The Hard Count

by Ginger Scott

  She stops to pull the tissue from her lap and dab it on the corners of her eyes.

  “I knew I’d need these,” she chuckles. “Sorry.”

  “It’s okay,” I say, pushing my palms into my eyes behind the camera.

  “What did the police tell you?” I ask, not wanting to hear the story again, but knowing I need it for the film. It’s important, perhaps more than the outcome of the game tonight.

  “I was getting ready for bed. Alyssa was asleep, and my phone rang. I knew Nico was coming home to change before Sasha came to pick him up, so I figured it was him, telling me he forgot his key. I knew something was wrong the second I heard a man’s voice and not my sweet boy,” she says, stopping to dab her eyes again. I reach forward and squeeze her hand. “He said my son had pushed a homeless man out of the way when a drunk driver was careening into the truck stop parking lot. Nico had apparently heard the car’s tires and saw the man in its path, and he rushed to stand in the way. He was able to move the man, but Nico…wasn’t fast enough. The car hit him, but the officer didn’t know how bad. He had already been taken to the hospital before the officer was on scene.”

  “Sasha showed up while I was on the phone; I sent him to find out, so I could get Alyssa up and take her to my brother’s. I sped so fast, and I kept practicing my speech to any police officer that might have pulled me over,” she says, laughing lightly. “I felt like I could talk my way out of a ticket that day, you know?”

  “I agree,” I smile.

  “When I got to the hospital, I just remember this feeling that hit me…” she says, stopping, her eyes drifting from the camera to something beyond my shoulder. Her mouth curves into a smile, and mine follows suit. “I felt Nico. In that hallway, leading up to the desk, to the room in the trauma center—there was this feeling that just embraced me.”

  “Like a miracle,” I say.

  She nods.

  “Yes,” she says. “Exactly like a miracle. I slowed down, and I walked past the desk, somehow not even needing to ask the nurse’s station which room was my son’s. I knew…my heart…it knew. I put my hand on the door and closed my eyes, and when I stepped inside…”

  “I walked over to her and hugged her,” Nico says from behind me.

  I let my eyes water, watching his mom fight through her own tears through my lens.

  “Yes, you did. You only had some scratches. They said you were fast, maybe the fastest, crazy kid they’d ever seen,” she says, half laughing and half crying.

  Nico walks into the frame, his legs covered in pads but his chest and arms still only wearing his Tradition T-shirt. His mom stands and moves her hands to his face, holding him and looking at him—admiring her brave boy.

  “You’re going to do great today,” she says.

  “You think so?” he asks, his mouth a lopsided smile, showing his youth despite his frame and muscles.

  His mom straightens his shirt and pats her hands on his chest.

  “I know so,” she says. “And if that coach tells you to do something, and you think it’s not right…” she glances at me, and I smirk, clicking my camera off. She leans in to her son, whispering loud enough that I hear. “You do what your gut tells you. It’s never done you wrong.”

  “Okay, Momma,” he says, bending down to kiss her cheek.

  I move close to them both, helping Valerie to unclip the mic from her shirt, catching the cord as she lets it fall through the front of her blouse.

  “I’ll see you at our seats, Mija,” she says, squeezing my arm.

  I love her.

  I nod okay.

  The door falls closed, and for a moment, it’s only Nico and me. He squares to me, and I move my hands to his shirt, gripping it and holding on. Our eyes meet, and he breathes in deep. I can see the weight of the world on his shoulders. I know this look—I’ve seen it on my dad.

  “You’re amazing,” I say.

  He breathes out a laugh and rolls his eyes, but I shake my hands where they hold his shirt, getting him to look at me again.

  “No matter what happens, just remember that. Just know that you’re amazing. You’ve done your very best, and this game—it does not define you,” I say.

  His mouth falls to a faint smile, and his chest rises as he takes my words in.

  “Okay,” he says.

  “There…good,” I say, reaching up on my toes and taking his bottom lip in between mine. It’s soft and salty with sweat, and he smells like a boy who has been wearing the same shirt and pads on the field for hours every night. Yet, I don’t care, because he’s here. I can touch him.

  We stand in silence for a few long seconds, and my hands slide down his arms until my fingers tangle in his. I follow my craving and look down to see our touch. Ever since I rushed with Sasha to the hospital, afraid Nico wasn’t going to survive, I’ve been more aware of these simple moments between us. I hold onto them, wanting to store each and every memory because in life there are too many things one just never knows.

  “How’d your interview go?” he asks.

  I inhale quietly, my eyes studying the look of his hands as I think about his question.

  “The dean…he liked me,” I say.

  “Of course he did,” Nico says, his fingers still working around each of mine, his eyes low, too.

  “I’m pretty sure they’re going to offer me a spot,” I say.

  I feel Nico nod, and I know he’s smiling. My eyes close, and I let myself feel his touch. Prestige is all I’ve wanted for so long. I’ve put in hours of my life, logged film in the dark, lost sleep listening to sound—my father had football, and I had this. But now it just seems so empty, my heart…it doesn’t want it quite like it did.

  And I think I know why.

  “I’m going to go to Southern Cal, though,” I say, and I feel Nico’s fingers freeze against mine instantly. My heart doesn’t pound, and my stomach doesn’t sink. Instead…everything suddenly feels even. My lungs grow as I inhale and open my eyes, my mouth curving into a smile.

  My mom said I would know. She said I would be able to choose what I really wanted when I really had to. I want to study film, but I don’t need to do it at Prestige. I want to be near Nico. I want to see my brother play for San Diego, which is where he thinks he’s going to go. I want to be near the boys that I love with all my heart, and I don’t want to give them up because my plan has always been this one solitary thing.

  “True story?” Nico asks, and I look up, laughing when my eyes meet his. His smile is crooked, and I move my hands back to his chest, shaking him.

  “Oh my God, do not quote Noah. You’re smarter than that,” I say.

  Nico bends down and meets my eyes, his wide and still waiting.

  “Yes,” I say. “Yes, true story. Yes, I want to go to USC. And not just for you. For me, because of Noah, and because that’s what’s right.”

  “But mostly me, right?” he says, his eyes hazing.

  I push him, and he grabs me and pulls me in to kiss him.

  I don’t answer, because I’ve learned what pressure can do to people, and saying I’m making a choice mostly for him is pressure that both he and I don’t need. But my heart feels stronger having made my choice. My head feels clear, and there’s a renewed energy in my step. I’m pretty sure I know what that is, but I won’t label it. I’m just going to enjoy it while it’s here.

  There’s a pounding on the door, so I step up to kiss him one last time, letting his fingers slip free of mine as he jogs to the door, the sound of his cleats clicking on the concrete.

  “All of West End is here to see you, you know,” I say.

  “I know,” he says.

  “Hey, Nico?” I stop him as he catches the door in his hand.

  “Whose house is this?” I ask.

  His lip quirks up.

  “Hoorah!” he whispers.

  The door falls closed behind him, and I sit back in the metal folding chair and simply breathe. We do things in life to make others happy. We make sacrifices
because that feeling—the one I once thought was altruism, but have since learned is just love—it makes us feel good. We give, but it’s never selfless. Nico has given so much. He’s lost more than his share, and he’s sacrificed beyond what is right.

  Tonight—tonight the universe gives back.

  It’s not just customary.

  It’s tradition.

  24

  “No, listen to me—this is the plan!”

  I bring Sasha in close, putting my arm over his shoulder. Jacob and Thomas step in close, too.

  The lights are going to shut off soon, and we all have to get home. Momma got me a new bike, so I can ride home fast with Thomas and Jacob. We have time for one more play, but it has to work. This is the only chance we have.

  The sixth-grade boys always win. It really isn’t fair that we divide teams by age. We’re only ten, and they’re so much taller than us. But my uncle says that the most important muscle you use in football is the one in your head. He says anyone can beat anyone if they just do that one right thing.

  “Sasha, you know how I always have Thomas snap after green sixteen? This time, he’s going to hold it, and I’m going to wait a tick before I say hike,” I say.

  “Nico, there’s no refs out here. That hard count shit you see on TV doesn’t work here, dude. Christian is just going to flatten Thomas’s ass faster and knock you out. Don’t give them that extra second,” Sasha says.

  I shake him with my hand on his back, and he flings my arm away.

  “Listen, no…really. This will work, I swear. They won’t be ready. It’s like…it’s like tripping them. Just, come on—try it just this one time. If it doesn’t work, I swear to you guys we don’t ever have to run this play again.”

  Sasha rolls his eyes and sighs, but pushes his hand into the center.

  “Fine, whatever. Game’s over anyhow,” he says.

  I smile and bite the tip of my tongue. I can’t explain why, but I have this feeling—like I already know what’s going to happen. Sasha is going to feel so stupid when I’m right.

  I slap my hand on his, and Thomas and Jacob follow.

  “Break!” we all shout, jogging to our positions on the line.

  My knee finally quit bleeding from the touchdown I ran in myself when we started playing two hours ago. My legs are ready, and my body feels fast. But this sense in my gut, it’s more than that. By the time I line up behind Thomas, I’m almost laughing—which only makes Christian, the biggest kid in our class and the one who always scores the winning touchdown out here, mad. His eyes lower on me, and he digs his foot into the dirt. If I’m wrong, he’s going to hurt me when he tackles me to the ground.

  I lick my fingertips and bend my knees, glancing down the line. Sasha and Jacob are lined up, their arms ready and bodies prepared to spring forward. They’ll need to be fast, and I can’t get caught. That single second—it’s going to be the difference.

  “Blue forty-two, blue forty-two,” I shout, my eyes moving to Thomas’s back then down the line, to Sasha. Our eyes meet, and my friend’s mouth lifts on one side.

  “Blue forty-two, green-sixteen…” I pause, and I count in my head that it’s only a breath.

  Christian lunges forward, but his brain tells him something’s wrong, and his feet stumble, his fist hitting the ground, followed by his knee as he loses his balance.

  “Hike!” I shout, picking my perfect moment.

  Thomas shoves the ball into my hands, and I fall back two or three steps while Christian works to get to his feet. I’ve given myself room, and Thomas is holding Christian’s brother, Angel, by the sleeves of his shirt. I know my friend can’t hold two defenders for long, but I won’t need more than a few seconds.

  “Run, Sasha, run!” I shout, knowing that my friend is far faster than the two defenders tailing both him and Jacob.

  Sasha can outrun anyone. I just can’t miss.

  I leap up on my feet with two side-steps, not sure if he’s far enough yet, and I catch Christian coming at me. I twist, and his hand snags my shirt, ripping the threads from the bottom, but I break free, and I stay on my feet while his weight carries him too far, and he skids on his knee.

  I rush to the other side while Christian gets up, and I know I have less time now. Sasha…he has to be far enough. This is our shot; it’s the only one we have to win—so I take it.

  My arm falls back and I thrust it forward, grunting as I send the ball down the field just as Christian reaches me and wraps me in his arms, pushing my face into the dry grass, my knee opening up again and bleeding as I skid along the hard ground.

  None of it hurts. I don’t feel a single thing. And I hold my breath as Christian pushes on my shoulder to lift himself up, satisfied that he has done enough. I don’t move, other than lifting my head so my eyes can watch Sasha run. His legs stretch, and in those final beats, his stride seems to mature, giving him the two extra feet we need.

  The ball hits his hands, and he keeps running until he crosses the goal line made of our extra hats and jackets. My friend never spikes the ball, but instead makes a wide turn, his speed still up as he runs back to me, his mouth an O shape with the scream he’s belting.

  I jump to my feet and brush away the grass from my chest just as his body hits mine, and he lifts me up and carries me several steps. I laugh as Jacob and Thomas run over to join us, and we take turns bumping our chests together and pounding our fists.

  Sasha grabs my hand in one of his, then slams the ball down in my palm, lifting my hand up in the air in celebration.

  “State champs, baby! State champs!” he screams. I join him, and we let our chant echo into the night while the sixth graders pick up their bikes and begin to pedal home.

  “I will never not trust you again, Nico Medina! You’re my boy, you hear that? You…me and you, Nico. Every time!”

  I jump up on my friend’s back and squeeze him, my palm pounding against his chest.

  “One day, Sasha—we’re going to win it all for real,” I say in his ear. “I promise.”

  I have been standing with my mom and dad, Linda, Valerie, Alyssa, and Uncle Danny in the first row at the fifty-yard line for the entire second half. This game would have been a nightmare if my father were still the coach. The bracket just worked this way, but it also felt a little bit like karma was at play to line us up in the championship against Great Vista again—the school that knocked us out last year.

  We ended the first half in a tie—seven to seven—but ever since The Tradition has come back out, they’ve been flat. Nico’s runs aren’t working. They’re tying up Travis and Sasha. Our running game, which has never been strong, is losing yardage. We can’t seem to get a break, and with less than a minute left, Great Vista is sitting on the thirty-yard line in need of nothing but a field goal.

  I reach to both sides, grabbing my parents’ hands, grateful for once to be free of my camera and with them through this. My press pass gave me access to the media booth, but not the field. I set my camera up to capture the game, but win or lose—it’s the interview after that really matters to me. I won’t need a press pass for that.

  “Look at that,” my mom says, nudging me and leaning her head to the left so I look down our row to Tori O’Donahue. The woman is holding her fists to her mouth, her thumbnails in her teeth, probably being gnawed to the bone. She’s rocking on her feet, the rhythm picking up speed with every single tick of the clock.

  My mom has been that woman. She was that woman only a few months ago. Since my dad was let go and she was kicked out of the social committee, her hair has started to look healthier, her skin full of color—the dark circles around her eyes requiring less concealer. And the wine, while she still likes it, seems to be lasting a little longer in our house.

  “That poor woman; I feel so bad,” she says, staring at Tori.

  I open my mouth, about to tell her how big of her that is, when she blows it as only my mom can, turning and looking me right in the eyes. “I’m over it,” she says, her mouth cur
ving quickly. She’s unable to disguise her malicious laugh.

  “Mom,” I say, my head falling to the side. My eyes scanning back to the boosters, to Tori and the women who were so awful when it was my mom in that position. “Nah, you’re right. I’m over it, too.”

  We both laugh about it, giddy with ourselves and our catty behavior when suddenly the crowd begins to boo over a call on the field.

  “Wait, what happened?” I ask my dad, the Great Vista team moving five yards closer from a penalty, and their top-notch kicker jogging onto the field with less than twenty seconds on the clock.

  “They ran a hard count, and our boys jumped right-the-hell offsides!” my dad yells, tearing his hat from his head and throwing it down in front of him. You can take the coach out of his position, but you can’t remove his spirit for the game—or love for the team.

  “How? Of all teams, we should know how to anticipate that…how?” I ask, looking down the row to Nico’s uncle.

  “Your boy is pissed,” Uncle Danny says, shaking his head.

  I turn my attention back to the field, where Nico is running down the sideline, livid and on edge. He waves his arms, calling for the rest of the team to rush down the field with him, and they all shout and hold their helmets over their heads, trying to be a distraction as best they can from the sidelines.

  It’s no use. Great Vista’s kicker is the best in the state. My dad knows the kid’s name, Connor Pruitt, and while we watch his ball sail easily through the uprights, with another twenty yards to give if he needed it, the Cornwall crowd grows hushed.

  “I hate him right now, but that kid—he’s kicking for Alabama next year,” my dad says, bending down and picking up his hat. He doesn’t put it back on, instead rolling the brim and twisting the mesh in his hands. “I don’t know…they can run two…maybe three plays. Even then, that Pruitt kid is going to push them back to at least the twenty, and we haven’t gotten a run back yet.”