The Hard Count(65)

“You’ve got something against sunflower seeds now, too?”

“I just don’t like spitting,” I say.

Noah leans forward and spits out three or four shell pieces at once, sending them to the ground like darts.

“That’s the best part,” my brother says, leaning back with his arms stretched out on either side. Even injured, my brother is larger than life. His build came with little effort, probably thanks to our dad’s genetics. He’s broad-chested and his arms have always bulged with muscles, from the time he hit puberty. He looks like a college man now, even if his maturity level says otherwise.

My dad walks through the center of the field, and his eyes settle on me and my brother, his mouth a hard line under the shadow cast by the brim of his hat. We both sit up a little straighter, holding our positions until he looks away.

“I hate it when you can’t see his eyes,” my brother says.

I chuckle, then turn my attention to my camera, focusing and recording some basic footage I might be able to use for B-roll. I fight my instincts to zoom in on Nico, spending extra time on Sasha and Zach and a few of the other guys until one of the coaches whistles for the players to pair up. I’m focusing on Travis when that happens, and I follow him through my lens as he stands up and walks to the other end of the field—to Nico.

“Wha…” I begin to say, catching myself, my mouth hanging open. I glance over to Noah, but he’s still sitting in his upright position, maybe a little forward so he can spit out more shells. His eyes see it, too, though. I follow his line of sight, and I know he’s watching them as they eventually shake hands. Nico lies down first, and Travis takes his leg and walks it forward in a stretch. I no longer care about the B-roll—I’ve moved on to voyeurism. I watch it all through my lens, and I see their mouths move, Travis smiling, maybe even laughing.

“Nico tell you that A&M is sending people out to watch homecoming?” Noah says, pouring a new handful of seeds into his palm, tilting, then chewing.

“No,” I say.

“They are,” Noah says, spitting again before leaning back into a relaxed position. He pulls his sunglasses from his hat and slides them over his eyes. “Specifically to watch those two.”

Noah points his finger to the field, to the far end, where my camera is focused. I look into my lens, watching Travis help Nico to stand and trading positions with him.

“Is that why Travis is playing nice?” I ask, my stomach sinking because what a second ago I found hopeful has soured into pretend.

“Sorta,” Noah says with a shrug.

My shoulders sag as my breath leaves my chest and I deflate. I blink slowly, taking in the view of my father walking over to the two boys, talking to them. Travis responds while Nico looks out in the distance. My dad stares at him, stepping in closer until Nico turns to make eye contact, finally nodding. The grudge, or chip, or whatever it is—it’s still there.

“Why sorta?” I say finally.

Noah’s quiet and doesn’t answer for almost a minute. When he speaks, I think he’s changing the subject.

“Mom found my pot,” he says.

I burst out a laugh, then stop the recording on my camera.

“I’m pretty sure you don’t want that on my video,” I say.

“Whatever,” Noah shrugs.

“I’ll delete it,” I say, glaring at him until he turns to look at me. I can’t see his eyes, only my reflection in his sunglasses, but he gives me a nod of thanks.

He turns his gaze back to the field, and there’s more chewing and spitting, and I start to think that’s all he’s going to tell me. I form my question in my head, dying to know how Mom found out, when Noah begins to share.

“I made Travis take me Saturday night. We buy from this guy in West End, and I guess he lives near Nico or whatever. I don’t know; we always meet him at this small park on one of the corners. Anyhow, we walk up to the car, and the guy rolls down the window, and I give him my money, but he holds his hand out like he’s waiting for more,” Noah says.

His voice is even, and his eyes remain out on the field—the story coming out emotionless. My arms start to tingle with anxiety, so I tuck my thumbs in my fists and press them against my hips, frozen and rapt, hanging on his breath and waiting for the next word.

“I was like, ‘dude, that’s what I always pay you,’ and the guy went on about how prices are going up, and he did me a favor last time. He said I owed him that from before, and he wasn’t going to give me the bag. I started to get a little pissed off, but I could tell Travis was getting nervous, so I didn’t get physical or nothing. I just sort of…maybe yelled at the guy a bit, called him a few names. He rolled the window down more, and I saw the piece sitting on the seat next to him.”

“Jesus, Noah…” I hum, my lips tingling and my mind picturing every word he says.

“Yeah, I know,” he says, glancing to me, but only briefly. “The guy was high on something. I could tell, and I don’t think he was going to let us go without getting way more than we gave him. Especially since I’m on crutches; it’s not like I could make a break for it.”

“Oh my God, Noah. Why didn’t you tell me about this? We need to file a police report, or do something, or…”

Noah chuckles and pulls his glasses down, turning to look me in the eyes.