The Hard Count(108)

His step slows just enough near the sideline, and the corner that’s rushing at him manages to grab his arm, trying to strip him of the ball. Nico brings it into his body tightly, the defender pulling him down, swinging him by his arm and eventually flipping Nico like one of those old-school wrestlers pumped up with steroids and cocaine. His body falls with a heavy thud out of bounds.

Nico’s down.

He stays down.

The ball is secure in his arms, but The Tradition is still thirty yards short of where they need to be.

The clock has stopped.

But Nico. He’s down.

“Why won’t he get up,” Valerie says, her hand reaching out for her brother. Danny moves in front of my dad and puts his arm around her.

“He’s fine. He just got the wind knocked out of him, that’s all. He’s okay,” he says, but I can tell from his tone, he’s not sure. My dad used that tone. I bet he used it with my brother, until he found out his leg was bent like an L.

“He’s breathing. And he’s moving his legs. He’s okay,” my dad says, assuring her.

My brother turns and waves at my dad, signaling something again.

“What’s he saying?” I ask.

“I think…I think it’s his arm. Noah can’t tell those things, though. Let’s wait. Bob’s going out,” my dad says.

The Great Vista band begins to play Seven Nation Army, and I want to run across the field and punch them all in the face. I begin to bounce on my toes, needing to see Nico stand, needing to know he’s okay. The rest of The Tradition crowd needs it, too, because selfishly, they know we need Nico to win.

Bob gets him to his feet, and Valerie leans into me, breathing for the first time in almost a minute.

“Oh thank God,” she says.

“It’s his arm,” my dad says. “He can’t throw. Nico…he can’t throw.”

Seven seconds, and thirty yards, even Jimmy knows his nephew can’t make that happen. He’s not na?ve enough to try, either. He knows that it would be perceived as playing “daddy ball” and doing his relative a favor. That only works if you win, and Brandon—he can’t win. Not this. Only Nico can.

I turn to my right and find my dad is gone, and I look back to my left at my mom, and she’s biting her nails—for once not nervous about losing a job or a position or points with some special society. She’s just nervous about losing, period.

“Where did he go?” I ask.

“Press box,” she says, and I turn behind me to see my dad sprinting up the steps two at a time, his hat still curved in his hand. I watch just long enough to see him standing on his toes, shouting through the open windows, then moving just far enough that the offensive coordinator inside can see the gestures with his hands. I don’t know what any of it means, but someone does, because I watch Coach O’Donahue push his headset into his ear, cupping it while he paces until he stops in front of Nico, who is sitting on the bench, his helmet off and ice on his arm.

Nico gets to his feet and pushes his helmet on his head, my brother and several other teammates slapping his helmet while he runs out to the line of scrimmage just as my father makes it back down to stand by me.

“He can’t throw,” my dad says, eyes on the field, his mouth a hard line, his forehead creased with the wrinkle born from years of stress. Then suddenly, a smile creeps in, and his eyes shift to me. “But he can sure as shit catch.”

“What?” I ask, turning to see Sasha lining up behind Colton.

Valerie begins screaming in front of me, leaning forward, looking to make eye contact with Sasha’s mom. When she does, she claps, then crosses her fingers before looking out to the field.

It all happens in a blink, and if I didn’t know who they were, I would have sworn that this was how they always played—that Sasha was the quarterback, and Nico was the one racing down the field.

Colton snaps the ball, and Sasha peddles back, the line working hard to give him time. He’s not Nico, though, and his feet—they aren’t as steady. The defense starts to penetrate, and Sasha panics, sprinting to the side—making his throw even farther.

But Nico runs. Nico just runs.

The clock times out when Sasha has no choice, the defense about to take him down as he releases the ball. We all hold our breath—both sides, the stadium filled with at least four thousand people. We could have heard a pin drop. My eyes follow the line, the ball on target, and Nico has managed to separate himself by two, maybe three steps. His right arm, the hurt one, tight against his side, he reaches out with his left, his fingers tipping the ball once, giving him just enough time to catch up to it in the air to bring it completely into his body.

If we thought Nico was fast before, he finds a new gear the second the ball is secure. His feet pound. My heart beats. Our mouths begin to chant. The crowd stomps on the metal stands. The Tradition players raise their helmets and rush down the sidelines, swinging their arms in circles, willing him to go.

Go!

Go!

Travis throws a last-minute block, tripping up the only player who has a shot at catching Nico, and I scream just as my boy’s legs cross the goal line. He knew we had one shot.

My dad knew.

Nico was it. He was always it.

Travis rushes toward him, lifting him over his shoulder and carrying him into the rest of the rushing team—Coach O’Donahue throwing his clipboard down and rushing into the dogpile with them.