The Hard Count(73)

“We had a little team meeting, before they came out to stretch,” Noah says, leaning to the side and spitting out fragments of seeds.

“Why are you obsessed with seeds lately?” I ask, and he turns to me, pulling his sunglasses down and glaring. “Exactly how much pot were you smoking?”

Noah presses his lips into a hard line.

“Oh,” I say.

He turns back to the field, and I do, too, at first, but then his words from before catch up to me.

“You…had a team meeting?”

I glance at him, but he isn’t engaging me, so I keep my eyes on the field, my stomach muscles relaxing a little every time a play hits the mark on the field. I let my question linger out there, hoping he’ll answer…eventually.

“Part of my penance,” Noah says finally, and I give in and look at him again. He won’t look at me, but he doesn’t pause. “Dad said he was losing the team, losing their respect. He knows Nico’s the only way they’re going to have a shot at anything this year.”

My brother spits out the rest of his seed shells and works his tongue over his teeth. It’s gross when he does this, and I worry that my brother is going to turn into a chewer. His ability to form habits comes so naturally.

“What do you think?” I ask.

He’s quiet for several seconds, but I can tell he’s thinking…maybe even hesitating a little. Honesty hurts him. It always has.

“I think Nico’s the best quarterback we’ve ever had,” he says, pulling the bag from his pocket and tossing it to the ground with disgust when he sees it’s empty. “I f*ckin’ hate him for it.”

“But that’s not his fault,” I defend.

“I know,” Noah says. “Doesn’t mean I don’t anyway.”

I breathe in slowly, letting my shoulders rise while my chest expands, my attention moving back to the four men in the bleachers, one of them now on the phone.

“He treat you right?” Noah asks.

I pinch my brow, wondering why he cares. I decide that I want my brother to care, and I also want to quit hating him a little, too.

“He does,” I say, unable to prevent the smile that sneaks in on my lips. I pull my sleeve over my palm and chew at the edges.

“Good,” Noah says.

It’s quiet between us as we both let the action on the field take over our conversation for most of the time. When the players break though, that gap that still exists—the one left after my brother embarrassed me, after we fought, after this week and all that’s happened—it begins to feel like a bleeding wound.

It was time we sucked it up and closed it.

“I still haven’t interviewed you…for my film,” I say, adding a little tinge to the final word—bringing him back to that night in the parking lot, when he took cheap shots at me to make himself feel better.

Noah doesn’t answer immediately, but I can see from my sideways glance that I hit a nerve. His jaw works in and out, and I know from years of sleeping one room away from him that he’s grinding his back teeth together because I’ve made him uncomfortable.

“Wanna do it now?” he says finally.

I’m a little surprised. I expected my defensive brother. I was anticipating him to say something to the effect of “look, I’m sorry, all right?”

I was waiting for excuses.

“I’d love to,” I say, pulling my gear out and setting up a shot of him here on the bench. I frame just enough of the action behind him to blur it to the background, and Noah glances over his shoulder while I finish getting ready.

“Is that your way of getting back at me?” he asks.

I pause and glance up, my mouth quirked on one side in question.

“Me here, all broken and busted, and the game I love behind me,” he says.

I stare at him, blinking slowly.

“I’m just giving the shot context. I don’t do things to be cruel,” I say, realizing as I speak that that…what I just said? I said it to be cruel. My brother leaves his eyes on me, and they narrow while he works his lips, mashing them with perhaps his internal thoughts of exactly how mean he has been to me. I plan on asking him about it, in three, two…

“Let’s talk a little bit about your injury. Since you broke your leg, you’ve been distant…maybe even…harsh…to those you love. Talk about the struggle,” I say, pushing my face to the camera, my eye on the viewer. I don’t want to make eye contact with him right now; I want to shoot for honesty, and I can’t risk having him intimidate me.

Noah shakes with a silent laugh, then looks down at his hands while he cracks his knuckles. His head falls from one side to the other with his thought, and then he glances to the side as a whistle sounds in the background. A slow smile plays on his lips.

“Do you know what it’s like to love something so much that it’s the only thing you can see in your future?”

I take in Noah’s question, and wait for his gaze to swing back to the camera.

“Yes. I do believe I know what that’s like,” I say, moving my head up enough to let my eyes hit his briefly. I keep my mouth in a hard line, and I connect with him just long enough for him to breathe out another laugh and blink to look down.

“Yeah, I guess you do,” he says.