The Hard Count (13 page)

“Turn around,” my dad says, his voice sterner, but still in control.

I zoom out to capture the entire line of juniors and seniors, many of the faces those I grew up with, all standing bulky shoulder to shoulder, freshly showered, but still showing the red, purple and blue cuts and bruises from the field.

“I’d like you each to shake Nico’s hand. One at a time. And I want you to thank him,” my dad says, the words coming out through gritted teeth. “You thank him for saving your sorry asses! For turning around your shit performance and somehow pulling something out of his ass with less than a minute in the game! You apologize for putting him in that position, for putting us in danger, and then you get your shit, go home, and show up here again at five in the morning and prepare to work!”

“Yes sir!”

The response is in unison, and the handshakes commence, each more awkward and full of fear than the last. Nico doesn’t respond, and his jaw flexes with every new grip, his eyes flitting from face to face, and his mouth growing tighter every time.

As soon as the final shake is done, the defensive squad, minus Sasha, who my father had play both ways, slips through the side door into the locker room. My father waits as the door shuts, walking close to the door to listen, to see if anyone dares to speak when they think they’re safe. Satisfied that they don’t, he turns to face the rest of the room.

“Nico,” he says.

Nico nods, his eyes still on the closed door behind the line of guys my father just shamed.

“Game ball,” my dad says, catching the toss from one of his assistant coaches and pitching it to Nico’s hands. “You earned it. It doesn’t mean shit, because now we look to next week.”

“Yes, sir,” Nico says.

Their eyes freeze on one another in a short standoff until my dad looks out around the room.

“Go home,” my dad says, leaving without another word, his office door slamming shut behind him.

I let my camera roll while everyone’s slow to move at first, eventually grabbing their bags or belongings and standing. I close my camera and slide from the table, passing by Colton, Travis, and my brother who are lingering outside my father’s door.

“I wouldn’t go in there,” my brother laughs.

I meet his eyes, and for the first time I can remember, I see something unkind in them. He’s almost reveling in the spiral, loving that things weren’t quite perfect without him. And there’s something a little menacing in his stare, too. I don’t respond, instead opening my father’s door and letting it close behind me. I don’t speak, moving right to the locker and placing my small camera in the bag with my other things, clicking the door closed and fastening the lock.

“You can pick it up Saturday. I’ll be here early,” my dad says, his eyes down at the paperwork in his hands which are resting in the fakest pose ever on his desk. He’s looking at spreadsheets, and I know he’s not
really
looking at anything.

“Okay,” I say, moving back to the door.

“Are you going to Charlie’s tonight?” he asks. I pause with my hand on the door handle and nod.

“I was thinking about it,” I say, my answer honest. I’d planned on going with Izzy until my stomach twisted seeing her talk to Nico. Now I kind of want to go home and sit in the shower until the hot water disappears and my body can’t stand the cold.

“Nico going?” my dad asks, his eyes raising slightly from the papers, but not fully to me. His question catches me off guard, and I shift my weight.

“I…I don’t know,” I say.

He nods a few times, then glances up at me through raised brows.

“I don’t want you giving him a ride home,” he says, and he waits for my response.

My brow pinches, and I let out a short breath through my nose, but nod in agreement.

“Okay,” I say, turning my full attention to the door and leaving.

My brother and Travis are gone, probably already on their way to Charlie’s. The parking lot gets full fast, with families and players crowding in for the free ice cream the owners give out after wins. We always pack the lot until midnight, until the neon lights are shut off, and sometimes well past then.

And tonight is the first one ever that Nico Medina will be there for any of it.

* * *

I
snag
the last spot in the lot. It’s near the alley, and it isn’t really a parking spot, but I know nobody is picking up the trash this late on a Friday night. I have to slide against the metal garbage bin to get out because I have to park so close. I’m sure I’ve smudged some dirt on my white shirt, but I brush the front and worry less about the back as I get closer to the party.

A few girls I recognize say hi, but I don’t stop until I get to my favorite picnic table closest to the building. Izzy is already sitting on the table, the straw from her chocolate shake lodged between her teeth as she tugs it free from her cup with her mouth then pokes it back in for a new position.

“Hands free, huh?” I tease as I sit next to her.

“My hands get cold, so I leave all the work up to my mouth,” she says, just loud enough that Travis hears and stops at our table to comment.

“I can give your pretty mouth a work out, Izz. Whataya say?” Travis reaches into his pants as if he’s really going to do anything. Izzy waits him out, not even blushing with embarrassment, and eventually he has to push his hands in his pockets and laugh to avoid feeling foolish.

“My mouth will never touch any part of
any
of you, Travis Wickersham,” my friend says, her lips wrapping over her straw then slowly stretching into a closed-mouth grin. She sucks in a taste of chocolate while Travis looks on, and he holds his hand over his chest.

“You break my heart, Izzy. But I’ll get over it,” he laughs.

“She just won’t give in because my sister is in love with you,” my brother says, his voice behind me and instantly sending my head three years into the past and my temper a dozen levels hotter.

“Noah!” I shout, twisting in my seat to look him in the eyes, only to notice Nico is just over his shoulder, hearing everything.

“Awe, there’s enough of me to go around, Reagan, but I don’t think your brother will approve,” Travis chuckles.

My eyes flare and dart from person to person, in quick panic. All I want is for this to stop, for my brother and Travis to move on, for the subject to change. This friendly banter—or
not-so-friendly
at the moment—is typical Prescott-twin activity. My brother and I have been pushing each other’s buttons since the days of long car rides to our grandparents’ lake house in the summer. We’ve always been competitive—even though our skills don’t match. I’m the one who gets straight
As
and takes first prize at the science fair, and Noah hits the ball over the fence in Little League. We fight over shelf space, over whose trophy, medal, certificate—whatever symbol of our achievement—gets to take up more real estate and is placed in the very center of the mantle.

But there’s something in my brother’s tone tonight—an edge that’s just a little different. Something…bitter. When I step in closer, mostly to keep my brother’s voice down, I realize he’s also working on a pretty nice buzz, the smell of whiskey from our dad’s favorite stash, strong. I’ve gotten used to this smell over the last year, too. It’s on him when he crawls into the house from parties—it was on him the night he crashed the car, too.

“You’re on pain meds, Noah. Don’t be an idiot; what are you thinking,” I say, doing my best to keep my voice a whisper, but gritting the words through my teeth so he can see how serious I am—how disappointed I am.

I can almost see it coming before I’m hit with it, but I’m not fast enough. My brother’s hand grabs my shoulder, and he pushes me out of his face.

“You’re not my fucking babysitter, Reagan! You have such an enormous stick up your ass. Always Miss Perfect.
Oh, look at me, Daddy. I’m making a movie. Can I make a movie about you?
Guess what, Reagan? Nobody gives a shit about your dumb-ass documentary—not even Dad! He just wants you to be busy, and he’s always complaining about how you get in the way out on the field. The coaches fucking
hate
that you’re in the press box. What are you going to do when you go to college and realize that the only people who think you’re talented at all are fucking related to you?”

My fingers tingling, my face red, I glance around to see dozens of eyes on me—including Nico’s. I clench my jaw to keep my emotions as even as I can, and I stand, but the little girl who doesn’t want to let her brother get away with it gets the best of me, and I let my shoulder fall just enough into my brother as I pass that I nudge his arm from his crutch, causing him to hop.

“Asshole,” I say under my breath.

“Bitch,” he says back without pause. His word comes out crisp and loud, and it stabs like a knife. I stop in my tracks instantly, my hand swelling with blood. I’ve never wanted to hit him. I’ve never hated him so much.

My eyes tear up, and I spin to let my hand fly at his face, but before I can, Nico’s stepped up to him, their faces only inches apart.

“Apologize,” Nico says.

His eyes don’t blink. He’s the boy who’s always right, and he’s delivered my brother one single expectation. As much as I should be honored, instead I’m mortified. My brother doesn’t call me names. Sometimes we don’t talk, and lately he’s been distant. We haven’t talked in days, really. But we don’t go to dark places with each other. We compete, but at the end of the day, I’m always in his corner.

Always.

My head tilts, and I look to him, his eyes hard on Nico’s, his posture rigid—not wanting to say he’s sorry, but only because he doesn’t want to give Nico the satisfaction. Well, what about me? Who gives a shit about his pissing match with Nico. This is about me!

“I hate you!”

My lips quiver when the words fall away, and my hand covers my mouth quickly, my breath a short tremble and my eyes stinging with the red I know has filled them up.

“Reagan,” Travis says, stepping closer to me, his voice suddenly sweet. Decorum matters now, because I got my feelings hurt.
Now
they’ll be kind.

Travis reaches for my arm, and Izzy tosses what’s left of her shake at him, the lid popping free and light brown frozen sugar spilling in heavy drops across Travis’s neck, chest, and arms.

“Shit, Izz!” he says, looking down with his arms stretched out.

My eyes grow wide while my young crush and brother’s best friend wipes away large swipes of milk-chocolate shake, letting it fling from his fingertips to the ground. I begin to giggle, and Izzy looks at me.

“Izzy, I love you,” I say, my laughter somewhere between the kind that precedes crying and genuine giddiness.

“I love you, too, Reagan. What do you say we leave the boys in the sandbox?”

My friend loops her arm with mine, tugging me along the main walkway into the small restaurant and through the throngs of people in line, waiting to place their order. She drags me all the way to the bathroom, and I laugh the entire way until we make it to the large stall in the end of the ladies’ room, where I fall into her hug and weep heavy tears against her chest.

I cry for a solid ten minutes, and my friend strokes my hair, which I kept down because Nico said it looked nicer that way. She doesn’t ask questions, and when I’m finally able to breathe, she walks me to the sink and runs cold water, dampening paper towels and wiping away any remains on my face that I was ever sad at all. When she’s done, she looks me in the eyes and smiles until I can’t help but do it back.

“Your brother didn’t mean it,” she says, and I nod lightly, not so sure, but wanting to believe it. “He’s upset. His identity has been shaken, and he just doesn’t know how to cope with it all. He took it out on you, and he shouldn’t have.”

“You’re right,” I sigh, my throat sore and my body a little tired from the instant emotional drain.

“And Travis…he’s just an asshole,” she says, her mouth twisted into a disgusted expression that makes me laugh. “Seriously, Reagan. I hope you’re over him, because that guy’s a loser. Oh my God you deserve someone so much better.”

“I’ve been over him for years, Izzy. You know that,” I say.

“Yeah, but I just want to be sure,” she says, holding a pinky out for me to link with my own. We lock fingers and shake once, our
forever
promise that we save for things we really need to mean and believe in.

“Good,” she says. “You should like a guy like Nico. When he stood up for you, Reagan? Oh my God…”

My mouth hangs open, my soul desperate for it to form the words—
I do like Nico.
Instead, I watch my best friend hold her hand over her heart, smitten by a guy she never noticed before, a guy who stood up to defend
my
honor, a boy
I
talked into taking this risk. A boy I never noticed this way either, except for the years he was pushing my buttons and making me angry—making me
think.
Nico was always there, but I never knew him.

“You take as much time as you need. If your brother asks, I’m going to probably tell him to fuck off, if that’s okay,” my friend says, leaving me by the mirror as she steps closer to the door. Another girl walks through, one I don’t really know very well, so I grow shy and my heart flutters.