The Hard Count(18)

“Thanks,” I say, sucking in my top lip, and flipping open the viewing screen. I push the playback button and drag the icon to the middle of my film, stopping it on Nico’s great play.

“So do I get any residuals or…how does this all work? You know, since I’m starring in your movie and all?”

His fingers tap at the top of my camera, and I adjust my hands to avoid his touch, my heartbeat picking up while I struggle to find a safer place to hold my gear, a place where his hand doesn’t come near mine, where I don’t react like this.

He’s Nico. We don’t play nice.

When I look up at him, the left side of his mouth is pulled into a grin. I give back a reserved smile to mask my nerves, then look down at my camera in my hands, turning it to show him the video I shot of him.

“You wanna see it?” I ask. My heart is still thumping wildly.

His eyes flit from mine to my hands and back, then his lip tugs up a little higher, and he nods yes. He leans closer to me, so I slide down the table, making room for him to sit beside me. He’s wearing pads, and his bulky leg mashes up against mine, which only makes the heavy beating in my chest feel harder.

I’m sure my hands are trembling, so I lay the weight of the camera on my lap, paying close attention to my touch on the screen, willing my fingers to behave, not to shake, not to care that I’m sitting next to him. I don’t want to care. That wasn’t what any of this was about.

“I rewound it to the good part,” I say, giggling nervously. I feel better when he laughs with me, until he speaks.

“So I’m the good part, huh?”

His leg nudges mine, and I react with a nervous sort of snort-laugh. I cover my mouth immediately and shut my eyes, my pulse now so loud that I’m sure I wouldn’t be able to hear my own voice—if I could talk, that is.

Nico nudges me again, and I open an eyelid to look at him. He laughs once, snorting through his nose and pretending to push up glasses on his face.

“You’re such a nerd,” he says, leaning into me with his upper body now. There are no pads on his arms, so we touch—skin against skin—and I resolve myself to the fact that I feel it.

“You’re a bigger nerd than me,” I say back, my cheeks burning because I’m flirting, and while part of me wants to stuff my silly, girlish words back into my mouth, another part of me wants to dole out more.

“I am so not a bigger nerd than you. I mean, look…” Nico twists the view screen on my camera, his hand now basically in my lap. He laughs, then flips the screen closed before looking at me. “One of us is in the AV Club.”

I do my best to narrow my gaze on him and hold my eyes squinted, my mouth hard, as if I’m really pissed, but I break character, and my mouth betrays me, bending at the corners first until my own laughter escapes.

“You’re right. I am the bigger nerd,” I say, jerking when I feel a tickle at my arm. I sigh in relief when I notice it’s just the wave of my hair from my ponytail.

I tug the band loose and let my hair fall down before sweeping it back up and into a knot again. When I look back to Nico, his expression is softer, and I like that he watched me do that. Maybe that’s why I let my hair down—to see if he’d notice.

“So what do I look like on film?” he asks, his attention back to the now-closed screen in my lap. I’m relieved at the change in subject.

I flip the screen open and prop the camera at an angle he can see, then press PLAY.

“You won’t get any sound, not that you really need it, but this is that great play you did,” I say, twisting my lips because I’m not sure if I should be feeding his ego. Nico was great. But he was also undisciplined and difficult.

I look up to watch his eyes as he watches himself. He doesn’t look proud. Instead, his expression looks critical, and when the play runs out, he taps the icon on the screen to pause it.

“Can you rewind so I can see that again?”

I nod and play it again for him.

I watch with him this time, and I wonder what detail he is fixated on. I pay close attention to his feet, to the way he moves, and every step is as if it’s choreographed—it’s the same thing I saw the night I taped him and his friends. It’s raw, but it’s brimming with potential. Maybe it’s even more, maybe it doesn’t need to be touched. Maybe, Nico’s style of play is just the thing my father needs.

“I’m too slow. Look,” he says, pausing and dragging the player backward. He lifts his finger and looks to me to show him how to start it again. I press the button and he nods. “There, look. I know that guy—Garrett. I’m so much faster than he is. He shouldn’t be that close to me, let alone close enough to get his hand on my jersey. I’m too slow. How do I fix that?”

I watch it again, and even though Nico makes the same remarks, this time in whispers, I ignore him and try only to see what he sees. I think we are looking at it differently, though. He’s seeing his flaws, which are all things my dad can help him with. I’m seeing the things he does right. He does so much right.

“He has a head start on you. The line always will. But, look…here.” When I stop the video this time, I drag it in so we can view the touch better, the way Nico instinctively bends and twists out of the defender’s grasp. “You knew what to do.”

“I don’t know anything,” Nico says quickly, lifting from the table and picking his helmet up from the ground. My leg is suddenly cold from his absence. He turns to face me, his eyes on the screen at first, then on my face. Even the air stops, the breeze taking a pause to fill the quiet between us with a little more urgency, until Nico’s gaze breaks away.