The Hard Count (6 page)

“Look, I’ll understand. Or…well, no, I probably won’t. Because…” My gaze falls down, and my lips push together tight, because,
gah
! This guy pushes my buttons, but damn it, I need him. And he’s talented. And I can’t deny that. My stubborn side does not want to pay him a compliment, but there’s this other part of me, maybe a desperate part, that needs him to hear some good things about him.

“You have a gift,” I say, my voice small. I can’t look at him and admit any of this. My lips are actually quivering. “My dad would be good to you. I think maybe you’d like him. And…he won’t say it, because…well…you get it, but you’re better than my brother, Nico. You just are. It took me two minutes to tell. It took my dad ten seconds of video. So, please…just think about it. It might open some doors, is all. My dad…he has a way of getting people to pay attention.”

Nearly ten seconds pass without a word, and when I sneak a look, Nico’s attention is once again lost to the streets outside his window. Someone nearby has turned on loud music, and I can hear a few people laughing outside. I think he’d rather be there—anywhere but here, with me. I take it as a sign that my last effort probably wasn’t good enough, and bend down to pick up my half-f soda, raising it even though nobody is watching.

“Thanks for the drink. I’ll see you in class,” I say, moving to the screen door, and counting in my head to fifteen as I open it, step through, and hear it slam closed behind me. The party at the house on the corner has grown. That’s the music I heard, and more neighbors are gathering. People don’t gather on my street.

“Hey!”

My eyes blink wide as I look over the top of my car to the busy yard a few houses away. My brain takes a few seconds to catch up to the fact that the voice I heard was Nico’s, not just some neighbor late for the party. I turn and lean against my car to see him standing in his doorway, one arm holding the screen open completely, the other resting on the side of the doorframe, his body filling the space. Dressed for church, he looks years older than the eighteen I know him to be, and while I won’t say
this
part out loud, I will at least whisper it to myself—Nico is handsome.

His hair falls forward just enough to cover one eye, and he flips it back casually. I breathe in quickly when he does, glad for this distance between us, and that he can’t hear my response.

“Can Sasha tryout, too?” His eyes linger on mine, and I sense the slight crinkle in them over his hatched plan to get his best friend in on the action, too.

I bite the tip of my tongue with just enough force that I feel it to keep myself from smiling too big. I’m not sure how my father will handle it, but if it gets Nico out on that field tomorrow, I’m pretty sure my dad will be up for anything.

“I don’t see why the same rules don’t apply to him,” I say loudly. Our eyes make a non-verbal agreement, and we both leave each other with the same nod and faint smile, like poker players each sure the other is bluffing.

Maybe we both are. But at this point, I’m all in. Nico’s story as a part of the team is going to elevate my project to the kind of film that gets people to watch. My interest is selfish. It’s for my dad, and for my future. I have a feeling, though, that Nico knows exactly what a run in the state playoffs with the Tradition can do for his college aspirations. And the one thing I’m sure of is that my father is going to love him.

M
y father
hates
Nico Medina
.

I could not have been more wrong, and the longer I watch practice from the bleachers, the more I consider scrapping my documentary all together and rushing home to begin searching for new coaching jobs for my dad.

Things started off okay, but when my dad began running drills—swapping Nico out every other squad with Brandon to see how he could throw—Nico’s lack of true team experience became glaring. He can’t take direction; and just like in class, he’s defensive by default.

My father’s frustrated, and they’ve faced off maybe a dozen times. Yet…neither has quit. My dad hasn’t sent him packing, and Nico hasn’t left. That’s the only reason I’m still sitting here with my tripod between my feet and my eyes shifting from the version of the action on the screen and the real field on the other side of the lens. I watch as more plays run out, and my father finally throws his clipboard down and whistles for a water break.

I push PAUSE and slide around the camera, careful not to disturb the perfect position I’ve got it in, and jog down the bleacher steps to catch up to my dad. He sees me coming, and holds up a hand as he gets to his water jug.

“Not now, Rea,” he says gruffly, twisting the lid from his jug and drinking down gulps.

“It just needs time, that’s all,” I say, ignoring his wishes. He rolls his eyes at me over the lid of his drink, then runs his arm over his chin as he tilts the thermos back and twists the lid in place.

“It just needs to be scrapped, I’m afraid. This…whatever I’ve spent the last hour doing—Reagan? This is a waste of time,” he sighs, letting his water fall with a
clunk
onto the metal bench.

I open my mouth to put up a fight, but stop when my dad pinches the bridge of his nose and lets his head fall forward. He wanted this to work, too. He still does. He just doesn’t know
how.

“Scrimmage them,” I say.

My dad’s shoulders rise with his short chuckle.

“Why? So they can get slaughtered? So I can destroy that kid’s confidence? Not that I could…I mean, hell, Reagan, that’s half his damned problem! I don’t know how to coach that! He doesn’t hear a word I say. I keep telling him one thing, and he does exactly the opposite!”

My dad’s hand moves to his neck now, and he rubs it. I follow his gaze to see him watching his players all watch the two new guys, all of them whispering or laughing at jokes that are likely about Nico and Sasha, feeding my dad’s doubt more.

“You need to see him play
his
game,” I say, my eyes watching the two boys
not
walking back to the field slowly with the others, but who are already on the fifty-yard line, waiting for more.

My dad sees them, too. He might not
think
Nico’s listening, but a player doesn’t hustle to be first on the field for more abuse unless he really wants to be here—unless he has something to prove. My dad needs to let him prove it.

I don’t suggest it again, but I wait next to my father while he watches the rest of his team slowly amble back to the line of scrimmage along with his coaching staff. Nico’s bullheaded, but he respects my father...maybe more than the others. My father sees that—he
has
to.

My dad pulls the whistle to his lips and blows loudly, and I take the sign to return to my camera. When I get to my seat, I watch everything play out through the viewing screen. I can’t hear the words my dad is saying, but I can tell by the movements being made that he’s breaking them up into squads.

Without pause, I lift my camera from the tripod and climb down to the field level, moving close to the small bench and medical kit near the trainer’s table by the end zone. I don’t want to be distracting, but I also don’t want to miss any of this…in case my hunch is right.

It takes the squads a little time to figure out their positions, where everyone needs to be, and I notice Nico’s team is flailing more than the other side—players arguing, everyone jockeying to be the leader.

Nico takes a few slow steps away from the group, a ball clutched between both hands and the white practice jersey loose over his borrowed pads. The arguing continues, but eventually, when Nico is several steps away, some of the players look up and watch him. Once he has their attention, he steps onto the field, taking his place on offense. He tosses the ball in one hand a few times, then bends down and sets it on the line, backing up a few more steps before folding his arms over is chest.

My father is watching, too. Sasha is the first player to walk over and take a spot several yards to Nico’s right. They nod to one another, but still nobody says a word. The arguing seems to have stopped though, and slowly, one by one, the players on his squad walk toward him, filling in the gaps on the line, taking their positions.

“We’re ready, Coach,” Nico says, standing behind the guy playing center. That’s Colton Wimsby, and he’s one of my dad’s favorite players. He’s always the first to arrive and the last to leave. He’s large, weighing about two-eighty, but nimble on his feet and quick with his hands. He’s been my dad’s starting center since his freshman year, and the fact that he gave him to Nico is telling. Colton twists back and says something to Nico, who nods, and they both pound their fists together.

The other team is lined up for defense, and Brandon is waiting on the sidelines, standing at attention. He’s confident in a different kind of way. His feet are steady, and he doesn’t even seem to be interested in the play about to happen on the field. It’s as if this is all just a routine for him that he expects to fail, so he can get on with doing the real work.

My gut starts to twitch with my heartbeat, and the dose of adrenaline surprises me.

I’m rooting for Nico.

Colton sets up on the ball, crouching with his head down, until Nico shouts something that sounds like “Blue!” He says this a few more times, and Colton’s head snaps up just as Sasha darts to the far right, almost out of bounds, and then…

It’s beautiful. As if it’s rehearsed. But there’s no way. I know there isn’t. My father knows there isn’t. The other coaches doubt, I’m sure, and the team on defense is left trying to play catch up. They fail.

On the hard count, Nico switches the play, lining Sasha up against the other squad’s weakest defender, sending him sprinting until he’s almost twenty-five yards away. Nico gives him time, trusting Colton and his line, who hold the pocket as long as they can until Nico’s feet take over, smooth and in charge. While he gains ground to the left, the defenders scramble to grab any piece of him their fingers can find. He slips out of every attempt, and just as Sasha hits the center of the field, Nico rockets the ball to him, hitting his hands while his feet are in full stride. His best friend’s speed does the rest, and just like that—Nico’s team is up by six.

Brandon no longer looks relaxed, his weight shifting from side-to-side, the cool and calm from before has now been jacked up to full-on anxious. He’s so wired that he drops the ball when Sasha walks by and tosses it to him for his squad’s turn to try to score.

I laugh, but cover my mouth with my fist, hiding the sound and expression.

Unlike Brandon’s squad, Nico’s is a man short, the rest of the defense, made up of the players that see less time, is at the other end of the field running drills. My dad notices and begins to pull his radio from his pocket to let the coach with them know he needs one more player, when Nico steps in and takes a position at corner.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing? I’ll get someone to step in there, go sit your ass down,” my dad says, his typical tell-it-like-it-is tone he uses on the field.

Nico is unfazed by it, and just as my dad has the radio to his mouth, he sees his quarterback hopeful line up ready to sprint. Brandon doesn’t waste any time, and the ball is snapped before my dad can step in and stop the play. My eyes work to take it all in—my father reaching for his whistle around his neck, Brandon sliding away from the safety of his offensive line, Nico seeing opportunity, tracking the receiver, until the ball leaves Brandon’s hands and somehow ends up in his own.

He only makes it ten yards before someone tackles him, but he makes his point, tossing the ball end-over-end to Brandon as he walks by. Nico doesn’t say anything to provoke him; his actions have done enough. Within a blink, Brandon has Nico flat on his face, his fingers gripping the collar of his pads from behind, his arm pushing Nico’s mask into the grass, digging it into the ground.

“You piece of shit!” I hear him yell.

My father’s whistle blares, and coaches and players run into the mix, yanking Brandon away while Sasha rushes to Nico, his hands flat on his friend’s heaving chest. His jaw is rigid, and he’s chewing at the inside of his mouth, his eyes narrow, and his mouth is ready to shout, rip, and tear down the guy who just blindsided him because he was embarrassed about being shown up.

“Fucking pussy!” Sasha yells, pulling on Brandon’s jersey. My dad jerks Sasha’s arm, spinning him until he can look him straight in the eye.

I tuck my knees in, wanting to be smaller, but I keep filming.

My dad points his finger at Sasha’s face.

“Get off my field!”

“What about that dickhead?” Sasha shouts back to my father, shrugging his shoulders and losing the grip my dad has on his arm.

“You worry about your own ass. I’ll worry about my team, which, right this moment, you are
not
a part of! Take your helmet, and sit your ass on the bench outside my office. I’ll deal with you after practice,” my dad says, his words still coming out angry and loud. The entire team has now circled around the scene, and I notice Sasha’s eyes scan to see them all until he stops on his friend, still adjusting his pads and picking grass from the helmet he’s just pulled from his own head.

Their eyes lock for a moment, and Sasha drops his arms to his side, leaving the helmet on the ground.

“Man, I don’t need this shit. Fuck y’all,” he says over his shoulder, his stride long, but slow—almost dramatic, like a child wanting to be asked to please stay.

He won’t get begged from my dad. I just hope this doesn’t mean Nico’s gone now, too.

My father brings his hand to his face, running it over his eyes and cheek, dragging it to his neck while he turns slowly and takes in his broken team.

“That’s it for today. Clean up, and tomorrow—come out here ready to work. Tomorrow won’t be easy,” he says.

The team breaks with a clap, everyone participating but Brandon and Nico. Both stand about a dozen feet apart, and my father’s face moves from one to the other a few times before Coach O’Donahue puts a hand on my father’s shoulder, whispering something and gesturing for his nephew to come closer.

My father nods once, but never looks him in the eyes. Brandon steps closer to his uncle, and the two walk toward the locker room together, his uncle playfully jabbing at his nephew’s shoulder a few times before putting his arm around him when they get to the top of the hill. My dad sees it all play out, and he keeps his eyes on them until the locker room door slams shut behind them.

Nico hasn’t moved a single step, but he has found me. His gaze is on mine, and I’ve now closed the view screen on my camera, shutting it off and setting it down next to my feet. I see him through my own eyes, and I wait for all of the familiar gestures, the expressions—I wait for the fight.

My father looks toward him, but he’s slow to raise his eyes all the way. I think he’s struggling to find the right words. I know I am. Nico is a wild stallion full of promise and gifts, and I’m not sure if he can be tamed.

I’m not sure if he should.

My father steps forward, pulling his hat from his head and running his fingers through his thinning hair, his mouth poised to speak as the authority, only Nico beats him to it.

“I want to apologize,” he says, his hand out for my father. My dad puts his hat back in place, and holds his hands on his hips for a breath, clearly surprised. He doesn’t take Nico’s hand right away, instead looking him in the eyes first, forming a standoff.

“What for?” my dad asks.

I shift my weight and lean back on my palms, and they both turn to see me.

Nico’s eyes stay on me, even when my father turns back to face him. He doesn’t grin. There is no dimple. His jaw is relaxed and his eyes look almost scared.

He wants this.

“For not respecting your field, your rules. I apologize for that,” he says, blinking his eyes shut and opening them on my dad.

My father takes in a short breath and lets out a small laugh.

“Fair enough,” he says, taking Nico’s hand. They hold their grip for a few long seconds, and Nico stares at their touch before they break.

“So is that it?” Nico’s question lingers, and his eyes move from my dad to his right foot, which kicks at the dry grass. Eighteen, yet still such a young boy. All he wants is approval. He has no idea how to ask for it, though.

“You show up here tomorrow. Three. Sharp. Be ready to go hard. And—” my father pauses until Nico looks up, “be ready to listen.”

The standoff continues long enough for me to dust the grass from my legs. When I look back, my father has his hand on Nico’s shoulder, a hard pat that I know is his way of telling him he’s impressed, but also reminding him who calls the shots.

I wait at the table, pushing myself up to sit on one end while my legs dangle out in front of me, swinging, so my toes can catch the tips of the grass. Nico walks toward me, expressionless, his eyes on my camera as he kneels down in front of me and picks it up, handing it to me.

“Thanks,” I say, sucking in my top lip, and flipping open the viewing screen. I push the playback button and drag the icon to the middle of my film, stopping it on Nico’s great play.

“So do I get any residuals or…how does this all work? You know, since I’m starring in your movie and all?”

His fingers tap at the top of my camera, and I adjust my hands to avoid his touch, my heartbeat picking up while I struggle to find a safer place to hold my gear, a place where his hand doesn’t come near mine, where I don’t react like this.