The Hard Count (4 page)

I’m so caught up in my head with Nico that I don’t realize the crowd behind me has hushed and that the ambulance is being guided out onto the field. My instincts kick in, and I push the record button, stepping up through the breezeway to the second set of bleacher steps, my camera following the medics until I stop on the trainer and teammates all huddled near the thirty-yard line, my brother flat on his back, his fists at his head, his cheeks red and flushed with sheer pain as everyone works to lift his body to a board.

His hands are moving, so I know his spine is likely okay. But his leg seems to be facing the wrong direction. As a second splint is slid under his right leg and my father folds a towel in quarters, practically shoving the material into my brother’s screaming mouth, I know it’s a break. I know it’s bad. I know that for my brother, this means his time on top—at least here at Cornwall—has come to a close. I also know that my father can’t even mask his real feelings right now. His son is in pain, but even worse, his quarterback is out for the season. The two thousand people around me all want to know what he’s going to do, and a few of them are rooting for him to fail.

I haven’t stopped filming. I capture it all, because despite the rush of guilt I feel, I’m no better or worse than any of the others. I have the answer—
Nico Medina.
And the angle of my story just became amazing.

T
he house has
that eerie quiet about it. My mom has been pacing up and down the long hallway, first passing my bedroom, then my brother’s. She walks from her and my dad’s room back to the main living room, each time something different in her hands—a vase from there, moving to here, a new painting she picked up at the decorator store, better for the bedroom. She’s redecorating, as if sprucing up our little suburban paradise will make people on the outside think we’ve got everything handled—that my
dad
has everything handled.

I’ve had my headphones on and my laptop propped on my legs for the last two hours, splicing video—watching Nico. My brother is in his room, in bed; his leg is propped up in a sling, a new rod holding everything in place. Broken tibias, snapped in the way Noah’s did, take at least sixteen weeks to heal. Then comes rehab and a brutal schedule already mapped out with my brother’s personal trainer to make sure he’s ready for draft day. Two schools have already fallen off the radar, but luckily, the others see it as an edge—less competition to snag Noah later in the year.

My brother’s worried. I can tell. And the fact that my father can’t seem to talk to him isn’t helping things.

“I’m heading to films,” I hear my dad shout, the front door closing behind him. I pull my right headphone from my ear and listen to his engine pull away to leave. Nobody responded to his announcement, and my mom has started pulling down more things from the walls, setting them in rows in the hallway to evaluate their new homes. It’s her way to be near my brother, but be just busy enough that she doesn’t have to talk to him.

She doesn’t know what to say.

I close my laptop and hop from my bed, sliding in my socks around my door and into his.

“I don’t need your pep talk, Reagan,” he says, his eyes intent on his phone. I step in and lean on the side of his bed, and he lets his hands fall flat, the screen down.

“Are you sexting?” I tease.

He pulls one hand up to pinch his brow.

“Get the fuck out of my room.”

I don’t leave right away. I stare at him until he looks at me, his eyes empty, but sad, until he purses his lips and raises his brow in warning letting me know he means it.

“It’s just a broken leg, Noah. It happens a lot in sports, and the best always stay the best. You’ll be fine,” I say as I step away from his bed, wanting to bring a little of that light back into his face. I actually miss my cocky twin.

“I know I will; now get the fuck out,” he says, sighing and returning to his phone. I don’t linger, or push buttons. I know this version of Noah. I don’t like him, but I understand him.

I go back to my room and slouch on the edge of my bed, dragging my laptop closer and flipping the screen open, Nico’s smirk is dead center. The video is paused on the high five he’s giving his friend Sasha after that perfect pass. Slowly dragging the PLAY icon back, I let the video play through again on the scene I’ve watched more than a dozen times now, zooming in on the footwork that I’ve come to recognize as perfection. It’s better than Noah’s. My only worry is can he do it more than once?

I shut the screen again and pull my backpack close, tucking my computer inside. After shoving my feet into a pair of running shoes, I grab my keys and twist my hair into a messy knot as I stop to kiss my mom on the cheek and let her know I’m leaving. She smiles, briefly, but never asks where I’m going. I’m not the child she’s worried about right now; I rarely am. I’m okay with that role. I like being the easy one. My brother takes work.

I toss my bag into the passenger seat when I get in and buckle my seatbelt, taking a deep breath while I stare at myself in the rearview mirror. I blink at my reflection, sniffing once and crinkling my nose, running my fist over it like a boxer about to step inside the ring. I feel like that’s exactly what I’m about to do. Convincing my father of things is impossible, but as his daughter, I’ve learned that the trick is making it all feel like his idea.

With one more deep breath and reassurance from the blue eyes looking back at me in the mirror, I turn my attention to the road over my shoulder, back out of our driveway, and make my way to my high school. I pull into the far lot, by the film room, taking the spot next to my dad’s car. It’s Sunday, and I know the rest of his staff will be showing up this afternoon to put their two cents in on the best game plan moving forward. That’s why I had to come now.

I grab my bag, slam the door and hop up the curb to the heavy metal door, pulling it open rather than knocking. I can see my dad’s feet up on his desk at the end of the long hallway. He has a small office, and it’s where he goes to think. He spent most of the summer here after the team’s big loss.

“You hiding?” I ask. His feet slide down to the ground, but his chair doesn’t move.

“When am I not?” he chuckles.

I step through the doorway and he spins forward, his forearms on his desk that’s covered in papers, data sheets, recruitment letters and empty coffee cups. I take the orange chair opposite him, letting the wheels glide back while I lift my feet up. My dad smiles, but only on one side.

“You’ll always be that little girl,” he says, his hands shuffling his strewn-about pile of papers into one sloppy stack. I scooch forward in my rolling chair to help him.

“I always did love coming to work with you,” I say.

“You like looking at the boys,” he says through a single punctuated laugh.

“Uhh, no thank you. No offense, Dad, but
these
are not my kind of boys,” I say, my eyebrows raised.

My dad’s gaze meets mine and he puffs out one more chuckle.

“Thank God,” he says.

His hands rake over the smooth desktop, his mess all pushed to the sides, and he grips at the edge of the desk before scooting himself in close, folding his hands in front of his face, and leaning his unshaven cheek against his dry and cracked knuckles.

“I’m afraid I’m not much to watch at work today, kiddo,” he says.

Kiddo. May I never stop being kiddo. Noah’s never been kiddo. He’s been sport, or a number, or QB-One and young man. Never kiddo. Sometimes it’s easier being the girl.

“I actually came to help,” I say, leaning forward where my bag rests between my knees. I slide the zipper open and slip out my computer, setting it on the desk in front of me and turning it sideways so my dad can see, too.

He pulls his hand from his head and rubs his weary eyes.

“Is it one of those funny late-night videos where they make people lip-sync to random songs? Because I could use a laugh right now,” he says, looking on.

“No, but just…wait…” I say, my concentration on my video prompt.

I run the player back to the beginning, when I started recording Nico and his friends without them realizing it. It gets to the part where Sasha waves and my dad exhales heavily through his nose.

“Is this some artsy kid you have a crush on or something?” he says.

“Shhhhh,” I hush him. “And no, just watch.”

The video plays on, and Sasha turns his focus back over to the game. I’m so glad I zoomed in on Nico at this point, because this…
this
is what I want my father to see. Nico steps back, feet crossing perfectly, out of the pocket, twisting, juking. He’s so balanced it’s impossible, yet we’re both watching it. My dad notices, and I can tell he’s interested by the way his hands have fallen to the desk and his eyes have squinted to study the screen more closely.

Nico sprints to the other side, his long strides impossible to keep up with. He could easily take the ball himself. Nobody would catch him. But he doesn’t. I watched it Friday night live, and I’ve watched it nearly fifty times since. The ball releases, and the distance is the kind that gets people’s attention—like, recruiter-type people with clipboards and cellphones that dial right into head coach’s pockets for schools that play in bowl games. It’s what happens when Noah throws, only…it’s better.

My dad sees it. I know it. We won’t say it, but it’s better. Nico—he’s better.

“Stop there. Play…rewind…or, how do you work this?” My dad is fumbling with the trackpad on my computer, and I giggle.

“Let me do it,” I say, dragging back to the beginning of Nico’s play. I pause on his footwork. I know what my dad wants.

He’s quiet for several seconds, then nods and twirls his finger for me to play it forward again. The video goes and he jukes his friend, and my dad holds up a hand. I pause. He studies until he signals for me to continue. We watch it play out, and this time, without asking, I pause on his release—Nico’s body strong, posture straight, shoulders square at his target, feet set. He’s a poster child for proper technique.

My father lets out another heavy breath and pushes back from the desk, his hands folded behind his head and his eyes on the screen. I let it play through, all the way to the catch, through the celebration and then I cut it off before we get to Noah’s injury.

I close the computer and slip it back in my bag, hugging it on my lap as I face my father. I look more like him. His eyes are blue like mine. Noah has his eyes too, but his features mirror my mom’s. My dad and I are the ones cut from the same cloth.

His hand comes up to cup his mouth, and he scratches at his whiskers.

“What’s his name?” he asks.

“Nico Medina,” I say.

“Scholarship kid,” my dad nods.

I nod back.

“Soccer?” my dad asks, his head tilted to one side.

I pause, a little thrown by his question. My brow pinched, I shake my head
no.

“He’s in honors. He’s probably going to be our valedictorian,” I say.

My dad nods, still lost to his thoughts before answering.

“Wow, good for him,” he says.

My chest starts to tighten, but I don’t let the words come out that I’m thinking. My dad isn’t a racist, but I feel a little ashamed right now. My lips twitch with that defensive mechanism I feel in debate, and after a few more seconds of silence, I can’t help myself.

“He’s really smart. And not all Mexicans play soccer,” I say, my heart thumping wildly. My dad laughs at my retort, but my breathing is still heavy.

“I know. You’re right,” my dad says finally. His eyes are soft when they meet mine, and I take his words and expression as an apology.

“His friend is pretty good, too,” I say, shifting the focus back to the entire reason I came here.

My dad nods, but it’s clear his focus is on Nico.

“Medina, huh?” he says, turning to the computer table behind him and logging into the school’s database. It takes him a few minutes to pull up Nico’s profile, and I wait patiently while my father’s fingers drum on the desktop as he reads.

“He lives in West End,” my dad says, not really to anyone. I don’t respond.

After a few minutes of studying Nico’s file, my dad flips the computer off and turns his chair back to face me. His expression appears conflicted.

“They want me to start Brandon,” he says.

“Skaggs?” I say, my face twisted as if I’ve tasted something bitter. Brandon Skaggs is an asshole. He’s also Coach O’Donahue’s nephew.

My father nods.

“What would it take?” I ask.

My dad quirks his brow.

“For Nico? How does this work? Does he have to try out? Does the board have to accept him? Do you just have to invite him? Tell me what needs to happen,” I say.

My father sucks in his top lip, leaning over his hands at his desk. He pulls in a paper from his stack and a pen from the cup on the other side and begins to draw swirls in the margin.

“If this Nico kid were to come out this week, preferably tomorrow, and ask for a walk-on tryout based on the open position on our roster, then I have the authority to grant him the time,” my dad says, pen stopping abruptly as his eyes meet mine. “But he’s going to have to impress more than just me, Reagan. If he’s really this good, as good as that video you’ve got there, then I’ll press for him. But I’m out of benefits of the doubt with everyone. And he’s at-risk. They’re not going to want to put someone like him on the team. They need to be convinced and want to let me take this shot.”

I swallow, because I’ve known my dad was on a thin line, but hearing him hint at it makes me worry for him…
and us.

“Okay,” I nod.

“How well do you know this kid?”

I breathe in deeply through my nose because the truth won’t give my dad that sense of relief he desperately needs, but I also don’t want to lie and give him completely false expectations.

“Well enough,” I say, standing and clutching my keys in my hands.

My dad nods, and looks back down at his doodle. He adds a few features and turns it into a smiley face, then spins it around for me to see.

“Maybe if this coaching thing falls through, they’ll let me teach art,” he jokes.

“I think you have a better shot at music,” I laugh, “and I’ve heard you sing.”

I sling my bag over my shoulder and blow my dad a kiss. He does the same, letting his hand fall to a slap on the desk. I watch him and walk backward a few steps before turning and exiting through the big metal door, skipping to my car, and tossing my things inside. I slump into the seat and smile at the possibility of seeing Nico out there on that field. I don’t know why that thought makes me so happy, and I don’t know why I want to see it happen so badly, but I can’t deny that I do. It’s more than making my documentary good. It’s seeing something good happen for my dad and for Nico, and when the irony hits me, I laugh hard and start my car.

Damned Nico and Ayn Rand are right again.