The Hard Count (15 page)

“That’s what,” he says, chewing through a closed-mouth grin as he stands, picking up all of our plates and walking away from me backward.

“Hey! I wasn’t done with that,” I protest, standing and following him toward the sink while his niece pushes in her chair and runs to the front room, flipping on a television.

“Only a little bit of TV, then you need to do something else, okay?” Nico says loudly, leaning forward so she can see him around the corner. She nods, then settles into the softness of the sofa.

“You limit her TV?”

Nico’s brow pinches, and I realize my question might have sounded judgmental.

“Sorry, I just meant…it’s nice. Or, it’s not something I’m used to…I don’t know. I’m just going to shut up now,” I stammer, my hands busying themselves with the grooves of the tiled countertop, my fingers tracing the squares one at a time.

“All this time, and
that’s
what shuts you up? Gah! I could have won so many debates in class just by flummoxing you with the novel approach of limiting the amount of TV kids watch,” Nico teases. I look up at him with pursed lips, my eyes narrowed and my mouth twisted.

“Kidding,” he chuckles.

“Sorta,” he adds after a few seconds.

I pick up a dish towel near me and throw it at his head. He catches it swiftly and throws it back, and we both freeze with our eyes on one another. I want to look away, but I force myself not to. The pep talk happening inside my head is comical, but it works, and I end up seeing his gaze through. He doesn’t break either, but his cheek dimples, and his lashes sweep in slow blinks—his expression that of a guy who’s become strangely comfortable looking at me.

“I try not to let her be a couch potato is all. We have a lot of kids in the neighborhood, and when it’s light out, I like to try to encourage them to go out and play. The boys all want to play video games, but that’s okay because Alyssa doesn’t want to play with them anyways. She’s into dolls and hopscotch and…you know…girl stuff, I guess,” he says, leaning forward and pulling the towel across the counter, rubbing it in large circles and eventually draping it over the edge of the sink.

“My dad didn’t really like us watching TV either,” I say. My words must intrigue him, because he pulls himself up to sit on the counter across from me, and his head shifts to the side.

“Did he give you guys limits?” Nico asks.

“Not…really. But if he got irritated with us, or just, like…thought we had watched enough for the day, he would walk by and unplug it,” I say. Nico laughs instantly at the image I conjure, and as I think back on the scenes from our childhood, I begin to laugh, too. “Yeah, I guess subtle was never really part of Chad Prescott’s tool kit.”

“Doesn’t sound like it,” Nico chuckles, his laughter filling the space between us for a few seconds until it subsides, and once again we’re left with our eyes meeting, and my brain searching for words and courage to let him look at me like this for just a little while longer.

“I…uh…I was wondering if I could interview you?” I finally interject, breaking the silence and killing the smile that was on Nico’s face for so long. His brow wrinkles. “For my film? That’s…that’s why I came.”

It’s completely
not
why I came, but it’s the excuse I gave myself. It’s the lie I concocted while I sat in the school parking lot. It’s the ruse for getting to spend more time with him, for getting to ask him questions and learn more of his story.

Nico pushes free from the counter, and I move to the archway between the kitchen and living room, hoping he’ll follow. His hand cupped behind his neck, he stretches to look out the open screen door before his eyes come back to me.

“Yeah, I guess so,” he says. “Where do you want to do it? Maybe…front porch?”

“That’s great,” I smile, hating that we’re moving back outside, closer to my car—closer to me
leaving.
I do need to get my things, though. “I’ll get my stuff, and set up. Do you…want to get different clothes on?”

My eyes have been working hard not to ogle, and now that he’s standing again, that task is proving to be more impossible. As if he can read my mind, Nico reaches up so his fingertips touch the top of the archway, stretching enough to flex the line of muscles that fall down his sides, into his shorts and…
oh God.

“Yeah, I’ll meet you out there,” he says as I turn away and move toward the screen door.

I mumble out a “sounds good,” and pass between his niece and her view of the television on my way out the door, marching quickly to my car and unlocking it to pull open the passenger door. I grab my shirt and tie it around my waist, then slide the large camera bag over my shoulder so I can carry the tripod in my hands.

It takes me only a few minutes to set up a good shot on Nico’s porch. By the time I have the shot framed on the plastic chair—I’ve positioned just in front of a vine growing up a section of lattice—Nico steps through the door wearing a pair of faded jeans and a black T-shirt with a gray
X
painted over the center, only slightly to the left.

Nico sinks into the seat, but straightens his posture quickly. I adjust the height of my camera, and look at his face through the lens, giving myself the gift of a few extra seconds to study his features. His teeth are almost perfectly straight, and I wonder if he’s ever had braces? His jaw is strong, and his eyes have the ability to reflect whatever color is around them—right now his brown mixing with the green grass in front of us and the bright blue of the sky. It’s so much easier to see him through the lens.

It’s so much easier to
let
myself.

I don’t take advantage too much, though, not wanting him to grow impatient, and when I have him framed just right, I press the record button and sit back on my heels.

“I have an extra chair, if you need it,” he says.

I hold up my hand in protest.

“I’m good. I’ll just sit on the ground. I like sitting this way, really,” I say, falling back to sit comfortably and pulling my legs in tight.

I reach up to tilt the viewer on my camera so I can see, but stop on Nico’s face. He smirks. Dimple deep and eyes shadowed by his dark lashes, he’s the devastating kind of handsome.

“I like your shirt,” I gesture, not wanting to linger on the fact that, once again,
he
was looking at
me.
“Does it mean something?”

Nico glances down, then holds his hand over the gray
X
, his palm resting flat, covering it whole.

“
X
marks the spot,” he says with a slight chuckle. My lip tugs up, smiling on one side of my mouth. “My brother gave it to me. I was too little to wear it at the time, but now that I’ve grown into it…”

His eyes twinkle when he looks back up at me. I’ve often thought the twinkle was something made up, a thing that only happened in cartoons and fairytales, but I was wrong, because Nico’s eyes dance,
and they twinkle
. I bet they do a lot of things.

“You and your brother…” I start, pausing to think through my words, not wanting to hit on something that’s a sore spot. Or at least not without entering into it delicately. “Are you…close with your brother?”

Nico’s smile stays in place for a few seconds, but slips into less of one as he leans back and folds his hands behind his neck.

“Vincent…is…” He stops, his eyes lost to the sky behind me as his head shakes slightly and his lips pull in tight. When his gaze lands on me again, I sit up higher, lifting myself to a large garden stone so it doesn’t look like Nico’s staring down during the whole video.

“Vincent has made a lot of mistakes,” Nico says, finally, and as much as he’s content to leave things there, my curiosity kicks swiftly.

“What kind of mistakes?” I ask, my brow pulling in. I wrap my arms around my knees and force myself to listen quietly, my ears also testing to make sure the TV is still on behind the now-closed front door of his home.

Nico looks up again, his teeth holding on to the tip of his tongue, his eyes just over my shoulder. His mouth opens with a breath, but his chest falls soon after, and he sucks in his top lip, looking back to me. His eyes close and he shakes his head just enough to signal that this line—it’s off limits.

“Okay,” I say, the breeze picking up and blowing strands of my hair over my face. I left it down again today. I haven’t put it up again since Nico said he liked it this way.

I glance at the screen for my camera, our eyes meeting this way—in black and white. Nico blinks slowly, eventually shifting his weight and looping one arm over the side of the chair, sitting with one of his legs pulled in. I notice he’s still only wearing socks, and the sweetness of it makes me smile. He’s at home here.

With me.

“How about we talk about football?” I ask.

“That sounds good,” he grins.

“Who taught you how to play? I can tell…you…what you do, rather. It isn’t just street ball,” I say. “Where did you hone your skills?”

Nico leans forward, rubbing his hands together with a smile.

“My uncles,” he says, through a chuckle. “My dad…he was never really around. I don’t even remember him, really. But my mom’s brothers more than made up for it. They had a ball in my hands from the time I was a tiny kid. We had a team in West End, like…Pop Warner or whatever. We held carwashes for uniforms and all of that. I played until I was ten or eleven, and then my Uncle Joe had a heart attack. I kind of lost interest after that. So did Uncle Danny. I played for fun…ya know…with Sasha and the boys? But…I was done with the real thing.”

“Until now…” I say, my smile pulling up on one side.

Nico’s expression mirrors mine, and he settles back into his chair again.

“Well, there’s this girl…” he starts, and my heart doubles its rhythm. “She can be kind of…persuasive.”

“Ha!” My laugh comes out automatically. “I wish I could persuade you. Nico Medina, arguing with you has been the bane of my high school existence.”

His smirk lingers, and his eyes close in on me.

“You
love
arguing with me…and you know it,” he says, his tongue pushing out the side of his mouth, just below his lower lip. I bite the inside of my cheek and stare him down, eventually shaking my head with a sigh.

“So your Uncle…Danny?” I glance back up to confirm I have his name right. Nico lets me loose from his stare and nods, looking down at his hands again, pressing his fingertips against one another and flexing. “Did he come to your game?”

Nico’s smile grows fast.

“He’s coming Friday. He lives up near Metahill, up north. My mom’s going to pick him up and bring him,” he says, his cheeks colored with a hint of pink. I think he might be nervous about having his uncle watch him.

“He’s going to be so impressed,” I say, and Nico shrugs my compliment off, twisting uncomfortably in his seat. I’m starting to learn that as comfortable and confident as he is with his academic talent, he’s exactly the opposite with athletics. Maybe it’s just because he’s out of practice. I know it’s not because he’s lacking on the field. As smart as he is in the classroom, he’s twice as smart out there.

Nico leans forward, and all my camera is capturing is the top of his head. I can tell he’s starting to feel less comfortable in the hot seat, so I stand and turn the camera off.

“I’d like to meet him,” I say, unsnapping the camera from the tripod and folding up my equipment. Nico glances up at me with one eyebrow raised and a half smile that I’m starting to fall for…
a lot.

“I’d like you to meet him, too,” he says.

Our eyes lock again in that space we’ve grown used to. I wonder if it makes Nico feel the same? I wonder if he’s wishing I’d look away, or if he’s hoping I don’t. I swallow from the intensity, and he blinks a few times, his focus falling to the camera and equipment in my hands.

“You need me to help you with that?” he asks.

I lift it up and down a few times to show how light it is, then chuckle.

“I’m not that weak,” I say.

“Oh, I know you’re not. I’ve carried your school bag,” he laughs, standing and stretching toward the rooftop gutters. His fingers grip the edge lightly, and his shirt raises enough that his stomach shows. I turn to face my car quickly.

“I should probably go,” I say, not wanting to leave at all, but very much out of excuses to stay. “Tell your mom I said hi.”

“I will,” he says, following me to my car. “She’ll be bummed she missed you. She wants to get to know you more. Mom likes to keep up on all of my stalkers.”

My eyes flash wide, and I laugh awkwardly.

“I’m sorry. Next time I’ll ask before I come,” I say, glancing in his direction, my eyes not making it all the way.

I fumble with my keys and unlock the car, dropping my equipment in the seat. I reach to unwrap my shirt from my waist, but instead of covering things, I just toss it on top, not wanting Nico to see me have such a low opinion of his neighborhood. When I turn to face him again, his hands are in his pockets, and his eyes are down.

“Do you want my number?” he asks, gazing up with a brow raised.

“Yes,” I answer quickly, my chest expanding fast and my inner voice reminding me to be cool. “That’d be nice.”

I pull out my phone and swipe it on to type, but Nico reaches and takes it from me, typing in his contact info. He hands it back, but doesn’t meet my eyes.

“Your friend…Izzy…” he says, and my heart sinks. “She said something about some dance or something? Right after next week’s home game.”

“Homecoming,” I say. The word comes out flat—like I said a password.

“Yeah, that. I’ve never been…
you?”
He brings his hand to his neck, rubbing the back of it, and eventually bringing it over his face.

“I went last year…” I say, remembering how Travis took me out of pity. My brother put him up to it, and Izzy encouraged it. I was really over him by then, and the entire night felt like a forced babysitting event. I didn’t even like my dress.

“You think you’ll go again? Like…with your friends or whatever?” he asks. His hands have fallen deeper in his pockets, and he looks up at me in short glances.

My friends.

My…
friend.