The Hard Count(17)

He only makes it ten yards before someone tackles him, but he makes his point, tossing the ball end-over-end to Brandon as he walks by. Nico doesn’t say anything to provoke him; his actions have done enough. Within a blink, Brandon has Nico flat on his face, his fingers gripping the collar of his pads from behind, his arm pushing Nico’s mask into the grass, digging it into the ground.

“You piece of shit!” I hear him yell.

My father’s whistle blares, and coaches and players run into the mix, yanking Brandon away while Sasha rushes to Nico, his hands flat on his friend’s heaving chest. His jaw is rigid, and he’s chewing at the inside of his mouth, his eyes narrow, and his mouth is ready to shout, rip, and tear down the guy who just blindsided him because he was embarrassed about being shown up.

“Fucking *!” Sasha yells, pulling on Brandon’s jersey. My dad jerks Sasha’s arm, spinning him until he can look him straight in the eye.

I tuck my knees in, wanting to be smaller, but I keep filming.

My dad points his finger at Sasha’s face.

“Get off my field!”

“What about that dickhead?” Sasha shouts back to my father, shrugging his shoulders and losing the grip my dad has on his arm.

“You worry about your own ass. I’ll worry about my team, which, right this moment, you are not a part of! Take your helmet, and sit your ass on the bench outside my office. I’ll deal with you after practice,” my dad says, his words still coming out angry and loud. The entire team has now circled around the scene, and I notice Sasha’s eyes scan to see them all until he stops on his friend, still adjusting his pads and picking grass from the helmet he’s just pulled from his own head.

Their eyes lock for a moment, and Sasha drops his arms to his side, leaving the helmet on the ground.

“Man, I don’t need this shit. Fuck y’all,” he says over his shoulder, his stride long, but slow—almost dramatic, like a child wanting to be asked to please stay.

He won’t get begged from my dad. I just hope this doesn’t mean Nico’s gone now, too.

My father brings his hand to his face, running it over his eyes and cheek, dragging it to his neck while he turns slowly and takes in his broken team.

“That’s it for today. Clean up, and tomorrow—come out here ready to work. Tomorrow won’t be easy,” he says.

The team breaks with a clap, everyone participating but Brandon and Nico. Both stand about a dozen feet apart, and my father’s face moves from one to the other a few times before Coach O’Donahue puts a hand on my father’s shoulder, whispering something and gesturing for his nephew to come closer.

My father nods once, but never looks him in the eyes. Brandon steps closer to his uncle, and the two walk toward the locker room together, his uncle playfully jabbing at his nephew’s shoulder a few times before putting his arm around him when they get to the top of the hill. My dad sees it all play out, and he keeps his eyes on them until the locker room door slams shut behind them.

Nico hasn’t moved a single step, but he has found me. His gaze is on mine, and I’ve now closed the view screen on my camera, shutting it off and setting it down next to my feet. I see him through my own eyes, and I wait for all of the familiar gestures, the expressions—I wait for the fight.

My father looks toward him, but he’s slow to raise his eyes all the way. I think he’s struggling to find the right words. I know I am. Nico is a wild stallion full of promise and gifts, and I’m not sure if he can be tamed.

I’m not sure if he should.

My father steps forward, pulling his hat from his head and running his fingers through his thinning hair, his mouth poised to speak as the authority, only Nico beats him to it.

“I want to apologize,” he says, his hand out for my father. My dad puts his hat back in place, and holds his hands on his hips for a breath, clearly surprised. He doesn’t take Nico’s hand right away, instead looking him in the eyes first, forming a standoff.

“What for?” my dad asks.

I shift my weight and lean back on my palms, and they both turn to see me.

Nico’s eyes stay on me, even when my father turns back to face him. He doesn’t grin. There is no dimple. His jaw is relaxed and his eyes look almost scared.

He wants this.

“For not respecting your field, your rules. I apologize for that,” he says, blinking his eyes shut and opening them on my dad.

My father takes in a short breath and lets out a small laugh.

“Fair enough,” he says, taking Nico’s hand. They hold their grip for a few long seconds, and Nico stares at their touch before they break.

“So is that it?” Nico’s question lingers, and his eyes move from my dad to his right foot, which kicks at the dry grass. Eighteen, yet still such a young boy. All he wants is approval. He has no idea how to ask for it, though.

“You show up here tomorrow. Three. Sharp. Be ready to go hard. And—” my father pauses until Nico looks up, “be ready to listen.”

The standoff continues long enough for me to dust the grass from my legs. When I look back, my father has his hand on Nico’s shoulder, a hard pat that I know is his way of telling him he’s impressed, but also reminding him who calls the shots.

I wait at the table, pushing myself up to sit on one end while my legs dangle out in front of me, swinging, so my toes can catch the tips of the grass. Nico walks toward me, expressionless, his eyes on my camera as he kneels down in front of me and picks it up, handing it to me.