The Hard Count(21)

“Where’s your board?” I ask.

“Sasha’s driving me home,” he says.

I stop walking, but Nico continues on a few steps before his feet finally halt. His legs bend slightly and lift up quickly as he adjusts the weight on both shoulders before turning to face me.

“I need your advice,” he says, his eyes making it to mine briefly before getting lost in the activity of the parking lot behind me. I know what he’s going to ask, and part of me wants to make him go through the painful task of mustering up the words and having to make his case to me because I’m going to be a hell of a lot easier than my dad, but then again…I’m going to be a hell of a lot easier than my dad. He needs to save his strength.

“You want him to give Sasha another shot,” I say.

Nico grimaces.

“My dad doesn’t do that,” I say.

“I figured,” he says.

He leaves it at that, but he doesn’t move. His eyes stay on mine, wearing away at me until I have to avert them. I pull my hair loose from the twist, my fingers pushing the band down around my wrist as I cross my arms over my chest, letting the breeze unwind my hair around me. I watch as players file one by one into the locker room door, some of them leaping to tap the metal sign on the way in that reads TRADITION OF BROTHERHOOD—the answer to the question on the other side—WHOSE HOUSE IS THIS? I think some of them believe it. Some. Not all, though. Definitely not all.

Nico and Sasha do. What I saw that night on the field. What I saw in practice yesterday. One leads, one follows—neither abandons.

“All you can do is ask,” I say, not looking at him until I’m done talking, not expecting his eyes to be waiting for me. They’re sincere and hopeful, and my small sliver of a boost pushes his mouth up on one side.

“A’right,” he says, slipping my bag down his arm and holding it out for me to take. I grab it and pull it up on my shoulder, letting the weight of the tripod rest on my hip.

“Good luck,” I say, my eyes squinting from the bright sun. I hold my hand up to my brow to shield my eyes, and Nico’s are still looking at me just the same as they were before. My body reacts with an instant rush of chills, followed by a suffocating flash of heat.

“You should wear your hair down more often. It’s pretty,” he says. He’s walking away before I can blink. And I stand on the bottom of the hill outside the boy’s locker room stunned stupid, because I’m not sure if he really said those last words at all or if my crushing alter-ego made them up because of a damn dream.

Whatever the case, I tuck my hairband into my back pocket and move forward, planning to wear my hair down again tomorrow, and maybe the next day, too.



I’ve never really seen my father compromise. I’ve never really seen him give in. But Sasha is here. Granted, he’s been running up and down bleachers for the last hour, but still—my dad let him put on a practice jersey and take the field…on his way to the bleachers.

Nico must have asked. My dad must really want Nico to feel comfortable.

The circle of wants, needs, and punishment is in full effect as Sasha’s heavy feet clunk down the bleachers next to me. The team is on the opposite end of the field, and it’s clear—even from where I sit—that they’re a squad divided. Nico’s half is smaller. It isn’t even a half. It’s…maybe six or seven guys.

“So how long do you think your dad will make me do this shit?”

Sasha’s steps slow completely, and I turn just in time to see him taking a seat behind me.

“Probably a lot longer if he sees you taking a break,” I say, craning my neck to look over my shoulder.

Sasha’s eyes meet mine, and he smiles on one side of his mouth, running his arm over his forehead, clearing it of sweat.

“You’re lucky you’re not in full pads doing this,” I say, just as he dips his head. He pauses and tilts his chin up enough to look me in the eyes. I nod to confirm I’m not kidding.

Sasha rolls his eyes along with his shoulders, adjusting his position and sinking more into the bleachers as he leans to one side and spits through the small opening to his left.

“Why are you even doing this?”

He doesn’t look at me when I ask, his focus on the loose drawstring dangling from the waistband of his gray practice pants. He tugs the string between his thumb and forefinger, pushing the end in the elastic. When his face comes up, he looks beyond me, out to the field. Leaning to his side again, squinting, he holds his finger out straight and points.

“That’s my boy, right there. He’s never quit on me. Not once.” His gaze shifts to mine, his expression tired but hard—determined. “He asked me to be here. So I’m here.”

I look from Sasha back out to the field, where my father is talking to Nico.

“You better get up, then, before my dad sees you,” I say.

When I turn around, Sasha’s already five steps up and climbing again. His pace is steady, and his legs look exhausted. But he’s not quitting.

Sasha runs the entire practice. My dad calls him out to the center of the field when he dismisses everyone else, but Nico stays behind, walking over to me. I don’t shut my camera off, and he’s quiet when he sits next to me. We don’t say a word as we watch my father speak with his best friend—both of them standing closed-off, their arms crossed over their chests. When my dad moves his hands to his hips finally, I hear Nico breathe in deeply. He doesn’t exhale until his friend reaches a hand forward and shakes my father’s.