The Hard Count (19 page)

The crowd is beginning to fill in empty spaces, so I leave Izzy and the others and climb back to my corner on the roof of the press box. Coach O’Donahue is already standing on the other end, his headset on and his own camera filming the team. His head turns while I step up the final rung of the ladder and position myself behind my camera.

I feel his eyes on me for several seconds before he speaks.

“You going to be filming every single one of these games?” he asks.

I keep my eyes on my viewfinder, pretending to tune the focus.

“Yeah, I plan on it,” I say.

His eyes are still watching me. I can sense it—see from my periphery that he’s studying me—and eventually I can’t pretend I have anything to do other than look back at him. I smile when I do, but it’s the careful kind I give someone I don’t trust.

“I could just give you my film. No sense in two of us being up here,” he says. It doesn’t come out as a kind gesture at all, or maybe I read it that way.

“It wouldn’t match. My camera films in HD. But…thanks,” I say, taking pleasure in the fact that his eyes fall a tick in disappointment.

“All right then,” he says, after a few seconds pass. He flips a toothpick around in his mouth, and his eyebrows lift as he shifts his focus back out to the field.

The entire first half passes without another word from him to me, only his chatter to the coaching staff below, reading the other team and trying to predict for defense. While we don’t talk, though, I catch him watching me every few minutes. It’s usually after he says something in the radio, or when he criticizes Nico, or a passing play. I never once react physically to his words, but I do pull my phone out and text Izzy when his comments become almost unbearable.

ME:
I don’t think Brandon’s uncle is a big fan of Nico.

Izzy usually has her phone in her bag, so I know she’ll get my message at some point. I just need someone to commiserate with, and I hope she sees what I’m seeing.

Nico is struggling. He just can’t seem to find time, to get his footing right. He can throw, but the coverage is too tight. Sasha can’t break free, and Travis…
he isn’t trying.
Nico’s been sacked three times, and had the ball stripped once, and the scoreboard is proof that something is wrong. We’re down twenty-one to seven, but we’re making a good run right now. It’s almost halftime, and somehow—through a fifteen-yard run on his own and one pass that manages to find Sasha’s hands—Nico has us twenty yards out.

We need this touchdown.

He
needs this touchdown.

I move to the field, leaving Coach O’Donahue and my camera behind. I slip through the railing on the bleachers near Izzy, sitting on the small bench behind the cheer squad while they hold their hands linked as they stand behind the sidelines, urging the rest of the crowd to follow and have faith that the Tradition will score. I glance behind me to see my mother standing, but no one else from her camp. Most of the students are up on their feet, but the rest of the stands are a group divided.

They want him to fail.

“Come on, Nico. You can do this!” I shout, my voice raspy, I scream the words so loudly. I move to the edge of the field, making use of my pass, and when one of the coaches looks at me suspiciously, I hold the pass up like a shield. He rolls his eyes, but I don’t care.

I sit on the corner, near the other team’s end zone, and I zoom in with my camera, snapping shots of Nico waiting for the ball. He’s calling the count—he’s shifting the offense.

They’re out of place, but Colton snaps on signal as he’s told, and Nico has to fight. Colton holds the middle, but the line crumbles around him, and Nico has to run. He leaps over one defender, only to find another waiting for him. Completely exposed, the clock ticking down to the last two seconds, Nico makes one final push.

He’s hit so hard that his helmet flies off. Whistles blare as I stand to my feet, my chest heaving in panicked breath. The referees run in, hands waving, and Bob sprints to the middle of the field with water and his medical bag tugged against his side.

He makes it to Nico, pushing people away to give him room, but before he can tell Nico to lie flat, he’s on his feet, charging toward Travis and a guy named Zach, who was supposed to protect his left side. Zach’s a three-time all-state left tackle. He doesn’t miss, though he’s frequently called with penalties—for holding. He didn’t hold anyone during that last play. He let them right through.

Chaos settles in fast, Nico’s hands flying to Zach’s chest, shoving, while Travis grabs Nico’s pads. The rivalries make themselves apparent quickly, Colton sticking up for Nico and Sasha, Travis and several of the other guys shoving to get into the circle, pushing and throwing punches. The referees start tugging on collars, pulling players apart, and my father and his staff do the same. Eventually, my dad is standing between Travis and Nico, one hand on each of them, his clipboard at his feet and his face burning red in anger and frustration.

“Get your asses in that locker room…now!”

My father’s voice carries over the hushed field and stadium. It takes the team several seconds, but eventually they all relax their tense muscles and begin to file toward the end of the field, to the visitor’s locker room, in a straight line.

I snap a few photos as they walk past me, Nico’s face hard and his eyes set on the guy in front of him. He doesn’t even notice I’m here.

I pull my feet in as the rest of the team passes, a few of them glancing at me, but only briefly. The coaches walk by, and I begin to trail behind everyone, when my father stops me, his hand heavy on my shoulder, urging me to stay put.

“Sit this one out, Reagan,” he says. My eyes meet his briefly, and I nod with a tiny movement.

I watch them all disappear behind the heavy doors, and I imagine the words being said the moment they close. My father always has something to say—the
right
thing to say. I don’t know what that could possibly be now, though.

I walk back to my mom, who is talking with Travis’s mom and a few of the others. There are whispers about changing to Brandon, about how something isn’t right. A few women tell my mom they’re worried for her husband. “This must be so hard on Chad,” they say. My mom smiles and thanks them, assuring them he can handle it.

He
can
handle it. But can she? The crack in her armor shows, and I think others can see it in the small slant of worry in her eyes, the constant repetition of “it’s going to be okay.”

Is it?

When I notice Izzy walking over to the cheer bench with a small bag of chips and a soda, I walk over to sit with her, wanting to avoid the chatter happening amongst the boosters. She tears the bag open and tilts it toward me, so I grab three or four chips and begin nibbling on them.

“That was bad,” she says after a few minutes of silence. The band has started to play, which drowns out a lot of the chatter I still feel like I can hear from the people in the stands.

“Yeah,” I agree. I pop an entire chip in my mouth and let the crunching sound drown out my thoughts. It works for a few seconds, but when I’m done chewing, my mind is thinking about the note I found again.

“It’s like there are spies, or defectors or…I don’t know, I can’t think of a really good war analogy, but it’s clear that not everyone is on Nico’s team,” she says, turning her gaze to me and holding the soda out. I grab it and take a drink, swallowing slowly.

“Someone left Sasha a note,” I say, turning to meet her eyes again. She tilts her head. “I found it, right before I came here. It was kind of threatening, and it basically said all of this was going to happen.”

“Shit, Reagan. Like, they’re bullying Nico?”

I shrug my shoulders, and Izzy shakes her head.

We both stare at the field, watching the other school’s band form shapes and blare their horns for about six minutes, playing to the home stands on the other side. When they begin the fight song, Izzy stands, knowing that our team—in whatever form that might be right now—is about to come out for the second half.

“Boys are stupid,” she says, not looking at me as she walks away.

I chuckle to myself, but not for long. I pull my legs up and finish my friend’s chips, rolling the bag into a ball and tucking it in my back pocket, noticing my phone. I pull it out to find a message from her, replying to the one I sent earlier.

IZZY:
I think they’re trying to push Nico out. I heard one of the coaches tell your dad it’s time to pull him.

I read her words a few times, sighing heavily each time I finish. Nico is better than all of them, but believing in him is going to ruin my dad.

When the quarter starts, I climb back to the top of the press box, and I don’t allow myself to look at Coach O’Donahue, even though I feel him staring at me.

Nico’s face is the same hardened one that marched to the locker room. It matches the expression on everyone’s face. The only person who seems to be fired up is Sasha. He’s moving from player to player, patting their backs and helmets, trying to rile them up, to get them to come alive. He’s getting absolutely no response, though, and the more I watch, the more worried I become.

We start with the ball, and just like the last half, our side goes three and out. Nico doesn’t get sacked, but despite how hard he scrambles, he just isn’t able to make that ball move ten yards. Our kicker moves the ball far, so I hold onto hope that our defense will be able to hold the other team, to give us a fighting chance.

“It’s time, Chad,” I hear Coach O’Donahue say. I don’t look at him. I don’t want him to know I’m really listening. There are four or five of us up here now, but his voice still carries. “The kid isn’t getting it done. Let’s let Brandon take a shot, maybe a different approach will work.”

I watch the field as our defense slips, letting the Metahill team move to midfield. They’re almost in field goal range at the very least.

“Chad, you need to let this go! Get over your goddamned failed experiment, would you?”

Coach O’Donahue is turning to face the parking lot behind us, trying to be more discreet, whispering through clenched teeth into his headpiece. “Come on, Chad. If you can’t make this call, people are going to want more things to change…not just what’s on the field.”

My jaw grows rigid, and I grind my back teeth together hard while my hands clutch the metal of my tripod.

“Shit!”

I glance to the side enough to see Coach O’Donahue pull his headset from his ears. He’s running his hand over his face, fuming. I turn my attention back to the field before he catches me watching.

Another play by the other team gains six or seven yards, and my father holds up his clipboard, smacking it with his hand over his head repeatedly, trying to get someone’s attention. I watch the disarray, his players not really knowing where to go or what to do, and my dad finally calls a time out.

The defense comes to the side slowly, but my dad meets them several yards onto the field. He urges the players on the sideline to come out with him, and he pulls everyone in close. I zoom in to see his hands moving wildly, more smacking of the clipboard until eventually it cracks in half. My father drops the pieces to the ground and holds his hands out, his eyebrows lifted high.

He breaks the team and sends the defense back out, only this time, I notice that Nico
and
Sasha are both out there. Nico…his quarterback.

I lean forward to look at the crowd, seeing the whispers I expected to see. My mother gets to her feet, her hands clutched in front of her. I don’t need to see her face to know what expression she’s making.

The play goes off, and our defense battles, Nico breaking through on the right, Sasha on the left. Their quarterback stumbles, and Sasha capitalizes, gripping the guy’s arm, dragging him to the ground, the ball popping loose into Nico’s hands.

It’s sixty yards, and the people in his way seem too numerous, but he takes them one at a time, sprinting to the middle, spinning loose, twisting. The only person trailing Nico down the field is Sasha, running just as fast, diving, and tripping up the only other player on the Metahill team that possibly had a shot at catching them. The crowd in the stands starts to hum, the sound of anticipation growing to screams and chants of “go” the closer Nico gets to the end zone, until his feet are finally inside.

He takes a few more long strides through the middle, holding the ball in one hand and jogging through the end zone to the referee, handing him the ball, then running to the sidelines where my father waits to smack his helmet and shout “good job!”

Nico heads to the water, guzzling while our kicking team takes the field. My father comes over again and stares at him, talking to him, encouraging him to breathe—to rest.

“That was amazing,” I say, turning to Coach O’Donahue. His headpiece is still off, and his fingers are pinching the bridge of his nose. He pauses to look at me, his eyes barely open, just enough to show his disgust.

“That was a goddamned circus trick; that’s what that was,” he says, slipping his gear back in place and adjusting his posture, as if he just hit some reset button and is ready to go again.

“Well, it beats quitting,” I say, meaning that in every single way a person could take it.

He doesn’t look at me again.