The Hard Count

by Ginger Scott

  “We won’t stay in here long,” he says, his voice still hushed. “I just…I want to kiss you alone a little longer. I’ve waited so long…”

  “I know what you mean,” I say, smiling against his lips.

  Nico rests me on his bed, and I fall deep into the softness, his body coming down on top of mine. My knees bend up on instinct, making room for him to press into me, our most intimate parts touching, clothed and chaste, but so hungry.

  “I’ve never…” I say.

  “It’s okay,” he says, brushing a kiss over my lips. “I don’t want that. Not until you’re ready. I just…”

  “I know,” I say, my hands flat on his back, pulling him toward me, wanting him to press into me harder to relieve the ache.

  Nico’s hands slide up my waist, grazing against my breasts lightly and pushing up into my hair as he kisses me hard. My fingers work his shirt up over his head, as I boldly rush to feel his bare chest against my skin.

  Everything about him is hot, his skin searing, and I cling to it, my fingers grabbing his shoulders tightly as he presses his weight into me, his hips rocking with his kiss, a faint moan escaping him. His hands slide behind me, pulling my hips into him as his body rests on mine, our lips locked together and the friction of where our bodies meet growing into an undeniable heat that I can’t help but chase. Wanting him, more of him, I push up on one shoulder, rolling him to his back so I can straddle him, my hips moving in a steady rhythm while my hands lie flat on his chest and Nico looks at me, his eyes pleading for me not to stop.

  I can’t stop.

  I won’t stop.

  I want to feel this just as much as he does. I’ve never…

  Nico pulls me to him, his hands grabbing my ass, helping me to move against him until the pressure becomes so strong that I feel it fall over the edge inside me, my core clenching, my stomach tightening. My face falls to his neck, to his shoulder, and my teeth sink in lightly on his skin, and I whimper with each wave, Nico pulling me into him again. Again. Again. Until I feel him breathe rapidly against my neck, his mouth tasting me, his teeth leaving a mark.

  He holds me tight when the motion stops. After several minutes, his hands fall away, but his fingers tickle against my arms, moving my hair from my face, kissing me softly. His eyes rake over me one last time before he sits up, stepping over to his door, lifting my shirt and handing it to me. He puts his on, and holds out a hand, helping me to stand.

  “You should probably comb your hair,” he smirks, and I blush hard.

  He runs his fingers through a few times, but I do more as he steps to his drawer, pulling out a pair of shorts and boxers. I shut my eyes tightly, embarrassed, and he chuckles.

  “Oh, now you’re shy,” he says.

  “Just…just, oh my God, go change,” I say, both hands quickly covering my face.

  Nico steps up to me, pulling my hands away, his nose nuzzling mine, his dimple evidence of his smile.

  “Don’t cover your face. You’re too beautiful,” he says.

  “Oh my God, corn—,” I say, and he kisses me before the word can fully leave my lips.

  “Corny,” I finish when he’s done. He winks, and slips out of his room, holding his thumb up to let me know the coast is clear, and nobody heard a thing.

  I wait for Nico just inside his door, and he takes my hand, guiding me down the hallway to the back patio door, opening it to lead me outside. We sit by the fire pit with our feet up, tossing in bits of leftover food, and pieces of paper, watching them ignite and fly away as embers. There’s laughter inside, and we both lean to look around the fire, his mom slamming her hands on the table with her heavy laughter, the other women joking, too.

  “I wish my mom would have stayed,” I say.

  Nico looks to me, his brow low.

  “She could use friends like these. That’s all,” I say, watching the scene in the kitchen fondly.

  “My mom liked her; I could tell,” he says.

  I tilt my head to the side, letting it fall against my arm, pulling my leg up so I can look at him, the way he looks with the fire glowing and outlining his profile.

  “I memorized your profile,” I say, pulling my knee in closer. He flits his eyes to me, but looks back at the fire, his feet resting on the bricks of the pit. He pokes a stick into the flames, moving a chunk of wood and making it crackle.

  “Yeah?” he asks.

  “I did. Because you don’t really make eye contact in class. You sort of go to your own little world when you think. I don’t even think you look at our teacher,” I say, squinting as I realize this fact.

  Nico smirks and chuckles lightly, his lip raised on one side.

  “I don’t,” he says.

  I pull in my brow.

  “Why?” I ask.

  He takes in a long breath, eventually dropping the stick to the ground.

  “At my old school…at Public? You sort of always got in trouble when you made eye contact,” he says, laughing at his own answer.

  “That feels strict. Like…don’t even look the teachers in the eyes? Will their laser beams get you?” I joke.

  “No,” he chuckles. “Nothing like that. Just…there was always someone doing something wrong—talking in class, yelling something, or pushing someone around. Sometimes people would break things, or draw on the walls or whatever. The teachers could never catch the right person, so if you looked them in the eyes, they would just say ‘You! Come here!’ Then next thing you knew, you were against the wall at recess and all of the other kids were making fun of you.”

  “That’s awful,” I say.

  He laughs, then reaches down for his stick again, breaking a piece off and tossing it into the fire.

  “When I got older, though, it’s like the teachers couldn’t stand that I knew more than they did. If I looked them in the eye, they’d try to tell me I was wrong about something, or to be quiet and not ask the questions I was asking,” he says, tilting his head to look at me. “I begged Mom to let me apply to Cornwall when I was in eighth grade. She said if I could get the scholarship, I could go.”

  “You and Sasha both got in,” I smile.

  He chuckles.

  “Yeah, but he’s here because he’s fast. They wanted him for soccer and track,” he says.

  “You’re the brainy one,” I say.

  “Don’t you mean nerd?” He cocks his brow.

  “Oh, now you want to be the nerd,” I tease back.

  Nico leans into me, poking his finger into my side and tickling me. I giggle and gasp for breath, reaching to try to tickle him back, when we both freeze, our eyes meeting Mrs. Mendoza’s as she stands with one hand over her mouth in the center of the now-opened patio door.

  “Maria?” Nico questions, his hands falling away from me. He gets to his feet quickly, rushing to her, her face ghosted, her eyes red, the tears falling nonstop. “What…what is it?”

  He gets to her and holds her arm in his as she reaches for him, her balance off. She struggles to speak, nothing coming out but nonsense. Eventually she gestures inside, only able to say, “You need to go get your mom. The door…go…”

  Nico’s body goes rigid, and I see his breath leave his body in a blink before he sprints inside his house. I rush to my feet and move to Maria; we embrace each other, both looking inside through the glass.

  Nico’s mom is on the floor, on her knees, sobbing with her hands pressed flat on the floor in front of her. At the door, two men dressed in full military uniforms stand solemnly. Nico has stopped in front of them, his hands gripping at his hair, his shoulders rising and falling with his rapid breath, until eventually he kneels to the floor, pulling his mother into his arms as he sits back, holding her while she cries through her worst nightmare.

  “Alyssa!” I say, seeing the little girl stand next to the door, her hand holding the door frame, her small face looking up at the two men, not understanding. I rush inside to help, but before I’m there, Nico has called her over, and he’s holding her in his arms, too
, rocking them both and telling them it will be okay.

  “It’s going to be okay, baby girl,” he whispers, his eyes wet and fixed on a dream in the distance. “Shhhh, Momma. He was brave. It’s going to be okay.”

  The air outside, behind the Marines at the door, is quiet. West End is peaceful tonight, and the moon is full. But nothing is okay. A brother, father and son has fallen.

  Nico’s home—it will never be the same.

  21

  My father came to pick me up from Nico’s house. He ended up staying for three hours with me. In an instant, Nico had lost his light, and I could see it. He was so broken—is so broken. I don’t know how to fix it any more now than I did days ago…when he held his mother, and all of the pieces she was breaking into, together as best he could on the cold concrete floor.

  It’s Friday, and Nico has missed practice the entire week. I’ve talked to my father about it a few times, and he thinks Jimmy O’Donahue is going to try to start Brandon in Nico’s place. The board doesn’t care—they’re cold and heartless, and they don’t want a distracted quarterback.

  They want the win.

  Tonight’s game is important. If we win, we clinch a spot in the state playoffs. But more than that, USC is showing up tonight—they’re coming to watch a few of our players, and they’ve sat in on a few practices this week, none of which Nico was at.

  I’ve been banned from being on the field at practice, too, and despite Bob’s best attempt to lie that I was his assistant and he needed me on the field to help with training, the wall put up between me and the coaching staff stayed strong. They know who I am, and as far as Jimmy’s concerned, I’m the enemy.

  I haven’t talked to Nico, other than a few short conversations on the phone. I dropped off a stack of homework assignments by his front door yesterday. I set them amidst the flowers, notes, and pans of food that had been left for Nico, his mom, and Alyssa. I recognized the roses from Mrs. Mendoza’s yard, and when I went home, I pulled several of the dying ones from my vase, drying them and sliding them into the pages of a dictionary to press them flat. They will forever be one of the most precious things I’ve ever been given.

  I’m unfolding the blanket on the front row of the bleachers to save room for my family when a pair of hands slips into view, grabbing one end and helping me.

  “I thought you could use company, since nobody wants to sit by us,” my brother says, helping me shake the blanket out before laying it along the front row.

  “Hey, no crutches!” I say, noticing he’s in a modified type of cast cut below his knee.

  My brother hops on his good leg a few times.

  “I went today. Doc says it’s healing incredibly fast. I still can’t put pressure on it, though,” he says.

  “So you…hopped up here?” I scold him a little, knowing how my brother hates obeying any orders, even the ones from his doctor.

  “Scooter,” he says, turning to look over his shoulder. I look to the corner, by the bleacher ramp at the end, and I see it.

  “Cute…why pink?” I ask, looking him in the eyes again.

  “Mom’s choice. She said she’s still punishing me in little ways. I have a feeling that’s going to last for years,” he says.

  “Yeah, you’re probably right,” I say.

  We both sit on either end of the blanket, and my brother holds my various pieces of equipment as I set up my tripod, wanting to keep it in front of me to film tonight. I’m not taking any chances of it mysteriously getting turned off.

  “Dad says USC is coming,” my brother says, handing me my equipment bag when we’re done so I can zip it closed.

  “They are,” I say, inhaling and holding it for a few seconds before blowing it out hard enough to move the few fine hairs around my face. “I hope they let Nico play.”

  “Oh…they will,” Noah says, his eyes out on the field where the team of referees are arriving and inspecting the sidelines. I stare at him for several seconds until he turns to look at me. “What?”

  “Why are you so confident, Noah Prescott?” I ask, my lip ticked up in suspicion.

  “Let’s just say Travis and Colton have a plan,” my brother says, pulling his seed bag from his back pocket and tearing it open with his teeth.

  I watch him and his smile slides up on one side, too, to match mine, and he winks.

  “I hope they know what they’re doing,” I say.

  “I think they’ve got it handled,” he says, looking on again, pouring in a handful of seeds and relaxing back, his arms on the bleacher seat behind us.

  My parents arrive a few minutes later, whispering about something that gets both Noah and me curious. I stare at them, leaning forward and showing my obvious interest until my mom finally acknowledges me with the tilt of her head.

  “You two are whispering like teenagers and speaking in code. How would you like it if Noah and I did that,” I tease, but I genuinely want them to stop.

  My mom pulls her lips in tight and smiles with a nod.

  “You’re right. Chad? We should tell them,” my mom says, turning to my father.

  “Holy shit, you are not pregnant!” my brother says.

  “Uh…” my mom laughs out once, hard and guttural. “No. That…that is definitely not what we are talking about. Good lord, we finally almost have you two out of the house.”

  “Gee, thanks,” I say.

  “Well, that one’s kind of a handful,” my mom says, pointing her thumb to my brother on the other side.

  I laugh and he flips me off. My mom smacks his arm with the back of her hand.

  “It’s news about me, actually,” my dad says, running his hand over his chin, his gaze swinging from my brother to me and then back to my mom. “I…got a job offer today.”

  “Oh my God, seriously? That’s…that’s amazing! What? Where?”

  “Well, I’ve always thought your mother looked good in Crimson…” my dad begins, and my brother spits his seeds from his mouth in all directions, pushing up to look my dad in the eyes.

  “No fucking way!” Noah shouts.

  “Noah James, you watch your mouth!” my mom scolds.

  “Sorry, but…Mom…is he serious? Are you…Dad, are you serious?” Noah asks, and I lean forward to watch my dad’s face, too.

  The smile is the proudest I’ve seen him wear in years.

  “We’re moving to Alabama?” I ask, my stomach sick with the mixture of excitement and worry because I don’t want to move.

  “Not until you graduate. I wouldn’t start until next year, fulltime, but I’m going to be working part-time for the rest of this season on the West Coast. I’ll be recruiting. I have games and practices I need to go to in California next week,” my dad says, excited for the first time since I can’t remember when. “Come fall, I’ll be the assistant offensive coordinator. Pay’s about the same as it is here, but it’s a foot in the door. Who knows, I might just find myself in a head gig down the road.”

  “You will, oh my God, Daddy, I know you will!” I say, reaching over my mom’s lap and hugging my dad.

  My father’s news forms an instant bubble around us, and even though I know there are people walking by, climbing to seats far away from us, not wanting to be associated with our family, I don’t care because they are the ones who are fools. They’re missing out on being a part of our celebration. I glance at the group of women my mom had her issues with last week, and I snicker to myself at the scowls on their faces, the way they try to give me the evil eye to prove a point. They are still stuck in their miserable world where one day someone is on top, and the next they’re tossed to the side. It could happen to any one of them next, and I’m so glad my mom has already escaped, however ungraceful her exit was.

  It doesn’t dawn on me how close we are to game time until I hear the roar from the crowd on the other side of the field. We’re playing North, a school with a record just as good as ours, and a quarterback who is being touted as one of the best in the state.

  The team runs t
hrough a tunnel of cheerleaders, and usually by this time, The Tradition is huddled beyond the lights, chanting and getting pumped to take the field. I look over at the space just outside the entry gates, though, and the space is empty.

  “Where are they?” I ask.

  “I don’t know…that’s…strange,” my dad says, standing to his feet and stretching to look beyond the darkness.

  My eyes move from the clock ticking down the warm-up time, to the closed locker room door, and to the other team that has taken up the center of the field for their stretching. My knees start to shake, and my mom holds her hand on my right one.

  “I don’t get this. Where are they?” I ask.

  “I don’t know,” she says.

  I check the frame in my camera, and capture footage of the other team, showing the time on the clock and our empty side of the field, until we’re down to two minutes.

  “I see Jimmy…” my dad says, his head falling to the side as he slumps back down to sit. “He’s walking out with the other coaches, but that’s it.”

  “They’re not coming out unless he starts Nico,” Noah says, cracking a single seed shell between his teeth, almost satisfactorily.

  My dad glances to Noah, and so do I. My brother looks at us and shrugs.

  “I told you they had it handled,” Noah smirks.

  “Holy sh…” I stop when I see Nico’s mom walk in front of us, stopping with her brother and Alyssa at her side.

  “Valerie, hi. Please, come sit with us,” my mom says, moving back behind me and giving the soft row lined with the blanket to Nico’s mom.

  “Thank you,” she says, her voice raspy from lack of sleep.

  She slips into the space next to me, Alyssa climbing to her lap and her brother moving to sit next to my father at the end.

  “Nico says the scouts are here,” Valerie says, and I can see her eyes fighting to stay strong, not to shed any more tears.

  “They are. We saw them walk up. They’re in the box,” I say, looking over my shoulder.

  Valerie turns my direction and looks up, too, staring for a few seconds, breathing slowly. When she turns back, she stops when her eyes meet mine, and she smiles, but the kind that’s made from a broken heart. She squeezes my knee, and I cover her hand with mine. I don’t have any words to say that will make this better, so I leave it at a simple embrace and a look. I can’t fix her pain, and nothing will.