The Hard Count(107)

“That poor woman; I feel so bad,” she says, staring at Tori.

I open my mouth, about to tell her how big of her that is, when she blows it as only my mom can, turning and looking me right in the eyes. “I’m over it,” she says, her mouth curving quickly. She’s unable to disguise her malicious laugh.

“Mom,” I say, my head falling to the side. My eyes scanning back to the boosters, to Tori and the women who were so awful when it was my mom in that position. “Nah, you’re right. I’m over it, too.”

We both laugh about it, giddy with ourselves and our catty behavior when suddenly the crowd begins to boo over a call on the field.

“Wait, what happened?” I ask my dad, the Great Vista team moving five yards closer from a penalty, and their top-notch kicker jogging onto the field with less than twenty seconds on the clock.

“They ran a hard count, and our boys jumped right-the-hell offsides!” my dad yells, tearing his hat from his head and throwing it down in front of him. You can take the coach out of his position, but you can’t remove his spirit for the game—or love for the team.

“How? Of all teams, we should know how to anticipate that…how?” I ask, looking down the row to Nico’s uncle.

“Your boy is pissed,” Uncle Danny says, shaking his head.

I turn my attention back to the field, where Nico is running down the sideline, livid and on edge. He waves his arms, calling for the rest of the team to rush down the field with him, and they all shout and hold their helmets over their heads, trying to be a distraction as best they can from the sidelines.

It’s no use. Great Vista’s kicker is the best in the state. My dad knows the kid’s name, Connor Pruitt, and while we watch his ball sail easily through the uprights, with another twenty yards to give if he needed it, the Cornwall crowd grows hushed.

“I hate him right now, but that kid—he’s kicking for Alabama next year,” my dad says, bending down and picking up his hat. He doesn’t put it back on, instead rolling the brim and twisting the mesh in his hands. “I don’t know…they can run two…maybe three plays. Even then, that Pruitt kid is going to push them back to at least the twenty, and we haven’t gotten a run back yet.”

Coach O’Donahue calls his special team over, my brother and Nico standing next to him, and I can see my brother looking up to the stands, his eyes scanning for my dad.

“Noah’s looking for you. Dad…Dad!” I slap at his arm.

My dad waves his crumpled hat over his head, and my brother holds up both hands, and he begins to give my dad some kind of sign, circling his index fingers around each other. I’ve never seen him do this before, but my dad does it in return, and when I look down to the field, I notice that Jimmy O’Donahue is looking at my dad as well.

“What the hell are they doing?” I ask.

“They’re trying something crazy,” he says, his eyes wide and glued to his boys on the field.

“And they want your opinion?” I ask.

“Yep,” my dad says, his lips falling shut tight, his eyes locked open.

The refs whistle, warning Jimmy to get his team to the field to receive, and the penalty clock kicks in. There’s confusion, and a few players run on and off the field, almost as if they’re not sure what the plan is, when it becomes incredibly clear.

“They’re going to let Nico run it back,” Uncle Danny says, and my eyes move to the field, finding Nico fast.

He’s standing at the ten-yard-line, deep enough to give himself time, and he stretches each leg, pulling his knees to his chest then jumping up and down. Nico has always seemed tall; he’s always looked strong—almost invincible against any opponent we’ve faced. Standing out in the middle of the field alone, eleven two-hundred-plus-pound, well-honed athletes gunning for him, the only word that I can think of is vulnerable.

“He can do this. I know he can. He’s fast. Nico is so fast. Come on, baby!” Valerie cheers in front of us.

She’s standing on her toes on the bleacher seat in front of us, her hands cupped at her face, and I know she’s praying. I lock my fingers together in front of me and whisper a prayer, too.

The Great Vista crowd begins to drum and chant, their volume growing as their kicker lifts his hand, running toward the ball, his foot swift as it sends the ball end over end into the air. Nico reads it, stepping back first to gauge it, then waiting.

Waiting.

He glances at the line rushing at him.

His eyes find the ball.

Nico goes, getting three hard steps in before the ball hits him in his arms and chest, where he locks it safely in the crook of his right arm while his left pumps hard. He clears the first three defenders without a problem, turning in a full three-sixty to break a tackle at the forty-yard line and juking an oncoming attack, switching directions and heading to the opposite side of the field.

Our eyes work to do the math, watching every step while keeping the clock in our periphery, precious seconds being lost every time someone ties up Nico’s legs and arms. He fights, pushing forward a few yards at a time, having to take long routes to the middle and back, just to not get caught, Coach shouting from the sides, counting down the time.

The clock is under ten, and the other side begins to count down with hope. As Nico makes a final push up the middle, they reach eight…then seven, then suddenly, their fatal error destroys both teams. Nico hears them. He has to—that’s the only reason he would stop. He knows he can’t make it all the way, but he also knows that The Tradition—it needs time. Nico is now wasting it.