by Ginger Scott
“You know, Coach,” Bob says, leaning in close to my father. I stand quietly between them, my camera rolling, my ears listening. “There’s this saying they have about experiments, how if you repeat the same thing over and over again and get the same result, that maybe it’s a sign you should move on and try something else.”
“You think I should start Brandon, Bob?” my dad asks, his voice coming out clipped and his tone irritable.
Bob puts his hand on my father’s back and pats it twice, leaving it in place while they both look out on another failed play in front of them.
“I think maybe you’re coaching with something hot on your mind, and those boys—they can tell. I think maybe you can run them into the ground tonight all you want; won’t change how they show up to play for you tomorrow. I’ve got no opinion on who you start at QB, Chad. I do have some thoughts on the man I see standing right here, though,” he says, patting my father one more time before putting his hands in the front pocket of his sweatshirt and rolling his shoulders. “This ain’t you, Chad. I know the boys disappointed you, and I know they’re struggling, but this way? This has never been how you get things done. Besides, you keep this up, I’ll be taping every single one of your players up just so they can make practice.”
Bob spins and our eyes meet, his giving me a small wink. I smile at him on one side of my mouth, but don’t turn when he walks back to the training bench. I keep my focus on my dad, the way he looks to the side and ruminates on the words Bob just said. My dad chews at the inside of his mouth, just like my brother always does—like Nico—and eventually pushes his whistle between his lips.
“All right, bring it in,” he says.
His tired players fall in line, forming a half circle around him, each of them taking a knee, some of them pulling their jerseys off, taking off their pads, their bodies drenched despite the frosty air coming from their mouths. Fingers are pink with cold, and faces are red with heat. My father simply looks exhausted, the stands behind him dotted with boosters watching it all play out.
Everyone is on display.
Everyone is judging someone else.
“You worked hard today,” my dad says, shaking his head, warding off saying the wrong thing. “We didn’t get great results, but that…that’s partly my fault.” He rests his hand flat on his chest.
A few heads turn up to look at him, but most of his players are looking down. Nico is staring straight ahead, to the empty lot and the dark field he probably wishes he never left. I stare at him and let my body fill with regret. My eyes go directly to his lips, to the mouth that whispered the sweetest things against mine. I let my gaze travel to his chest and arms, to the way he kneels, balancing his weight on his helmet on the ground. His shoes are scuffed, and wrapped with tape, holding them to his feet. His body, so strong, is sheer exhaustion. Even so, I know if my father asked him to, Nico would stay out here until midnight—until the sun came up—throwing that pass again and again. He would throw until he got it right. And then, he’d keep going.
When I move back to his face, I flinch. His eyes are waiting for me, and I don’t know how long they were. He stares at me, not blinking, and I look back into him. My father’s voice fades to the background, and all I hear is the sound of his breath, despite being several feet away. Nico’s chest rises and falls in slow, calculated draws, his face blurred periodically by the frost from the air escaping him. I never break my hold on his eyes though, and neither does he.
Were our tale one of the Grimms’, it would end right here and right now. The earth would open up to swallow him whole in front of me. Fire would rain from the sky and burn us all, scorching and marring our skin. That man in the car in West End would kill my brother, and nobody would be able to stop him.
But Nico did.
Nico is the twist in the tale. He’s the element of good. He’s what humanity should be—the lesson to be learned. He is hope.
Nico stands, his eyes leaving mine, and I startle, realizing that everyone is breaking for the night. They all move to the center, and I fold my tripod up, and hug my camera again. My brother hops to the center with them, and my dad looks to Noah, urging him to send them all off.
“Whose house is this?” Noah shouts.
As broken as they are, as beaten and disheartened and filled with doubt, The Tradition answers.
“Our house!”
The chant plays out, and I find Nico’s eyes in the sea of faces, his mouth screaming with just as much passion as it did the first time he chanted those words in the gym.
They don’t hate you. They resent you, because you’re better than they are.
You’re better than us all.
The players all begin to step back, and before it’s too late, I move into the crowd.
“Nico!” I shout. When he doesn’t turn, I yell again. “Nico!”
I shout four times, Travis finally hearing me and nudging Nico on the arm. My hero turns toward me, but doesn’t come. He’s waiting…waiting for me to do something I should have done a long time ago, something I should have done Saturday, when my dad found us.
He’s waiting for me to be proud to be his.
My eyes dart around the field, my heart pounding so hard I feel it in my fingertips. My body shivers from the cold, and I catch my father’s eyes on me, just as I’m about to speak. I make a choice—this time, I choose differently. I rip the Band-Aid off.
“I’ll wait for you right outside the locker room. Let me take you home,” I say, my eyes pleading for him to say “okay.” His lip quirks, just enough, and my lungs fill fast.
“Get a ride home with one of the guys,” my dad interrupts, stepping closer to me.
I turn to look at my dad, his eyes on Nico, his expression one of authority.
“Dad, I can take him home. It’s fine,” I say.
“I’d rather you didn’t, Reagan. It’s late,” my dad says, still not bothering to look at me while he speaks.
“It’s not that late, Dad. And it’s only eleven miles. I’ll drive carefully, and…”
“Reagan!” my dad shouts, looking down, his chin at his shoulder, but his eyes still not on me. “That’s enough. Go home. Don’t worry, someone will give Nico a ride.”
My body vibrates with my pulse, and every piece of me grows tense. Others are watching us now, watching me be scolded—watching my father want to protect me from this at-risk boy.
“I am not a child, Dad. If I want to give my boyfriend a ride home, I’m going to,” I say, mentally lining up the next part of my argument. I’ll start buying my own gas. I’ll save up and get my own car. I’ll talk to Mom and see what she thinks. I’ll make Noah come with us.
“Nico, go on, get changed. I’m sure you understand,” my dad says, his nostrils flaring. My face flushes red. I’m mortified, and I’m heartbroken. I open my mouth, ready to protest, but stop the moment he speaks.
“Yeah…I get it,” Nico says, stepping into the space between me and my father, his head down until he stops right in front of my dad, lifts his chin and looks my father in the eyes. “I’m good enough to throw the ball for you, but I’m not good enough for your daughter.”
“That’s not it,” my dad says, stopping short, shaking his head no, but lost for the words to go along with it. He has nowhere to go from there.
“Sure it is. You might not think that’s what you mean, but…I bet you wouldn’t have a problem with her driving up north, to Metahill. I just live eleven miles in the wrong direction.”
“Nico…” my dad says, his weight shifts, his voice a little less urgent—less sure.
“Coach.”
Nico stares my father in the eyes, not to intimidate, but to challenge, certainly. Several of his teammates are still around, including Colton and Travis, who both look on, their eyes fixed on the field between Nico and my father. It becomes clear soon that my dad isn’t going to have a miraculous change of heart.
“It’s okay, Reagan,” Nico says, still facing my dad. “I can ride my b
oard.”
“I’ll take you,” Travis says.
“Thanks, yeah. See…it’s fine, Travis will take me,” he says, sucking his lip in and glancing down from my father, the disappointment evident to me…to everyone. “Hey,” he says, turning and taking a few humble steps in my direction, his eyes soft over me, his mouth curling in the faintest smile. I start to shake my head no, no because I’m not willing to let this go. Nico nods yes, though, and reaches for my fingers, glancing down and smiling at our touch. “I’ll call you when I get home.”
He looks back up, staring into my eyes, and his dimple shows, though faint.
“You texted me, so I finally have your number,” he says.
My eyes feel heavy, my brow drawn in as his hand slips away. He walks slowly to the locker room with Travis and Colton. Eventually, the rest of the team follows along, the coaches long gone, in their cars and on the road already. I’m left under the bright floodlights with my father and my brother, and all I can think about is how different the three of us are for people who share the same DNA.
“Reagan…” my father starts, and I cut him off, recognizing the tone. He’s going to lecture me, explain how he knows best, how the neighborhood isn’t safe, how this isn’t about Nico at all, but I just can’t hear it. I just can’t, because that boy did nothing wrong, and neither did I. And I’m embarrassed.
“Don’t,” I say, closing my eyes.
“It’s just that it’s late, and you’re only eighteen, and…”
“I said don’t, Dad. Please, just…” I stop, and open my gaze on my father, his mouth set in a firm line.
The three of us stand silent, and I tug my equipment bag up my arm and fix my grip on the tripod, thankful when my father’s phone rings. I look to my brother, who actually seems sympathetic, raising his shoulder in a slight shrug. “Could have gone worse,” he whispers.
“I’m sorry…she…she’s what?”
My dad pushes a finger in his open ear and holds the phone tight to his head, turning slightly away from me and my brother.
“Right…I see. Yes…I’ll be right there,” my dad responds, ending the call and staring at his phone screen, his body rigid, and his eyes not blinking.
“Dad? What is it?” I ask.
“Your mom,” he says, and my pulse picks up as the blood leaves my head. I feel faint. My dad’s eyes flit to me. “She drove the car through the garage…into the house.”
“Oh my God!” I shout, holding my hand to my chest.
“Linda heard the noise and ran next door. She says Mom’s high off her ass on marijuana. Where the hell would she get that?”
My dad looks back at his phone, as if it’s going to give him any answers. My eyes grow wide, and I feel the earth pull me down as my blood rushes back through my body. My mouth is frozen open and dry as hell. I tell myself repeatedly not to say a word, when my brother falls on the sword that’s been waiting for him for weeks…probably months.
“Fuuuuuccckkk,” he breathes, his eyes closing and his head tilting to the sky.
Noah Prescott may as well get used to those crutches, because in less than an hour, I’m pretty sure our father is going to break his other leg.
16
“So, let me get this straight,” Izzy says, her phone cutting in and out while she moves around her house. “Your brother…has to pee in a cup.”
“Yep.”
When Noah and I got home from practice last night, chaos does not even begin to describe the scene we walked into. It seems the good ladies of the social committee for the Cornwall boosters decided to organize a coup—meeting at Jimmy O’Donahue’s house with his wife, Tori. After an hour, Tori had sold the other women on her idea: Lauren Prescott was not the best fit for the new direction The Tradition social committee needed to go in. According to Travis’s mom Linda, the women were concerned that my mom had too much on her plate with Noah’s injury and “recent challenges.” What they meant was my brother was becoming a slacker, druggie asshole, and it was a convenient excuse to push my mom out.
Linda got to my mom first, just after quitting the committee herself. She told us my mom was quiet, but seemed to take the news all right, saying that it was almost a relief, and that it would give her time to maybe focus on her own health. Then, when Linda went home, my mom tore into Noah’s pot and smoked herself into a fit of paranoia. She drove through the garage thinking the car was in reverse. When Linda found her, she was giggling hysterically.
“How’s your mom?” Izzy asks.
I tuck my phone in the crook of my neck so I can slip my Vans on my feet.
“She’s…okay, I guess. I haven’t really talked to her. She’s still sleeping, and Dad left already. I mean, I guess it’s like nothing happened really, only…there’s a big-ass hole in our house covered up with plywood and plastic, and my brother isn’t allowed to have a door. I mean, for real—Dad removed it,” I say, grabbing my bags and looking over my shoulder at the gaping doorway that leads to Noah’s room.
He went to school early with my dad—another thing he’ll be doing until my dad decides to let him off the extremely-short leash.
“I can’t believe no one got arrested,” Izzy says.
“I know, but really, it was more about the insurance claim and fixing the garage,” I say, stopping outside our front door to slip my key in and lock up. When I turn around, I startle to see Nico leaning against a car, parked at the curb in front of my house. “Hey, Izz. I gotta go.”
I don’t even bother to wait for her goodbye. I hang up, slip my phone in my pocket and walk up to my boyfriend. He waits for me to get close before pushing off the brown, four-door, boxy contraption he drove here in. There’s a dent in the back side-passenger door, and a bungie cord wrapped around the front bumper, holding it up.
“Whatcha got here?” I ask, my heart fluttering—actually fluttering—when he reaches down and grabs my hand in his without hesitation. He pulls it to his mouth and kisses my knuckles, grinning against them.
“It’s just a loaner…for now. My uncle says if I can fix it up enough, I can keep it. He got a new car, and this one’s not really worth enough to sell,” Nico says, turning to nudge the tire with his toe. “This sucker’s twenty-seven years old, two-hundred-thousand miles and counting.”
“Wow, I don’t think we’ve ever had a car hit six digits,” I say.
“Anything will last if you give it enough love,” he says, shooting me a quick, crooked smile.
“You’re corny,” I say.
Nico swings the passenger door open, then steps close enough to me that his lips find my neck. I get a peek at the smirk on his face as he slides his mouth closer, eventually dusting my skin with a soft kiss while he tucks my hair out of the way.
“Just this once,” he says.
He pulls back, and our eyes meet, my arms dotted with goosebumps and my neck and chest warm from his touch.
“I wanted to take you to school. If that’s all right,” he says.
I peer over his shoulder and squint, studying the seat, then bring my hand to my chin, as if I’m considering my options. He tilts his head to the side and sighs, so I give in.
“My chariot awaits,” I say.
“Well, it’ll be chariot-worthy one day, but for now, it’s a Toyota Camry without a working heater,” he says, grimacing.
I pull the hoodie up from my sweatshirt and show him my hands inside my sleeves.
“I think I’ll be fine,” I say.
Nico smiles crooked, then takes my bags and puts them in the back seat while I slide into the front. He gets in with me, and we drive to school in a tense sort of quiet. His radio isn’t on, so I’m assuming it probably doesn’t work, and the heater does work—periodically—the blowers blasting air one second and completely cutting out the next. We idle at the last light before school, and Nico leans between us, touching the vent in the middle, and just as his finger reaches it, it sends a shot of air into his face that blows the hair from his eyes.
I suck in my lips trying not to laugh, but when he turns to face me, his hair spread haphazardly around his forehead, until he blows it out of his way, I lose it and laugh hard and loud.
“All chariots have glitches,” he says.
I smile, and he moves his hand into mine, threading our fingers. I look at them, locked together, for the last block to school. Nico pulls into an open space in the last row for visitors, and I kick myself for not grabbing my parking pass for him to use.
“I’m sorry you have to park so far; I didn’t think…”
Nico stops me, leaning forward and pressing his lips to mine. He pulls away, and his lips stretch into a wide grin.
“I wanted to park down here. I need to talk to your dad,” he says, and for some reason, he’s still smiling instead of scowling.
“You…want to talk to my dad?” I repeat it like a question.
“Uh huh,” he says, pushing his door open with his foot, hopping out and jogging around the front before I have a chance to open my side.
“You…I don’t know…want me to come with you?” I ask. My stomach twists. I’m still reeling from ripping the first Band-Aid off. I’m not so sure I’m keen to go ripping again so early.
“Nah, I got this. I’ll see you at lunch, okay?”
Taking my hand, he lifts me up to him, his fingers catching my chin softly and his head falling against mine.
“Mmmmm, okay,” I say, letting my eyes fall closed.
We stand like this for a few seconds, until I feel him take a deep breath and step away. I load up my bags on my arms and give him one last glance, my eyebrow raised on one side in question. He nods with a smile and squeezes his eyes shut, letting me know he’s sure and it will be okay. I believe him for about ten seconds. I start to worry again when I get to the main door for the school, and I turn around just in time to see him standing in front of the film-room door. He’s jumping and swiveling his head from side to side, like a boxer about to get the shit kicked out of him by the heavyweight champion of the world.
When I was a freshman here at Cornwall, there was a girl—a senior—whose parents went through a very public, and very hostile divorce. It wasn’t the kind of separation that played out behind closed doors, or in courtrooms. It was the kind where cars were spray-painted with words like BITCH or MANWHORE when they were left unattended in the school parking lot for any longer than a minute. The girl, Jill, ended up dropping out over the holiday break, unable to cope with the whispers and stares from the rest of the student body.