The Hard Count(10)

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 f*ck 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 f*ck 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.