The Hard Count(11)

“Is it one of those funny late-night videos where they make people lip-sync to random songs? Because I could use a laugh right now,” he says, looking on.

“No, but just…wait…” I say, my concentration on my video prompt.

I run the player back to the beginning, when I started recording Nico and his friends without them realizing it. It gets to the part where Sasha waves and my dad exhales heavily through his nose.

“Is this some artsy kid you have a crush on or something?” he says.

“Shhhhh,” I hush him. “And no, just watch.”

The video plays on, and Sasha turns his focus back over to the game. I’m so glad I zoomed in on Nico at this point, because this…this is what I want my father to see. Nico steps back, feet crossing perfectly, out of the pocket, twisting, juking. He’s so balanced it’s impossible, yet we’re both watching it. My dad notices, and I can tell he’s interested by the way his hands have fallen to the desk and his eyes have squinted to study the screen more closely.

Nico sprints to the other side, his long strides impossible to keep up with. He could easily take the ball himself. Nobody would catch him. But he doesn’t. I watched it Friday night live, and I’ve watched it nearly fifty times since. The ball releases, and the distance is the kind that gets people’s attention—like, recruiter-type people with clipboards and cellphones that dial right into head coach’s pockets for schools that play in bowl games. It’s what happens when Noah throws, only…it’s better.

My dad sees it. I know it. We won’t say it, but it’s better. Nico—he’s better.

“Stop there. Play…rewind…or, how do you work this?” My dad is fumbling with the trackpad on my computer, and I giggle.

“Let me do it,” I say, dragging back to the beginning of Nico’s play. I pause on his footwork. I know what my dad wants.

He’s quiet for several seconds, then nods and twirls his finger for me to play it forward again. The video goes and he jukes his friend, and my dad holds up a hand. I pause. He studies until he signals for me to continue. We watch it play out, and this time, without asking, I pause on his release—Nico’s body strong, posture straight, shoulders square at his target, feet set. He’s a poster child for proper technique.

My father lets out another heavy breath and pushes back from the desk, his hands folded behind his head and his eyes on the screen. I let it play through, all the way to the catch, through the celebration and then I cut it off before we get to Noah’s injury.

I close the computer and slip it back in my bag, hugging it on my lap as I face my father. I look more like him. His eyes are blue like mine. Noah has his eyes too, but his features mirror my mom’s. My dad and I are the ones cut from the same cloth.

His hand comes up to cup his mouth, and he scratches at his whiskers.

“What’s his name?” he asks.

“Nico Medina,” I say.

“Scholarship kid,” my dad nods.

I nod back.

“Soccer?” my dad asks, his head tilted to one side.

I pause, a little thrown by his question. My brow pinched, I shake my head no.

“He’s in honors. He’s probably going to be our valedictorian,” I say.

My dad nods, still lost to his thoughts before answering.

“Wow, good for him,” he says.

My chest starts to tighten, but I don’t let the words come out that I’m thinking. My dad isn’t a racist, but I feel a little ashamed right now. My lips twitch with that defensive mechanism I feel in debate, and after a few more seconds of silence, I can’t help myself.

“He’s really smart. And not all Mexicans play soccer,” I say, my heart thumping wildly. My dad laughs at my retort, but my breathing is still heavy.

“I know. You’re right,” my dad says finally. His eyes are soft when they meet mine, and I take his words and expression as an apology.

“His friend is pretty good, too,” I say, shifting the focus back to the entire reason I came here.

My dad nods, but it’s clear his focus is on Nico.

“Medina, huh?” he says, turning to the computer table behind him and logging into the school’s database. It takes him a few minutes to pull up Nico’s profile, and I wait patiently while my father’s fingers drum on the desktop as he reads.

“He lives in West End,” my dad says, not really to anyone. I don’t respond.

After a few minutes of studying Nico’s file, my dad flips the computer off and turns his chair back to face me. His expression appears conflicted.

“They want me to start Brandon,” he says.

“Skaggs?” I say, my face twisted as if I’ve tasted something bitter. Brandon Skaggs is an *. He’s also Coach O’Donahue’s nephew.

My father nods.

“What would it take?” I ask.

My dad quirks his brow.

“For Nico? How does this work? Does he have to try out? Does the board have to accept him? Do you just have to invite him? Tell me what needs to happen,” I say.

My father sucks in his top lip, leaning over his hands at his desk. He pulls in a paper from his stack and a pen from the cup on the other side and begins to draw swirls in the margin.

“If this Nico kid were to come out this week, preferably tomorrow, and ask for a walk-on tryout based on the open position on our roster, then I have the authority to grant him the time,” my dad says, pen stopping abruptly as his eyes meet mine. “But he’s going to have to impress more than just me, Reagan. If he’s really this good, as good as that video you’ve got there, then I’ll press for him. But I’m out of benefits of the doubt with everyone. And he’s at-risk. They’re not going to want to put someone like him on the team. They need to be convinced and want to let me take this shot.”