The Hard Count(66)

“Reagan, I don’t need to file a public document that says I was out buying drugs in West End,” Noah says, his mouth set in a hard, serious line.

I pull my lips in on one side and nod.

“Yeah, I guess you’re right. I just…Noah, if Mom knew all of this…”

“Nico saw us,” he interrupts.

I look up to find my brother’s eyes still waiting for me, his expression unchanged.

“He…saw you?” I hold my breath, pushing my hands into my thighs harder, my shoulder tense and arms flexed.

“He walked up and got in the middle of shit that was going down. He told the guy that we were connected to someone that could bust him, third strike or something like that. The guy stared at him for a long time, and I was waiting for him to call bullshit, but eventually he just nodded and threw a bag at me. That’s how Mom found it…”

“I don’t understand,” I say, my focus on him intense.

“I was so freaked out, I left it in Travis’s Jeep. His mom got the call from your dad, about A&M, last night. He came over to tell me, and grabbed it on his way. He didn’t want any of it near him, kind of freaked out about testing or shit I guess, and then I got distracted with his news, and then Dad came in to tell me that Texas was pulling their interest in me…”

“Wait,” I say, holding up a hand. “Texas is pulling out?”

“Yeah, well…it’s not like I’m putting up numbers this year, and other guys are so…”

“Noah,” I say, my face falling in sympathy.

“Don’t,” he says, pushing his glasses back up and looking back out to the field. He spits the final few seeds from his mouth. “It sucks enough without you pitying me about it.”

“You’ll go somewhere else,” I say.

“Maybe,” he sighs.

I look back out at the field and watch the squads break out to run drills, Nico working with Travis. His movements are rigid, and he’s throwing angrily—forcing the ball instead of letting it work naturally. That’s my fault.

“How’d Mom find your pot then?” I ask, greedily, wanting my brother’s screwup for a distraction.

“I left it on the middle of my goddamned desk. Which, ha…I mean come on, I never have homework out on that thing or anything. I might as well have just tossed it to her,” he says, laughing at himself.

“She probably would have just smoked it,” I deadpan.

Noah snorts out a laugh.

“True statement,” he says. “She said she’s not going to tell Dad, so who knows. Maybe she’ll keep it for herself.”

I chuckle, but eventually my laughter fades. We both sit silently together watching The Tradition run drills. I quit filming several minutes ago, so I lean the tripod and camera back, hugging it to my chest, resting my chin on the top of it. It looks like any other practice, only that our practices never look ordinary. Things are off. The field is quiet, and players look tense. You can see it in their eyes—my dad’s ultimatum. You can see it on my dad, too—the way he walks, hesitates, guards his words. He’s snapping at players and coaches, but without the backup material he usually unleashes on them. Chad Prescott is known for calling players out on their weaknesses, but then he spends thirty minutes teaching them why and how to fix them. Today, he’s just hurling insults.

“They all hate him,” I say, not really expecting a response.

“Dad? Or Nico?” Noah responds. I turn and meet his gaze.

“Both of them,” I shrug.

My brother looks at me and pulls his lips in tight, filling his chest with a long inhale. He turns to look back out on the field, and eventually pulls his crutches in his hands, lifting himself to stand.

“They don’t hate Nico,” he says, taking a few strides toward the field before stopping to talk to me over his shoulder. “They resent him. He’s better than they are.”

My brother swings his cast in long bounds on his crutches, crossing the track and eventually meeting Dad at the sidelines. They stand next to one another and watch the plays happen in front of them. Every time, my dad yells something. My brother doesn’t react. He doesn’t know what to say, how to fix things for Dad. He can’t even make the right decisions for himself, but somehow I feel like maybe…maybe he’s trying.

I watch as the frustration level grows, evident in my father’s face—the red color it turns, the wrinkles deepening on his forehead, the tantrum he throws with his hat and clipboard. It isn’t that any of the guys are making mistakes, it’s just that they aren’t playing with passion.

The same plays happen over and over, and players take turns running to the water station, drinking and rushing back to the field, almost as if they’re afraid to take a break. Sasha gets too ill to continue eventually, Bob calling my dad over to tell him that he has to let him rest. My dad looks at Sasha, knowing that he isn’t one of the ones he needs to motivate. Sasha will play for Nico, no matter what. My dad’s hand comes down on Sasha’s shoulder, and I watch as he grabs his gear and makes his way to the locker room and eventually his car, pulling out while the rest of the team keeps pushing on.

Nothing changes, no matter how many times they run through drills. An hour turns into two, and soon the sun is setting, and the field lights are buzzing above our heads—the bulbs warming. This practice is going to happen well into the night. My dad intends to keep them here until he sees a change. I don’t know that he’s going to get one.