The Hard Count(15)

“You have a gift,” I say, my voice small. I can’t look at him and admit any of this. My lips are actually quivering. “My dad would be good to you. I think maybe you’d like him. And…he won’t say it, because…well…you get it, but you’re better than my brother, Nico. You just are. It took me two minutes to tell. It took my dad ten seconds of video. So, please…just think about it. It might open some doors, is all. My dad…he has a way of getting people to pay attention.”

Nearly ten seconds pass without a word, and when I sneak a look, Nico’s attention is once again lost to the streets outside his window. Someone nearby has turned on loud music, and I can hear a few people laughing outside. I think he’d rather be there—anywhere but here, with me. I take it as a sign that my last effort probably wasn’t good enough, and bend down to pick up my half-full soda, raising it even though nobody is watching.

“Thanks for the drink. I’ll see you in class,” I say, moving to the screen door, and counting in my head to fifteen as I open it, step through, and hear it slam closed behind me. The party at the house on the corner has grown. That’s the music I heard, and more neighbors are gathering. People don’t gather on my street.

“Hey!”

My eyes blink wide as I look over the top of my car to the busy yard a few houses away. My brain takes a few seconds to catch up to the fact that the voice I heard was Nico’s, not just some neighbor late for the party. I turn and lean against my car to see him standing in his doorway, one arm holding the screen open completely, the other resting on the side of the doorframe, his body filling the space. Dressed for church, he looks years older than the eighteen I know him to be, and while I won’t say this part out loud, I will at least whisper it to myself—Nico is handsome.

His hair falls forward just enough to cover one eye, and he flips it back casually. I breathe in quickly when he does, glad for this distance between us, and that he can’t hear my response.

“Can Sasha tryout, too?” His eyes linger on mine, and I sense the slight crinkle in them over his hatched plan to get his best friend in on the action, too.

I bite the tip of my tongue with just enough force that I feel it to keep myself from smiling too big. I’m not sure how my father will handle it, but if it gets Nico out on that field tomorrow, I’m pretty sure my dad will be up for anything.

“I don’t see why the same rules don’t apply to him,” I say loudly. Our eyes make a non-verbal agreement, and we both leave each other with the same nod and faint smile, like poker players each sure the other is bluffing.

Maybe we both are. But at this point, I’m all in. Nico’s story as a part of the team is going to elevate my project to the kind of film that gets people to watch. My interest is selfish. It’s for my dad, and for my future. I have a feeling, though, that Nico knows exactly what a run in the state playoffs with the Tradition can do for his college aspirations. And the one thing I’m sure of is that my father is going to love him.





4





My father hates Nico Medina.

I could not have been more wrong, and the longer I watch practice from the bleachers, the more I consider scrapping my documentary all together and rushing home to begin searching for new coaching jobs for my dad.

Things started off okay, but when my dad began running drills—swapping Nico out every other squad with Brandon to see how he could throw—Nico’s lack of true team experience became glaring. He can’t take direction; and just like in class, he’s defensive by default.

My father’s frustrated, and they’ve faced off maybe a dozen times. Yet…neither has quit. My dad hasn’t sent him packing, and Nico hasn’t left. That’s the only reason I’m still sitting here with my tripod between my feet and my eyes shifting from the version of the action on the screen and the real field on the other side of the lens. I watch as more plays run out, and my father finally throws his clipboard down and whistles for a water break.

I push PAUSE and slide around the camera, careful not to disturb the perfect position I’ve got it in, and jog down the bleacher steps to catch up to my dad. He sees me coming, and holds up a hand as he gets to his water jug.

“Not now, Rea,” he says gruffly, twisting the lid from his jug and drinking down gulps.

“It just needs time, that’s all,” I say, ignoring his wishes. He rolls his eyes at me over the lid of his drink, then runs his arm over his chin as he tilts the thermos back and twists the lid in place.

“It just needs to be scrapped, I’m afraid. This…whatever I’ve spent the last hour doing—Reagan? This is a waste of time,” he sighs, letting his water fall with a clunk onto the metal bench.

I open my mouth to put up a fight, but stop when my dad pinches the bridge of his nose and lets his head fall forward. He wanted this to work, too. He still does. He just doesn’t know how.

“Scrimmage them,” I say.

My dad’s shoulders rise with his short chuckle.

“Why? So they can get slaughtered? So I can destroy that kid’s confidence? Not that I could…I mean, hell, Reagan, that’s half his damned problem! I don’t know how to coach that! He doesn’t hear a word I say. I keep telling him one thing, and he does exactly the opposite!”

My dad’s hand moves to his neck now, and he rubs it. I follow his gaze to see him watching his players all watch the two new guys, all of them whispering or laughing at jokes that are likely about Nico and Sasha, feeding my dad’s doubt more.