The Hard Count(32)

“Do you always answer questions with questions?” he says.

I smirk at him, tilting my head in response.

“Sorry. You just left me that opening,” he says, swinging his hand forward into mine. My free hand moves without my permission when he does, catching the tips of his fingers in my own, and the sudden touch forces a jolt of air from my lungs, my mouth parting, a sharp exhale audible to both of us.

Nico’s eyes haze as they focus on our flirting fingertips. He doesn’t dismiss me, but he doesn’t grasp my hand for certain, either. He lets our touch remain in this fleeting, awkward place where I completely submit and let him decide how hard we touch, how long and, most importantly, why.

I glance from our hands to his mouth, to his jaw—my breath held as I watch his muscles work, his teeth holding his tongue at the front of his lips as they fight against smiling, fight against speaking.

They just fight.

They battle until they close, and his eyes flit open to mine with a hard swallow, our fingers still feathers dancing and barely holding on.

“I’m scared of failing,” he says.

I can feel his fear—it radiates; it’s in his touch and reflected in the way his eyes tilt with worry. He doesn’t blink, and I hold his stare and force my eyes to remain open, too. I don’t want to breathe too hard. I don’t want to startle him. I want to give him what he needs.

Seconds pass, and every pass of his thumb and forefinger against mine pushes me forward, each press from one part of his hand on mine like a slow ballad being tapped out on a fragile piano. When his fingers stop moving, my breath hitches, and I react—clinging, my fingers wrapping around his, threading and squeezing tightly. The force is like when two magnets come together in just the right way, and I feel his arm grow stronger as mine falls apart, and when I can no longer squeeze and hold, he takes over—he takes my strength.

“You won’t fail,” I say, our eyes not once leaving one another, my hand now gripped in his between us. My mouth whimpers a sound that is part cry and part laugh, the product of all of my fears and reservations mixing with confidence in this boy who has invaded me without warning—without asking.

“You never do,” I say, the nerves that I’ve held in my chest pushing out, making my lips tremble with my words. I want my camera. I want the safety of living this part through the lens. I don’t want to be part of the story, but I am.

I’m a part of Nico’s story. And he’s a part of mine. I believe in him. More than I’ve believed in anything, and the enormity of it makes my chest hurt. I ache, and I want to escape, my fingers numbed by his tight hold, my face hot under the reflection of his rapidly-growing smile. His dimple. His confidence.

His power.

“Nico.”

The sound of his name. My father’s voice. Our hands drop, and when I shift to the side I see my father’s eyes down at the floor, his hands on his hips. I ball my fingers into a fist, savoring the feeling they had seconds ago, ashamed my dad caught us. Nico does the same, and when I see him flex his fingers, I worry he’s trying to rid himself of the memory.

“Sorry sir. I’ll be right there,” he says. My father nods, and Nico looks to me, mouthing “thanks” before jogging to the door held open by my father’s foot. My dad pushes it open wider as Nico jogs through, then catches it with his hand before it closes, his eyes coming to meet mine for only a beat.

My dad looks at me just long enough for me to know that he’s going to pretend he didn’t see us holding hands. He also looks at me in a way that lets me know he doesn’t approve. He’s gone behind the heavy blue door in a blink, and I open my hand wide again, brushing the tips of my fingers along the top of my other hand just to see if it feels anywhere close to the same.

It doesn’t.

Not even close.





8





The hype Nico infused in the team at the pep rally carried through the third quarter of the game. I have never seen the team look so gelled, so together as one on the field—at least on offense. The score, unfortunately, also tells a story about our defense, and with about four minutes to go, The Tradition sits at forty-six, while St. Margaret’s Prep trails only by four.

I leave my camera posted on top of the press box and climb down the small set of steps to the bleachers, weaving through the crowd of students all standing with their arms raised—as they have for the last three minutes—until I get to the bottom, to Izzy. I just can’t handle watching the game alone any more. Even though I’m surrounded by coaches, it’s still lonely in the press box. And Coach O’Donahue has kept his mouth shut tight—I think inwardly rooting for Nico to fail. Every time I felt him make a wish for something to go wrong, I made two for something outstanding to happen. My wishes must carry more weight.

“Hold that line, Tradition! H-O-L-D!”

The cheer squad is shouting, and I can tell Izzy’s voice is hoarse. Even my best friend is more invested in this game than she’s ever been.

I sit on edge of the bleachers, poking my legs through the front by the railing and resting my arms on the bar in the middle. I’m just high enough to see the play on the field, and the pass from St. Margaret’s quarterback is almost caught, broken up in the last minute by Sasha. I scream when it works, bumping my elbows on the metal bars—forgetting where I am.