The Hard Count(23)

“Am I supposed to see you through this thing,” Nico says, holding the camera up to face me. He stands when I reach for it, and then holds his arm out to stop me when I stretch forward again. “Oh no, it’s your turn. Tell us, Miss Prescott. The academy wants to know why film is so important to you.”

“Oh my God, stop. I don’t like being on camera,” I say through nervous laughter. My hand finally snares the sleeve of Nico’s jersey, and he brings his left hand down, gripping mine tightly while he holds the camera steady on me with his right. “Nico, I’m serious!”

I am serious, but I’m also laughing hysterically, and I’m holding his hand…or rather, tug-of-warring with his hand. I battle with him, squealing and using my other palm to block my face when I finally give in and sigh, folding my arms over my chest before pushing my now-tangled hair out of my face, blowing the final strand out of my eyes before pursing my lips in the best pout-face I can make.

Nico keeps the camera on me for a few seconds, his face hidden behind it as his laughter subsides, until he lets it slide a few inches down, still recording though he’s no longer viewing. His smile is sweet and simple, no dimple or bragger’s rights painted on his expression. It makes my breath stop, but I hold my pose, praying I can bluff my way through this without giving anything away—without him realizing exactly what that look does…to me.

The heavy locker room door slams in the distance, and it breaks the strangeness we were both just living in. Nico looks down at the camera he’s holding, turning it off and flipping the view screen back in its place. He puts it in my bag, zipping it and handing it to me. I clutch it tightly this time, and I stand as he takes a few paces back to his own bag.

“Really, I can walk,” he says, looking up at me sideways as he lifts his bag back up to his arm.

I give myself exactly three seconds to consider my options, and I do consider them. I could go home, where my mom is sleeping thanks to her heavy prescription and my brother is locked in his room, pretending that he isn’t feeling the pangs of disappointment. I could wait for my dad, like I usually do, only to have a short conversation with him in front of the refrigerator while he kicks off his shoes and drinks milk from the carton. Or I could take Nico to Charlie’s Custard, and take him home when he’s done, and maybe help him find a way to convince people other than my dad, Sasha, and Colton that he’s just as good at leading as Noah.

He’s better.

“I swear I really don’t have anything to do. And I’d…” I stop for a breath. This part wasn’t planned. “I’d like to come.”

His lip ticks up as he winks, and there’s absolutely nothing cocky or arrogant about it. His eyes avert, and his cheeks are either red on their own or the setting sun is painting them. Either way, he can’t look at me when he says, “Thanks.”

And I can’t look at him while we both walk along the main path between the locker rooms and the parking lot.

“I’ll wait for you at my car. It’s the gray one with…”

“I know your car, Reagan. Remember, you stalked me at my house?”

The flush happens quick, and I crinkle my eyes and nose when I look at him guiltily.

“Maybe that was my stakeout car,” I say, just needing to make this less about how odd I am and more about how clever and funny I am.

“Okay,” he laughs, holding up a thumb as he turns toward the locker room, leaving me and my oh-so-clever self to walk toward my gray car. That is not a stakeout car; that he already knows, so I can spend a few more hours trying my damnedest not to superimpose scenes from my dream into every real-life moment I’m with him.

I march to my car, my feet picking up speed the closer I get, and I’m almost walk-jogging by the time I grab the handle and the sensors unlock, letting me in.

“Reagan Prescott, you should have said no,” I say to myself in the safety of my two-door sedan. I let that thought sink in, but it’s quickly clear that I don’t mean it. Flipping my visor down, I raise the mirror, turning on the light so I can wipe away the streaks of dark brown eyeliner smudged under my eyes. I run my fingers quickly through my knotty hair, scratching my fingertips along my scalp to give my hair some sort of body. I pull the long waves over one shoulder and rake my fingers through, combing as quickly as I can, checking around the visor constantly to see if Nico’s coming. As soon as I see the door open, I flip the visor up and pull the bottom of my plain, gray T-shirt up, rubbing it along my dry lips. I would give anything for a tube of ChapStick right now.

Nico walks toward me with his heavy bag from earlier on one shoulder, and the smaller duffle on the other. He changed into his faded jeans and a black T-shirt that has words on it that I would probably read if I weren’t so freaked out about being caught looking at his chest. My mind flips back and forth from wishing I’d said no to affirming that I can do this, be his friend, support him, not…freaking fantasize about him, and then he tugs on the door, opening it just enough to lean in, and all of my senses go numb.

He showered. Quickly. His hair is wet, and he smells like that kind of body wash that guys use when they want the hint of cologne without actually wearing it. And it works for him. Because all I can focus on in the immediate are the beads of water somehow still on his forearms, the way his hair slicks back except for that long part up front, and the way he freaking smells.