The Hard Count (26 page)

“No, that’s not it. Reagan, your world…Nico’s world…same fuckin’ world. You come from different parts, but who cares? You meet in the middle. You meet here, this place—we’re all going to Cornwall. Nico came here from West End. You’re here because your dad’s the coach. I’m here because my parents went here. We all have our own stories, and they part and intersect in many different places. It’s what makes us individuals. And no matter who we decide to tie our story to, there is always going to be someone who thinks they know the secret about why someone fits or doesn’t fit.”

My friend reaches forward, taking the hem of my shirt in both of her hands and pulling it out to study it, to see if the stain is gone. She says the rest with her eyes down.

“Some people are racist. Some people are jealous. Some people are just fucking ignorant,” she says, her eyes coming up to meet mine as her fingers let go of my shirt. “Don’t let someone else dictate how your heart feels about someone. I will never say a word to Katie Loftgrin, no matter how…
jealous…
I am of her relationship with Noah. I won’t, because all of those reasons I make up to hate her? I know I’ve made them up without really knowing her story. And I know it isn’t fair. I strive to be better than that.”

“You may just be the best human at Cornwall,” I say to my friend.

She chuckles as she steps closer to the mirror, pulling her lip gloss from her purse and touching up the pink, dragging her nail along the corner of her mouth to make sure the line is perfect.

“Yeah, well…you tell your brother any of this and I’ll cut you,” she says with a straight face. I laugh at first, but stop when she isn’t. Her eyes dart to me in the mirror, and a few seconds pass before she winks. I laugh then, but still am not certain she was kidding about her threat.

I follow Izzy out of the bathroom, and Nico jumps up from the floor where he’s been sitting with his back against the wall.

“Hey, you okay?”

His eyes are lowered, and his brow is pulled in.

“My shirt smells like pizza and cheap powdered soap. Other than that, I’m good,” I say.

He tugs both of my wrists forward, my body following until my head falls against his chest.

“I’m sorry about that. I went out with Lexie our freshman year, and I was immature and maybe didn’t end things well. She’s been a little possessive of me ever since, and…”

“And I’m a stupid white girl,” I say, going for self-deprecating, but when I hear the words out loud, I realize how ridiculous they are.

“One, you are not stupid,” Nico says, pulling me forward and kissing my forehead softly. I blush when I notice a few girls walking by in the corridor spot us and whisper to each other with a giggle. “And two, I wouldn’t care if you were green. Me liking you…you liking me. That’s kind of
our
deal, and that’s all that matters, okay?”

He slides his hands up to either side of my face, his forehead rolling against mine. The hallways are beginning to fill up with the rush after lunch while students hurry to class, and I know people are looking at us. I’ve never really been affectionate with someone in public, especially here at school. Maybe being coach’s daughter has
always
put me off limits in some way, but standing here, being held like this by Nico—being adored…

My face reddens from the attention I know we’re getting, but my tummy warms because for once, it’s me standing in the hallway like this with a boy. It isn’t some girl with Travis, my brother and Katie, or some other girl he’s been dating, Izzy, one of the cheerleaders—
it’s me.
The blush is good.

“You like me,” I tease, biting my bottom lip.

Nico chuckles.

“Yeah, I
more
than like you, Reagan. I asked your dad if I could take you to homecoming, and we were all alone,” Nico says, and my breath stops with his confession. That’s what he was doing this morning.

“Oh my God…” I say, my eyes falling shut, the blush growing hotter. “What…what did he say?”

The warning bell sounds, and the flurry of activity grows louder as students begin to rush to the next period. Nico steps back, and I worry when I look at his face that his expression isn’t going to be very positive. I’m almost shocked when I see the dimple.

“There was a lot of silent staring, which was…well…let’s just say I lost my first staring competition,” Nico chuckles.

I cringe.

“No, no…” he says, lifting my chin. “He gave me a bit of a lecture. He wanted to know what car I planned on driving, and I took him out to the lot, to see my ride. He kicked the tires. He flipped the hood up and pulled on a few things, then sat in the driver’s seat.”

“That’s…okay, I guess…that’s good?” I say, hopeful.

“I think it was good. He told me if I wanted to ever throw a football again, that the seats better stay in the upright position, which made me want to die a little,” he says.

“I think I just did…die I mean,” I say, my brow pulled in so far it’s practically folded.

Nico takes a step or two back, his backpack over one shoulder and his eyes on me as he winks. “You just worry about making sure that you wear comfortable shoes and a dress. I plan on admiring you in my arms all night—so no sitting in the dark corner and hiding at a table. You and I are going to dance to every shitty song that gets played.”

I swallow, because…dancing. But I also grin. It hurts my cheeks, and when I turn around, not a single person cares about any of it.

* * *

P
ractice had
a certain air to it today. I want to think that it’s just the old adage
what a difference a day makes,
but I think maybe it’s something more. Players seem to be responding to not just Nico, but my dad. The same drills that were nothing but disastrous yesterday, seem effortless today. I’m about to chalk it all up to the flu or a miracle when Noah takes the bench next to me again and points out the
real
reason.

“You see ’em?”

He gestures to the far corner of the field on the away side, four men all dressed in maroon and white sweatshirts and polos sitting with sunglasses gleaming the sun from their faces.

“A&M?” I ask.

“Yup,” Noah says, adjusting his position next to me, jutting his leg out.

I watch the four men, and while they talk to one another, they don’t talk often. Their conversations stop the moment Nico has the ball. There are a few seconds of phones coming out, notes perhaps being typed, but other than that, their presence is subtle.

Subtle, but felt like the goddamned Goodyear blimp.

“Thank God everyone’s got their shit together today…so far,” I say, holding my breath while Nico steps back and pumps the ball once before releasing it deep to Travis. The catch is effortless; the throw is perfect. The reaction is…
restrained.

“We had a little team meeting, before they came out to stretch,” Noah says, leaning to the side and spitting out fragments of seeds.

“Why are you obsessed with seeds lately?” I ask, and he turns to me, pulling his sunglasses down and glaring. “Exactly how much pot were you smoking?”

Noah presses his lips into a hard line.

“Oh,” I say.

He turns back to the field, and I do, too, at first, but then his words from before catch up to me.

“You…had a team meeting?”

I glance at him, but he isn’t engaging me, so I keep my eyes on the field, my stomach muscles relaxing a little every time a play hits the mark on the field. I let my question linger out there, hoping he’ll answer…eventually.

“Part of my penance,” Noah says finally, and I give in and look at him again. He won’t look at me, but he doesn’t pause. “Dad said he was losing the team, losing their respect. He knows Nico’s the only way they’re going to have a shot at anything this year.”

My brother spits out the rest of his seed shells and works his tongue over his teeth. It’s gross when he does this, and I worry that my brother is going to turn into a chewer. His ability to form habits comes so naturally.

“What do you think?” I ask.

He’s quiet for several seconds, but I can tell he’s thinking…maybe even hesitating a little. Honesty hurts him. It always has.

“I think Nico’s the best quarterback we’ve ever had,” he says, pulling the bag from his pocket and tossing it to the ground with disgust when he sees it’s empty. “I fuckin’ hate him for it.”

“But that’s not his fault,” I defend.

“I know,” Noah says. “Doesn’t mean I don’t anyway.”

I breathe in slowly, letting my shoulders rise while my chest expands, my attention moving back to the four men in the bleachers, one of them now on the phone.

“He treat you right?” Noah asks.

I pinch my brow, wondering why he cares. I decide that I want my brother to care, and I also want to quit hating him a little, too.

“He does,” I say, unable to prevent the smile that sneaks in on my lips. I pull my sleeve over my palm and chew at the edges.

“Good,” Noah says.

It’s quiet between us as we both let the action on the field take over our conversation for most of the time. When the players break though, that gap that still exists—the one left after my brother embarrassed me, after we fought, after this week and all that’s happened—it begins to feel like a bleeding wound.

It was time we sucked it up and closed it.

“I still haven’t interviewed you…for my
film
,” I say, adding a little tinge to the final word—bringing him back to that night in the parking lot, when he took cheap shots at me to make himself feel better.

Noah doesn’t answer immediately, but I can see from my sideways glance that I hit a nerve. His jaw works in and out, and I know from years of sleeping one room away from him that he’s grinding his back teeth together because I’ve made him uncomfortable.

“Wanna do it now?” he says finally.

I’m a little surprised. I expected my defensive brother. I was anticipating him to say something to the effect of “look, I’m sorry, all right?”

I was waiting for excuses.

“I’d love to,” I say, pulling my gear out and setting up a shot of him here on the bench. I frame just enough of the action behind him to blur it to the background, and Noah glances over his shoulder while I finish getting ready.

“Is that your way of getting back at me?” he asks.

I pause and glance up, my mouth quirked on one side in question.

“Me here, all broken and busted, and the game I love behind me,” he says.

I stare at him, blinking slowly.

“I’m just giving the shot context. I don’t do things to be cruel,” I say, realizing as I speak that that…what I just said? I said it to be cruel. My brother leaves his eyes on me, and they narrow while he works his lips, mashing them with perhaps his internal thoughts of exactly how mean he has been to me. I plan on asking him about it, in three, two…

“Let’s talk a little bit about your injury. Since you broke your leg, you’ve been distant…maybe even…harsh…to those you love. Talk about the struggle,” I say, pushing my face to the camera, my eye on the viewer. I don’t want to make eye contact with him right now; I want to shoot for honesty, and I can’t risk having him intimidate me.

Noah shakes with a silent laugh, then looks down at his hands while he cracks his knuckles. His head falls from one side to the other with his thought, and then he glances to the side as a whistle sounds in the background. A slow smile plays on his lips.

“Do you know what it’s like to love something so much that it’s the only thing you can see in your future?”

I take in Noah’s question, and wait for his gaze to swing back to the camera.

“Yes. I do believe I know what that’s like,” I say, moving my head up enough to let my eyes hit his briefly. I keep my mouth in a hard line, and I connect with him just long enough for him to breathe out another laugh and blink to look down.

“Yeah, I guess you do,” he says.

I wait, letting the silence sink in and keep my camera tight on Noah’s face, his passion playing out behind him, obscured but recognizable.

“You know what the doctor said when they set my leg?” Noah asks.

“No…what?” I respond.

He chews at the inside of his mouth and then looks up, but not quite to the camera.

“He said my break was nothing more than just dumb luck,” he says.

He doesn’t smile or laugh. His mouth falls, and his lips curve down slightly. His eyes make their way back to me through the lens.

“Dumb luck,” he repeats, his mouth held open, as if he’s working out the words that follow. “I am losing the future I thought I had. I’m going to end up playing for some school that has no shot in hell of being seen by anyone, and then I’m going to graduate with some degree I don’t even know how to use because football, Reagan? It’s the only goddamned thing I know. What does that mean for me? Why am I even bothering? There’s a part of me that just…hell…”

I swallow, because I know. I’ve watched him give in. I’ve watched him quit. He’s given up.

“You’re too good to give up,” I say.

“Am I?” he asks.

I nod, not speaking.

“Tell me why you love this game, and being a part of The Tradition?” I ask.