The Hard Count
Page 34
I look up from the page, the breeze blowing the deep-green tips of grass around me. That’s Vincent—laughing.
“I also know you were proud,” I say. “You didn’t have to say it. I felt it.”
A car drives by slowly, so I lean forward and look into my lap. There’s something personal about being in the cemetery. It’s a place for secret conversations. Maybe that’s just the way I feel, but I’ve noticed that other people that come out here—they like to be left alone, too. It’s sort of an unspoken agreement. We don’t stare, and we let people have their space and time. I glance up when the car disappears behind the thick trees.
“I was wondering if maybe I could just run this by you once? I know you never really liked to hear my speeches. You always said I was better when I didn’t have something planned, but this one’s important. There are a lot of people that show up for this thing, and I just want to make sure I get it right.”
I clear my throat and look around to make sure I’m still alone. It’s just me and the car—the woman driving was older, and she’s too far for me to see now.
“Okay…here goes…”
I breathe in deep.
“I was afraid of you. I know that’s not what you expect to hear from someone like me. I’m the kid from West End—I must be tough, I must be a thug, I must have a gun in my home, I must be in a gang…I bet he’s killed someone, I bet his brother’s in prison. You can see why I was afraid. I was so afraid that I would get here, and that’s all you would see—a picture in your heads that was so far from the truth, but too impossible to overcome.”
“I was afraid of discrimination. Of intolerance. Of ignorance. I remember the meetings the admissions board held when I was in junior high, the ones about getting rid of the scholarship program because it exposed good kids to at-risk youth. At. Risk. Youth. That phrase…it’s too small. It’s pejorative. It’s not entirely wrong. Growing up in West End made me. That risk…it toughened me up. It made me fast. It made me fight. When I was a kid, I remember hiding on the floor of my room on Friday nights so stray bullets wouldn’t harm me. I hated my home. I loved it. I would never choose it for someone—never wish for my child to feel the fear I did. I could never imagine growing up somewhere else. That fear made me. That fear is the reason I stand up here; the reason I pushed myself to learn, to question, to try—to argue. That fear was balanced out by faith.”
“I was so afraid of you,” I say, stopping and folding the paper, looking to the flat stone in front of me. These words…I know them by heart now. They’re about Reagan and the friends I’ve made, but they’re also about Vincent. “You made me, too. You lifted me. You pushed me. You believed in me. You saw the boy from West End. I surprised you. But you—you surprised me, too.”
“This life, our lives—they are colored by expectations. It’s the surprises, though—how we deviate—that define us. Our time here at Cornwall, together…it’s so very short. Today, we’ll all stand on this field one final time and move a tassel on our caps to mark an end. We’ll blink, and then we’ll begin. We’ll be afraid, but we’ll fight. We’ll push, and we’ll remember who we were, what we thought we knew, what we know now, and how it’s made us—and then we’ll surprise. We’ll shock. We’ll amaze.”
“When I was afraid, you challenged me. And now, I dare you. I defy you to be great. Do not just be tradition—break tradition. As only you can.”
I fold the paper again and push it in my pocket, shaking my head as my mouth falls into its comfortable smirk.
“Do you have any idea how much you mean to me, brother?”
I know he won’t answer, but I think he hears me anyhow. My brother could have died a dishonorable death. He didn’t. His story is this blueprint for me, even the dark parts. I run my palm over my face, my eyes burning as I hold his memory close.
“I wish you could have met Reagan,” I say, my smile growing, knowing how much my brother would tease me for falling for a girl so much like me despite our differences.
“She’s so talented. The film she made is going to air on the public television station in California sometime in the fall. She had applied to USC as a backup, but she swears I’m not her only reason for wanting to go there.”
“Truthfully, though?” I look down at my fidgeting hands, laughing to myself. “Vincent, I wouldn’t care if I was the only reason. Is that bad? It’s bad, isn’t it? It’s selfish. I know it is. But this girl, Vincent.”
I run my hand over my eyes again and move it to my open mouth then my chin, laughing into my palm.
“She has me so completely, and the only thing I can compare it to is the way you said Alyssa hit your heart. Like there’s nothing too crazy, too far, too much...”
I stretch my legs out in front of me and rest back on my palms again, feeling my brother there with me. I don’t speak any more. My nerves are calmed, and I know that when I step in front of my graduating class as their valedictorian in just a few hours, I’ll be all right. I know when I pack everything I own—however slight those possessions may be—and pile into my barely-running car, that I’ll make it all the way. I know that when I’m throwing the ball down the field, competing for the starting job at USC, that there’s going to be a guy building up some young quarterback on the field in Alabama at the exact same time. And he’ll be rooting for me. All because I surprised him.
I stand, shaking out the damp shirt I’d been sitting on and tucking it in the band of my shorts for the walk home. I bend down over Vincent’s stone, balling my hand into a fist and resting it against the cool cement until I feel him tap back. My knuckles remain cold, and eventually I stand, pushing my hands into my pockets to begin the long walk home alone.
Alone, but not for long.
I love my home.
And I love what it made me.
THE END
Acknowledgments
This book is about more than just football. It’s about family. And it’s about the way people see other people. I grew up in a neighborhood much like West End. It wasn’t always that way, but somewhere, during the years, shots rang closer, gangs took over, and people who called that place home for years started to move away. Others stayed. And the horrible things that eventually happened on those streets—it wasn’t their fault.
Drugs. The allure of a quick buck. Gangs, and a world that let kids grow up without parents and where money was thin but bills kept climbing, fostering desperation. Those were the circumstances. The people, though—they were good.
One of my first breaking news assignments for the first newspaper I worked for was a fatal shooting that took place in a carwash stall just a block away from my childhood home. When I walked the streets and talked to nearby residents, many of them were familiar. They’d been in their homes for forty years. Latino, white, black, or as Nico would say…green—that was never part of the conversation. My quotes were about the violence and the gangs, not about condemning groups of people based on their ethnicities or laying blame at their feet. But that conversation…it does happen. We hear it a lot. Subtle racism plays out couched under faulty reasoning and apologies, as if it makes it okay.
It doesn’t.
It’s not.
Ugly doesn’t have a color. It lives among selfishness and hate. And as much as this story is about football…it’s also about that.
But the football…the football is good, no?
Off my soapbox…I have to thank a lot of people for this story. Firstly, my parents and brother for giving me the greatest childhood a tomboy like me could ask for. I loved my home, and I love the people and families I grew up with.
To my beta readers—Ashley, Jen, Shelley and Bianca. Lost without you ladies. LOST!
To my hubs and son, my reason for anything and the ultimate support in all I do. My hubs also happens to be one hell of a beta reader.
Tina Scott and BilliJoy Carson—you make my words shine. You are my lifelines, and I write with confidence knowing I have you to catch me when I fall.
&nb
sp; To dad, for making sure his little girl knew what a hard count was—and for loving that she also knows it’s what makes Aaron Rogers special. (Note: I’m aware that there are a lot of things that make Aaron Rogers special.)
Angel Reyes—thank you so very much for becoming my Nico for the cover. You are a special human being, and I’m so glad that I’ve gotten to know you. You’re going to do great things.
And Frank Rodriguez of DLRfoto…your photos leave me speechless. I will never stop dreaming up ideas just so I can talk you into shooting them for me. You’re a gift, and a forever kind of friend.
I must also thank my amazing readers, bloggers and reviewers who without I know I would still be writing books that no one would see. You are the spotlight, and I’m forever grateful for the time and attention you give to me. I’m humbled by it. And Ninjas? You guys are the best. I meant what I said—better than the Fox Force Five.
I hope you enjoyed this story. If you did, I would deeply appreciate your review. It’s often the only way indies like me are seen. And I welcome your email, too. You wouldn’t believe the smile it will put on my face.
Whose house is this?
Our house.
Hoorah!
About the Author
Ginger Scott is an Amazon-bestselling and Goodreads Choice Award-nominated author of several young and new adult romances, including Waiting on the Sidelines, Going Long, Blindness, How We Deal With Gravity, This Is Falling, You and Everything After, The Girl I Was Before, In Your Dreams, Wild Reckless, Wicked Restless and The Hard Count.
A sucker for a good romance, Ginger’s other passion is sports, and she often blends the two in her stories. Ginger has been writing and editing for newspapers, magazines and blogs for…well…ever. She has told the stories of Olympians, politicians, actors, scientists, cowboys, criminals and towns. For more on her and her work, visit her website at http://www.littlemisswrite.com.
When she's not writing, the odds are high that she's somewhere near a baseball diamond, either watching her son field pop flies like Bryce Harper or cheering on her favorite baseball team, the Arizona Diamondbacks. Ginger lives in Arizona and is married to her college sweetheart whom she met at ASU (fork 'em, Devils).
Find Ginger online:
@TheGingerScott
GingerScottAuthor
www.littlemisswrite.com
ginger@littlemisswrite.com
Books by Ginger Scott
Read The Complete Falling Series
This Is Falling
You And Everything After
The Girl I Was Before
In Your Dreams (spin-off standalone)
The Waiting Series
Waiting on the Sidelines
Going Long
The Harper Boys
Wild Reckless
Wicked Restless
Standalones
Blindness
How We Deal With Gravity
The Hard Count