The Hard Count(7)

When I look back to Nico, I expect to see the hard face I’m used to in class, the one ready to argue, but instead his dimple is deep and his eyes are creased, his lips almost smiling, like he has more to say. I swallow. He sees it, and his lip quirks a hint higher. I hate that.

“You making a movie or something?” His eyes gesture to the equipment at my feet. I look down, too, then over my shoulder, remembering the camera I left behind in the film room.

“Uh, yeah. Something,” I say, my mind ping-ponging between wondering if the room is unlocked still, and this conversation with Nico Medina, which is bizarre.

I snap back to attention when Nico’s friend shouts something, and Nico tosses him the ball, underhand throwing a tight spiral that disappears briefly before falling back into the light.

“Right, well…you ever want to film a real game…instead of that display that happens over there; we’ll be over here,” he says, chuckling and jerking his head toward the dark field where his friends have started running and tackling one another.

I’m too tongue-tied to respond, but I manage to keep my nerves in check for the few seconds he’s still close enough to hear me. When he turns to jog down the slope into the field, I let out the air I’d been holding hostage in my lungs.

I pick up my small camera bag and loop it over my shoulder, checking the scoreboard before walking quickly back to the locker room. The home score reads seven, and the air smells acrid, so I know the fireworks went off for the extra point. Somehow, though, I never noticed.

The film room is unlocked; I grab the rest of my things and make my way back to the main field in time for the second quarter. I hear a few mutters from the most-vocal critics as I walk up to the press box. They know who I am, and I know they only say those things in hopes that I’ll repeat their concerns to my father.

“This is how our team started last year.”

“Only up by a touchdown at the end of one. Maybe Coach isn’t playing the right talent.”

“I sure hope Jimmy’s ready to step into the job.”

That last comment comes up a lot, and I never repeat it to my dad. He hears it enough on his own. Jimmy O’Donahue is Dad’s assistant. He was voted onto the staff by the board, and my father begrudgingly lets him handle the defense. Jimmy is the son of one of the board members, and he’s alumni. While my father’s alumni, too, his tradition stops there. He was the start of our family line. Jimmy’s goes back to the day the school was founded, and there are a lot of people who would like to see him in that beloved head-coach role. Fortunately, my dad has enough friends on the board to keep him safe for now.

He just needs to keep winning.

Once my camera is set, I crawl out to the small section of bleachers on the rooftop of the press box and slide my notebook from my bag, where I write down the latest round of comments I’ve overheard. I know I need interviews to really make my documentary solid, but I can’t seem to get the nerve to face the haters. I’m not sure what worries me more—if they’ll pretend to love my dad to my face, or if they’ll let me tape their honest opinions.

Instead, for now, I work things into my own narration script. I plan to catch their quips and jabs secretly with my recorder, and maybe that will be enough. It’s probably not ethical, but neither are some of the threatening things they say.

Minutes pass with very little action, both sides trading punts and the ball never coming near an end zone until Travis intercepts a pass and runs it back forty yards with fifteen seconds left in the half. I stand along with everyone else, and I check my camera to make sure it’s capturing game play while I pull out my handheld to get the other side of the story. My brother grabs his helmet and dashes to the line, and I zoom in as tight as I can on the huddle, wishing I had him miked to hear what he said, or at least to hear them all clap and yell “break!”

Katie, his girlfriend for at least the last few months, is standing on the first step at the front of the stands, her hands cupping her mouth; my mother is close behind her, holding hands with our neighbor, Travis’s mom, Linda, as if her son was going off to battle. The clock begins, and as slow as everything feels, it all happens so quickly. My brother finds a receiver, he throws with a snap, the ball is caught, and the drums begin.

I bounce on my toes, and I feel my cheeks ache from smiling, but in the middle of it all, I think of Nico. The field is too far for me to hear them, but every now and then I catch a glimpse of their forms running in the dim lights, until the fireworks signal our field goal and the crowd erupts. Nico and his friends don’t even pause—their own game far more important as the ball sails farther than any throw I’ve ever seen leave my brother’s grip, landing easily into the hands of the boy who teased me several minutes ago.

“Some game, huh Reagan?” Jimmy says, headphones around his neck as he clears out of the press box area and walks down the bleachers to join the rest of the team and coaching staff in the locker room.

I rarely respond, mostly because I don’t trust him. This is normally the time when I go find my friend Izzy and skim off her nachos and steal half of her drink that she’s tried to hide—though not too well—on the small table right in front of the bleachers. Izzy’s a cheerleader, but she went out of town for the weekend with her grandparents, leaving right after school. I climb down the few steps from the top of the press box and glance out at the crowd, most people making breaks for the restrooms and concession area. My mom is already on her phone, and her friends are all chatting around her. I could sit with these women, who I don’t necessarily like, for twelve minutes, but instead, I find my feet carrying me down the back steps of the bleachers and out into the darkness where boys wearing nothing but muddied jeans and skin are still battling hard.