The Hard Count(51)

Maybe Izzy’s wrong. Or maybe she only has half the story. I decide the latter is probably the most likely, and I close up the office and film room, flipping down the lights as I exit the building just in time to see the cheer squad pulling out of the lot.

I walk to my car with a little more speed than normal, anxious to get to Metahill to see if Nico’s warming up or Brandon. When my hand hits my car door handle, I pause, something catching my eye on Sasha’s silver car parked only a few spaces away. I let go of the handle of my car and move to his, realizing the closer I get that the blue thing flapping against his window is actually paper.

Pulling up the windshield wiper, I tug the paper clear and unfold it so I can read whatever message is scribed on it in black marker.

Your boy ain’t playing tonight. And you’re going to get your ass flattened.

I look in both directions, the lot empty and the building behind me now completely quiet. I crumple the note up, knowing Sasha probably never saw it before the bus left, and not wanting to leave it behind for him to find later. I drop it in a trash bin near one of the parking lot light poles between our two cars, and I get into mine, backing out so quickly my tires squeal. I pull away from the school fast, and by the time I make it to Metahill, my dad and his team are just taking the field for warm-ups.

My mother came along with Linda, Travis’s mom. They almost always ride together. Travis’s parents are divorced, but his mom kept the house. Our mothers grew close when that happened, and they both serve on the booster board together. Sometimes, I wonder if Mom talks to her about leaving Dad. Football, when it’s played like this? It has a way of tearing up families.

I pared my equipment down for tonight’s game. I have my small video camera that I’ll set up on top of the press box, but I left the heavier one that I use for interviews at home. Tonight, I want to focus on still photos. Bob, the team trainer, set me up with one of the state certified press passes, so I should be able to get on the field—at least for a little while.

I stop at the front of the bleachers, where my mom is setting up her bleacher pad along with Travis’s mom. My mom and I aren’t close. It’s not that we fight or that I resent her or harbor any angst. We just aren’t close. I’ve always been more interested in the things my dad does. My mom has always been more interested in doting after Noah. My father rides Noah hard, and he’s soft and sweet with me. Such is the Prescott family circle, I suppose.

“You planning to take some nice shots of the team tonight sweetheart?”

My mom is probably pointing out my access to the field to show off to the few other parents who are setting up their seats around her. Travis’s mom is used to it, and she smiles at me amiably then busies herself with her phone. A few of the others oooh and ahhh at my camera, asking me questions about my project, my plans after high school, and what my angle for the film will be.

“I needed some still shots to fill in some of the voiceover, and I just kind of like the effect,” I say, my mom’s smile outlined with bright-red lipstick and wide eyes. Her ears didn’t hear a single thing I just said.

“Sure hope this film has a happy ending, unlike last season,” one of the older men, sitting a few rows up, says.

My mom’s eyes flinch, and her smile shifts at his words, but she keeps her appearance up—as always. Coach’s wife is the ultimate cheerleader. She’s also the ultimate liar.

“Oh, now…last season was old news. I think this year is shaping up to be pretty exciting. Chad says the boys are really gelling,” my mom lies. I know it’s a lie, and most of the people listening do, too, but nobody seems to want to call her on it. Or at least, I don’t think they do, until I lean forward to hug my mom and hear the same older man contradict her.

“That’s not what I’m hearing,” he says. My mom’s hands grab at my sides, so I squeeze back, then rub my hand in a circle on her shoulder, signaling that I heard him, too.

“I hear that new kid from West End is a show boat. That’s what my grandson says, anyway. Such a shame Noah got hurt the way he did. I bet he really could have used a good season to prove last year wasn’t all his fault,” the old man says, clearing his throat with a harsh cough that rattles something deep in his chest. He chuckles to himself while he stands and pulls a pack of cigarettes from his back pocket. “Hell, I bet you all could have used Noah to have a good run. But maybe this will end up working out. What do I know. I’m gonna go get a smoke. You wanna come, Bern?”

The old man nods to the heavier man sitting next to him, but he just waves him on, uninterested. My mom’s smile has shifted to the restrained kind, and she responds only with shrugs and head tilts. It’s her way of dealing with it, pretending she doesn’t understand the intricacies of the game. I know better. Lauren Prescott was a University of Alabama cheerleader, which is where she met my father. He was a receiver—second string. When I was little, she was very involved in my dad’s game-day plan. It was the talk of the dinner table, and I loved every second of it. Somewhere along the way, though, an invisible line was drawn, and our dinner table became quiet—except for bitter quips and digs about alienating us from the boosters or planning expensive parties to ignore real problems.

“Well, I know Chad’s really excited to see what Nicolas can do,” my mom says. Nobody is really listening any more, but I have to correct her anyway.