The Hard Count(55)

Near the end of the bus, I hear a woman squeal a happy sound, so I turn and see Nico being embraced by his mother, Alyssa wrapped around his leg. A man who looks a lot like him, only many years older, stands with his hand on Nico’s shoulder, facing him and nodding silently. Nico glances in my direction, and I smile, lifting my hand for a subtle wave. I didn’t want to interrupt his family, but he jogs over to me, gripping my hand in his and urging me toward them.

“I want you to meet my Uncle Danny,” he says, grinning at me bashfully, looking up at me from the side then back down at his feet. I notice his mom spot our hands as we walk up, and she pinches her lips into a tight smile, raising her eyebrows at her son.

“Danny, this is the girl I was telling you about. This is Reagan,” Nico says.

My insides drop and my head feels light hearing him admit to talking about me to a man I know he admires. I turn to Nico, who’s once again looking at his feet, then give my attention to his uncle, reaching out to take his hand.

“It is so nice to meet you,” I say.

“The pleasure is mine, Reagan,” Danny says, covering the top of my hand with his other. He squeezes once, then lets my hand go, pushing his own into his pockets, just like his nephew always does.

“Some game, huh?” I say, and Nico laughs once next to me, lifting his head to look at the bus, and the few players still walking up from the field. He shakes his head and breathes in deeply, so I brush my arm into his to let him know I understand.

“It sure was,” Danny says. “I never thought I’d see this kid play again. He was always the best player on our team. Thank you for getting him back out there.”

“Oh, I don’t think I did anything,” I say.

“That’s not what I hear?” Danny says with a wink.

“I gotta go. I’ll see you at home, Mom,” Nico says, cutting the conversation short. My face is burning at his uncle’s teasing, and I’m sure his is worse.

“Thanks for inviting me out, Nico. I’ll head over to Cornwall next week. I want to see you take that field,” his uncle says, pulling Nico under his arm. They break apart and tap their knuckles, and Nico glances to me briefly, showing a hint of his embarrassment as he turns to head to the steps for the bus. I catch my father waiting for him at the entry, his eyes moving to me after Nico passes by. I raise a hand to wave, but my father ignores it, getting on the bus with his team.

“I have to drive back, too. It was really nice meeting you,” I say, shaking Danny’s hand again, then moving on to Nico’s mom. She pulls me in surprisingly for a hug, tilting my face and kissing my cheek, and I smile at her gesture.

I feel warm and loved all the way to my car, and I drive home in silence, not wanting even my favorite music to break my momentary bliss. It all ends the second I pull into the school lot, the bus arriving right before me, and Sasha and Travis shoving one another under the orange glow of the parking lights.

More players tag along, and pretty soon, fists are flying and blood is spilling. I catch Noah standing near the exit of the bus, and I walk over to him.

“What’s happening?” I say, my head shaking while the coaches all struggle to stop one brawl while another starts.

“They’re falling apart,” Noah says. I nod to agree with him, but when I look to his face, I see the smile spreading along his lips.

“Noah!” I shout.

He flits his eyes to me, but doesn’t try to mask his expression.

“He shouldn’t have played tonight, Reagan. Quit trying to act like he’s so perfect. He ditched school today. I told Coach O’Donahue. Dad’s the only one that wanted to start him…”

“You told Coach O’Donahue? Are you insane?” I interrupt, my face falling at my brother’s confession.

“They wouldn’t have played me,” he says.

“You don’t know that. You don’t know why Nico was missing today. Jesus, Noah. Are you trying to get Dad fired? You can’t play, so what…Dad should lose his job, too?” I’m shouting, but the words seem to run right through my brother. He shakes my temper off and pushes forward on his crutches, moving to a few of the players on the other side of the crowd.

The buzzing sound is loud and impossible to ignore. It blares three or four times until everyone turns to see my dad standing in the center of the fight, a bullhorn in his hands, his finger pressing on a red button. He holds it the final time for several seconds, the shrill sound echoing off the bus, school, and neighboring houses.

Eventually, fists stop and bodies shift, every player and coach standing to face my dad, even the ones who I know aren’t in his corner.

My dad spins in a slow circle, looking every single person in the eyes, including me.

“I have coached for two decades. I’ve assisted before this, and I sat there on the sidelines, like many of you, on a team that had a lot of integrity and reputation for greatness. I wore Crimson in Alabama, and I wore blue and gold here. I understood what an honor it was just to put on that goddamned uniform every Friday or Saturday night.”

My father’s nostrils flare with his breath, and I can feel him struggling to remain composed—as much as he can—in the middle of his team’s self-destruction.

“What did I tell you at halftime?”

It’s silent, and my dad waits for almost a full minute before someone finally steps forward to speak. When I realize it’s Travis, I hold my breath, worried that he’s only going to make this worse.