The Hard Count(106)

My knee finally quit bleeding from the touchdown I ran in myself when we started playing two hours ago. My legs are ready, and my body feels fast. But this sense in my gut, it’s more than that. By the time I line up behind Thomas, I’m almost laughing—which only makes Christian, the biggest kid in our class and the one who always scores the winning touchdown out here, mad. His eyes lower on me, and he digs his foot into the dirt. If I’m wrong, he’s going to hurt me when he tackles me to the ground.

I lick my fingertips and bend my knees, glancing down the line. Sasha and Jacob are lined up, their arms ready and bodies prepared to spring forward. They’ll need to be fast, and I can’t get caught. That single second—it’s going to be the difference.

“Blue forty-two, blue forty-two,” I shout, my eyes moving to Thomas’s back then down the line, to Sasha. Our eyes meet, and my friend’s mouth lifts on one side.

“Blue forty-two, green-sixteen…” I pause, and I count in my head that it’s only a breath.

Christian lunges forward, but his brain tells him something’s wrong, and his feet stumble, his fist hitting the ground, followed by his knee as he loses his balance.

“Hike!” I shout, picking my perfect moment.

Thomas shoves the ball into my hands, and I fall back two or three steps while Christian works to get to his feet. I’ve given myself room, and Thomas is holding Christian’s brother, Angel, by the sleeves of his shirt. I know my friend can’t hold two defenders for long, but I won’t need more than a few seconds.

“Run, Sasha, run!” I shout, knowing that my friend is far faster than the two defenders tailing both him and Jacob.

Sasha can outrun anyone. I just can’t miss.

I leap up on my feet with two side-steps, not sure if he’s far enough yet, and I catch Christian coming at me. I twist, and his hand snags my shirt, ripping the threads from the bottom, but I break free, and I stay on my feet while his weight carries him too far, and he skids on his knee.

I rush to the other side while Christian gets up, and I know I have less time now. Sasha…he has to be far enough. This is our shot; it’s the only one we have to win—so I take it.

My arm falls back and I thrust it forward, grunting as I send the ball down the field just as Christian reaches me and wraps me in his arms, pushing my face into the dry grass, my knee opening up again and bleeding as I skid along the hard ground.

None of it hurts. I don’t feel a single thing. And I hold my breath as Christian pushes on my shoulder to lift himself up, satisfied that he has done enough. I don’t move, other than lifting my head so my eyes can watch Sasha run. His legs stretch, and in those final beats, his stride seems to mature, giving him the two extra feet we need.

The ball hits his hands, and he keeps running until he crosses the goal line made of our extra hats and jackets. My friend never spikes the ball, but instead makes a wide turn, his speed still up as he runs back to me, his mouth an O shape with the scream he’s belting.

I jump to my feet and brush away the grass from my chest just as his body hits mine, and he lifts me up and carries me several steps. I laugh as Jacob and Thomas run over to join us, and we take turns bumping our chests together and pounding our fists.

Sasha grabs my hand in one of his, then slams the ball down in my palm, lifting my hand up in the air in celebration.

“State champs, baby! State champs!” he screams. I join him, and we let our chant echo into the night while the sixth graders pick up their bikes and begin to pedal home.

“I will never not trust you again, Nico Medina! You’re my boy, you hear that? You…me and you, Nico. Every time!”

I jump up on my friend’s back and squeeze him, my palm pounding against his chest.

“One day, Sasha—we’re going to win it all for real,” I say in his ear. “I promise.”



I have been standing with my mom and dad, Linda, Valerie, Alyssa, and Uncle Danny in the first row at the fifty-yard line for the entire second half. This game would have been a nightmare if my father were still the coach. The bracket just worked this way, but it also felt a little bit like karma was at play to line us up in the championship against Great Vista again—the school that knocked us out last year.

We ended the first half in a tie—seven to seven—but ever since The Tradition has come back out, they’ve been flat. Nico’s runs aren’t working. They’re tying up Travis and Sasha. Our running game, which has never been strong, is losing yardage. We can’t seem to get a break, and with less than a minute left, Great Vista is sitting on the thirty-yard line in need of nothing but a field goal.

I reach to both sides, grabbing my parents’ hands, grateful for once to be free of my camera and with them through this. My press pass gave me access to the media booth, but not the field. I set my camera up to capture the game, but win or lose—it’s the interview after that really matters to me. I won’t need a press pass for that.

“Look at that,” my mom says, nudging me and leaning her head to the left so I look down our row to Tori O’Donahue. The woman is holding her fists to her mouth, her thumbnails in her teeth, probably being gnawed to the bone. She’s rocking on her feet, the rhythm picking up speed with every single tick of the clock.

My mom has been that woman. She was that woman only a few months ago. Since my dad was let go and she was kicked out of the social committee, her hair has started to look healthier, her skin full of color—the dark circles around her eyes requiring less concealer. And the wine, while she still likes it, seems to be lasting a little longer in our house.