The Hard Count(52)

“He goes by Nico,” I say.

“Oh, like a nickname. How nice,” she says.

Yes. How nice. And you’ll get to meet him, after he takes me to the dance next Friday, and you can pretend you knew his name all along, or worse—be all of those things that Noah says you are. Be…racist.

I did not inherit my mom’s ability to pretend, so I leave before I have to, excusing myself to the press box where I set up my camera and begin to scan the field in search of Nico’s profile. I find him quickly—up front—between Sasha and Colton. I’m not sure what happened to him today, or where he went, but he seems to be cleared to play. At the very least, he was allowed to dress.

Once my video camera is set, I power it down to save space for the game film, then take the bleachers two steps at a time until I get to the field. The air is crisp tonight, the slight breeze enough to turn my fingers pink. I tug my Cornwall sweatshirt from around my waist and slip it on over my long-sleeved black T-shirt that hangs below the sweatshirt’s bottom. I’m grateful for the extra fabric when the wind picks up, cutting through my thin leggings and sending shivers over my body despite my attempt to dress warm.

I decide to move around the field to get my heartrate up, so I jog to the far end and lie on the grass, taking shots of the team stretching, of my father talking with his staff—of him having a more private and stern conversation with Coach O’Donahue. I zoom in, thinking I might just be able to read their lips, but my view isn’t clear enough. My father holds up a hand, turning his back on Coach O’Donahue, who stands still for several long seconds before shaking his head and slipping out a swear word on his way to the sidelines.

When the cheerleaders begin to trail onto the track, I walk the long way around the field up to Izzy, nodding toward Nico so she sees he’s here.

“Huh, he must have had a really good excuse for missing,” she says, shrugging it off.

“Yeah,” I say, pulling the camera up to my eye, focusing on Nico’s face while the team gathers in two halves—defense and offense.

My father and Nico talk, and it’s off-to-the-side and quiet, away from the others. There’s a moment where my dad puts his hand on Nico’s shoulder, their heads coming in close—a beautiful display of mutual respect. My brother never had that.

My brother never had that.

I scan the sidelines, finally seeing Noah. He’s alone, balanced on his crutches, a water bottle in his hands, his eyes watching Nico take his place. My brother is so broken and bitter. I would be, too. If only he knew Nico more, I think it would help. I think he would root for him. But then…maybe not.

The crowd is beginning to fill in empty spaces, so I leave Izzy and the others and climb back to my corner on the roof of the press box. Coach O’Donahue is already standing on the other end, his headset on and his own camera filming the team. His head turns while I step up the final rung of the ladder and position myself behind my camera.

I feel his eyes on me for several seconds before he speaks.

“You going to be filming every single one of these games?” he asks.

I keep my eyes on my viewfinder, pretending to tune the focus.

“Yeah, I plan on it,” I say.

His eyes are still watching me. I can sense it—see from my periphery that he’s studying me—and eventually I can’t pretend I have anything to do other than look back at him. I smile when I do, but it’s the careful kind I give someone I don’t trust.

“I could just give you my film. No sense in two of us being up here,” he says. It doesn’t come out as a kind gesture at all, or maybe I read it that way.

“It wouldn’t match. My camera films in HD. But…thanks,” I say, taking pleasure in the fact that his eyes fall a tick in disappointment.

“All right then,” he says, after a few seconds pass. He flips a toothpick around in his mouth, and his eyebrows lift as he shifts his focus back out to the field.

The entire first half passes without another word from him to me, only his chatter to the coaching staff below, reading the other team and trying to predict for defense. While we don’t talk, though, I catch him watching me every few minutes. It’s usually after he says something in the radio, or when he criticizes Nico, or a passing play. I never once react physically to his words, but I do pull my phone out and text Izzy when his comments become almost unbearable.

ME: I don’t think Brandon’s uncle is a big fan of Nico.

Izzy usually has her phone in her bag, so I know she’ll get my message at some point. I just need someone to commiserate with, and I hope she sees what I’m seeing.

Nico is struggling. He just can’t seem to find time, to get his footing right. He can throw, but the coverage is too tight. Sasha can’t break free, and Travis…he isn’t trying. Nico’s been sacked three times, and had the ball stripped once, and the scoreboard is proof that something is wrong. We’re down twenty-one to seven, but we’re making a good run right now. It’s almost halftime, and somehow—through a fifteen-yard run on his own and one pass that manages to find Sasha’s hands—Nico has us twenty yards out.

We need this touchdown.

He needs this touchdown.

I move to the field, leaving Coach O’Donahue and my camera behind. I slip through the railing on the bleachers near Izzy, sitting on the small bench behind the cheer squad while they hold their hands linked as they stand behind the sidelines, urging the rest of the crowd to follow and have faith that the Tradition will score. I glance behind me to see my mother standing, but no one else from her camp. Most of the students are up on their feet, but the rest of the stands are a group divided.