on this damned team. We feel it. You don’t have to say anything guys, if you don’t want to, but you know…you all know. We feel it. You whisper about it, even when you don’t think you are. We must be getting favors. We must be here to make sure Cornwall isn’t too white. Why the hell couldn’t it be because…we’re good. Maybe we’re just…good.”

  Nobody speaks. Mouths are shut, and consciences are evaluating the words Nico just said. He isn’t wrong, and even though I feel some of the guys wanting to protest, they won’t—they can’t. They would be liars.

  “So keep me off that list. I’m going to earn my way just like the rest of you. But you better be willing to prove your skills, because I’m done holding back, and I’m done not beating other teams by thirty or forty points,” Nico says, turning so he f
aces Travis, stepping forward until they stand only feet apart. “And I’m done pretending I don’t hear the things you say.”

  Travis swallows, his eyes meeting Nico’s. The standoff is short, and it ends in Travis giving Nico a slight nod, a silent pact between the two of them.

  I wait by the bus, watching as the team slowly breaks away, some not even bothering to head to the locker room at all. My brother walks away with Travis, but the bond that was there for years feels different between them. When Noah starts to talk, Travis doesn’t engage. That might change the minute they get in the car and drive home, but the fact that Nico put those thoughts out there in the open has done something to everyone—even my dad.

  After several minutes, I’m standing in the parking lot alone. My father’s car is the last one besides mine in the lot. Nico left with Sasha, not bothering to stop to talk to me. I didn’t expect him to, but I felt slighted somehow still. Izzy tried to talk me into going to Charlie’s, mostly because she likes drama and wants to see how many people still decide to show up.

  I want to go home, and maybe for the same reason Izzy wants to go to the ice cream shop. I want to see how tonight affected my mom. I want to see if Travis drove home, and if my brother and he parted ways. I want to ask my brother what he was thinking. I want to shake him, and scream at him.

  I want him to apologize to me—for being a goddamned asshole!

  And I want the adults to quit plotting for ways to take my father down. They’re not so different from the students, and Nico said it all. I hear them, too. They think I can’t…they think my mom can’t. We all hear them.

  The streets are quiet on the way home, and I purposely don’t drive near Charlie’s, so I’m not tempted to stop. I head directly home, pulling into my driveway, feeling a sense of comfort when I see Travis’s Jeep in his driveway. My mom’s car is still not home, though, and when I unlock the front door, the house is quiet and dark. My brother’s door is wide open, his lights off, and his bed the same unkempt mess it’s been for days.

  His leg may heal soon, but the rest of him—the other parts he’s slowly destroying—I don’t hold out much hope.