The Hard Count (34 page)

“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.

M
y 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 through 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.

We turn back to the field as whistles begin to blow, and my eyes search for a clue. Coach O’Donahue is talking with the referees while one of his assistant coaches rushes back down the field, hopping the fence for the shortest route and sprinting to the locker room. The other team’s four captains are holding hands, waiting in the center of the field for the coin flip, and I start to worry that Jimmy’s not going to cave.

“They’re going to forfeit,” I whisper.

“Huh? Why? Why would they do that?” Nico’s mom asks, scooting forward, her eye worried and searching.

“Nah…they won’t,” Noah says, leaning forward and winking just as the chant of “hoorah!” echoes from the dark behind him.

My chest fills with air and my body feels light, and I realize just how much my muscles have been clenching, on edge.

The team moves toward the field, and I see my friend holding a banner up while she sits on another cheerleader’s shoulders, stretching the hand-painted paper, perhaps the ugliest looking drawing of a Tiger I’ve ever seen, across several feet to another pair of cheerleaders on the other side. The team huddles and disappears behind the banner, their “woofing” and chest-pounding growing like thunder until they break through the center, Nico and Colton at the front, Travis right behind them.

My family and Nico’s stands and screams. I’m filled with adrenaline, and my nerves are out of control, my fingers tingling and my legs unable to stop moving. I apologize as I sit down next to Valerie, and she hugs me from the side.

“I can’t stop moving, either. It’s okay,” she says.

With my camera set and propped next to me, I let myself watch kickoff with my own eyes. The North team is huge—in both numbers and size—and they manage to gain twenty yards on their initial run. They make the fifty, and I start to worry—my father and Nico’s uncle both shouting the things they see wrong, agreeing and shouting louder.

In a blink, Sasha changes the course of the game. He pulls away from the line, shifting and staying with the targeted receiver, reading the pass perfectly and leaping in front at the right time. He’s only able to bring the ball down before the North offense tackles him, but he jumps and pounds his chest as he makes his way to our side, tossing the ball to the ref.

Coach O’Donahue has his offense pulled off to the side, and he’s holding up a hand to the ref, giving them instructions before yelling, “Break.” When Nico rushes to the field, I get to my feet, not caring that it’s only the first play. I’m so happy to see him out there, so proud and so relieved that Jimmy didn’t ruin this, too; I have to stand. My mom stands with me, and before long, I’ve started a movement, and the entire right side of the bleachers is on their feet, screaming.

The hard count is a thing of beauty when it’s done right. It requires trust. It thrives on surprise. It needs precision and a certain amount of faith. Rarely, if ever, have I seen a quarterback use it right out of the gate. My dad recognizes it, too, and I smile seeing the smirk on his face. Nico shouts his cadence, the rhythm different, his offense ready—North falls into their hands.

“Offsides!” the announcer says.

The head ref signals the five yards, and both teams move—our opponent now lit and flustered. This is where Nico wants them.

Off guard.

Before the defense is even set, Nico’s calling the play, only enough time for them to make it to the line before he’s backpedalling, Colton holding the line, Travis sprinting. Fifteen yards out, Nico’s pass is a bullet to his chest, and the defense wraps him up. In no-huddle, hurry-up mode, The Tradition scrambles, and they do it again. And again. The same play, only slight variations. North has no answers, and in less than a minute, Nico hits Travis in the end zone, and we’re up six to zero.

“That was unbelievable,” my dad says, scratching at his chin while my mom grabs his arm in both of her hands, shaking it in her excitement.

“He’s better than me,” Noah says.

My mom starts in quickly with her “no, honeys” and “you’re different,” but Noah holds his hand up to stop her.

“He is. He’s better than me, and it’s okay, Mom. I’m in awe,” Noah says, his eyes clear and wide, his head shaking at what just happened on the field.

Nico’s Uncle Danny leans to high-five both my brother and my dad, while Nico’s mom beams with pride, Alyssa clapping and screaming her uncle’s name over and over again—
Nico, Nico, Nico!