The Hard Count(76)

I watch as Nico talks to Colton, and I see my father walk up next to him, along with my brother—the four of them making their way slowly through the crowd, up the walkway to the locker rooms, until they disappear into the darkness.

“I’m really looking forward to meeting him,” my mom says.

I smile at her, but let it slip a little when I turn away. I’m nervous about them meeting, because my mom has been so odd about it, almost like she’s overcompensating for her questions she has. She’s asked me about Nico’s family, his home, his brother, his niece, his car, his grades, his voice, his height, his looks—it was a piecemealed interrogation of sorts to get a picture in her head of what this boy from West End is like. I went on a double date with Izzy over the summer, and I don’t even think my mom asked the boy’s name. He was a friend of Izzy’s family, and that was good enough.

I joked, finally, telling my mom that we didn’t live in West Side Story, and we weren’t the Jets and Sharks. She rolled her eyes at me, but her constant questioning still came.

I lead her to the walkway outside the locker rooms, and I wait nervously while more people gather around us. My white dress begins to feel less and less formal as girls walk up in sequins and silk. Hair is done up in twists, and one girl has diamonds embedded into a braid that wraps around her head.

“That’s lovely,” my mom says, pointing it out to me. I smile and nod, all the while feeling my stomach grow tighter. My hair is straight, but curled on the ends. I thought I was really going the extravagant route by blowing it out.

My eyes fall to my feet, to the only fancy thing I have on—a pair of wrap-up wedges that zigzag around the top of my feet and crawl halfway up my calves. I take refuge in the fact that at least my feet look like they belong here.

Several of the players are starting to exit, and there are squeals and flashes from cameras as girls meet their boys. My eyes dart around, and I offer fake smiles to anyone I make eye contact with, concealing the rolling nerves playing out in my stomach and chest.

My father finally walks through the metal door, and when he spots us, he raises his lip on one side and runs his hand over his face while he walks over. He stops a few steps shy and holds his hand over his mouth, nodding.

“She looks nice, doesn’t she?” my mom says, reaching out and touching the skirt of my dress again, making it sway briefly along my legs.

My dad lets his hand fall, and his eyes focus on my waist for a long while, his expression something foreign. He begins to nod again as his eyes make their way to mine, and he steps in closer, pulling a small box from his front pocket. I glance to my mom, whose lips are still in a tight smile, and then back to my dad. His fingers tremble while he works open the small, beaten-up box, and he pulls out a thin, silver chain with a star on the end made out of stone.

“I’m not real good with jewelry and stuff, but your mom said I picked all right,” he says, unhinging the clasp and nodding for me to lift my hair and turn. I do as he says, and he loops the necklace around my neck, the weight of the star comforting against my collarbone. I hold it between my fingers as I spin back into him.

“Daddy,” I say, my head falling to the side, and my eyes matching his. I understand that look now, and it’s the kind that can only be explained by the special bond between a girl and her father.

My dad clears his throat, and takes a step back, his eyes falling to his feet and his hands going to his pockets. I pinch my brow, but quickly realize what he’s reacting to. I turn to see Nico, his hair wet and combed back, and his equipment bag stuffed with pads and clothes at his side. He’s wearing a dark-gray button-down, a black tie, and black slacks. His shoes are shiny, like a patent leather, and in his other hand is a plastic box with a deep-blue flower and ribbon. He follows my gaze to his hand and lifts it up.

“Oh, I…I brought a corsage. It’s a little wilted…I left it in my locker during the game,” he says, his eyes meeting mine in brief snapshots, his lips caught in a forever kind of smirk that is pushing his dimples deep into his cheeks.

“Here,” my dad says, reaching for Nico’s bag. “I’ll take your things home. You can get them when you drop Reagan off tonight.”

“Oh, thanks,” Nico says, handing his bag to my father. They don’t make eye contact, and the awkward exchange is somewhat amusing.

“Yeah, well, I’m holding your things hostage until I get her, and if you’re a minute late…” My dad lets his words trail off as he pushes his tongue into his cheek. Nico blinks a few times, then chuckles.

“Yes, sir,” he says.

“I’m not kidding,” my dad says.

“Oh, I know,” Nico responds.

He takes my hand in his, and his eyes flit to mine, words perched on his lips. He doesn’t speak, but I can tell he wants to, and the look on his face makes me blush. He holds the cluster of flowers to the top of my wrist, turning my hand and tying the ribbon on the underside, just above my palm. The soft material dusts along my skin, and tickles, but I leave it as he tied it, grateful for the reminder that it’s there. Blue flowers have fast become my favorites.

“Well, Nico,” my mom says, shooting my father a glance that warns him. He raises his brows and takes a step back so my mom can move in closer. “It is such a pleasure to meet you.”

My stomach is pattering heavily with butterflies, and I wait for something to go wrong as my mom takes Nico’s hand. I’ve run through the dozens of embarrassing things she could say, based on the questions she asked about him, including what country he was from.