The Hard Count(53)

They want him to fail.

“Come on, Nico. You can do this!” I shout, my voice raspy, I scream the words so loudly. I move to the edge of the field, making use of my pass, and when one of the coaches looks at me suspiciously, I hold the pass up like a shield. He rolls his eyes, but I don’t care.

I sit on the corner, near the other team’s end zone, and I zoom in with my camera, snapping shots of Nico waiting for the ball. He’s calling the count—he’s shifting the offense.

They’re out of place, but Colton snaps on signal as he’s told, and Nico has to fight. Colton holds the middle, but the line crumbles around him, and Nico has to run. He leaps over one defender, only to find another waiting for him. Completely exposed, the clock ticking down to the last two seconds, Nico makes one final push.

He’s hit so hard that his helmet flies off. Whistles blare as I stand to my feet, my chest heaving in panicked breath. The referees run in, hands waving, and Bob sprints to the middle of the field with water and his medical bag tugged against his side.

He makes it to Nico, pushing people away to give him room, but before he can tell Nico to lie flat, he’s on his feet, charging toward Travis and a guy named Zach, who was supposed to protect his left side. Zach’s a three-time all-state left tackle. He doesn’t miss, though he’s frequently called with penalties—for holding. He didn’t hold anyone during that last play. He let them right through.

Chaos settles in fast, Nico’s hands flying to Zach’s chest, shoving, while Travis grabs Nico’s pads. The rivalries make themselves apparent quickly, Colton sticking up for Nico and Sasha, Travis and several of the other guys shoving to get into the circle, pushing and throwing punches. The referees start tugging on collars, pulling players apart, and my father and his staff do the same. Eventually, my dad is standing between Travis and Nico, one hand on each of them, his clipboard at his feet and his face burning red in anger and frustration.

“Get your asses in that locker room…now!”

My father’s voice carries over the hushed field and stadium. It takes the team several seconds, but eventually they all relax their tense muscles and begin to file toward the end of the field, to the visitor’s locker room, in a straight line.

I snap a few photos as they walk past me, Nico’s face hard and his eyes set on the guy in front of him. He doesn’t even notice I’m here.

I pull my feet in as the rest of the team passes, a few of them glancing at me, but only briefly. The coaches walk by, and I begin to trail behind everyone, when my father stops me, his hand heavy on my shoulder, urging me to stay put.

“Sit this one out, Reagan,” he says. My eyes meet his briefly, and I nod with a tiny movement.

I watch them all disappear behind the heavy doors, and I imagine the words being said the moment they close. My father always has something to say—the right thing to say. I don’t know what that could possibly be now, though.

I walk back to my mom, who is talking with Travis’s mom and a few of the others. There are whispers about changing to Brandon, about how something isn’t right. A few women tell my mom they’re worried for her husband. “This must be so hard on Chad,” they say. My mom smiles and thanks them, assuring them he can handle it.

He can handle it. But can she? The crack in her armor shows, and I think others can see it in the small slant of worry in her eyes, the constant repetition of “it’s going to be okay.”

Is it?

When I notice Izzy walking over to the cheer bench with a small bag of chips and a soda, I walk over to sit with her, wanting to avoid the chatter happening amongst the boosters. She tears the bag open and tilts it toward me, so I grab three or four chips and begin nibbling on them.

“That was bad,” she says after a few minutes of silence. The band has started to play, which drowns out a lot of the chatter I still feel like I can hear from the people in the stands.

“Yeah,” I agree. I pop an entire chip in my mouth and let the crunching sound drown out my thoughts. It works for a few seconds, but when I’m done chewing, my mind is thinking about the note I found again.

“It’s like there are spies, or defectors or…I don’t know, I can’t think of a really good war analogy, but it’s clear that not everyone is on Nico’s team,” she says, turning her gaze to me and holding the soda out. I grab it and take a drink, swallowing slowly.

“Someone left Sasha a note,” I say, turning to meet her eyes again. She tilts her head. “I found it, right before I came here. It was kind of threatening, and it basically said all of this was going to happen.”

“Shit, Reagan. Like, they’re bullying Nico?”

I shrug my shoulders, and Izzy shakes her head.

We both stare at the field, watching the other school’s band form shapes and blare their horns for about six minutes, playing to the home stands on the other side. When they begin the fight song, Izzy stands, knowing that our team—in whatever form that might be right now—is about to come out for the second half.

“Boys are stupid,” she says, not looking at me as she walks away.

I chuckle to myself, but not for long. I pull my legs up and finish my friend’s chips, rolling the bag into a ball and tucking it in my back pocket, noticing my phone. I pull it out to find a message from her, replying to the one I sent earlier.

IZZY: I think they’re trying to push Nico out. I heard one of the coaches tell your dad it’s time to pull him.