The Hard Count(8)

I walk along the far end, the action currently on the opposite side of the field, and slide to a sitting position on the cool, damp grass that slopes down. I bend my legs and wipe the pieces of cut crass from the backs of my thighs and test my denim shorts to see how wet they are. Satisfied it won’t leave too much of a wet mark, I bring my arms around my knees and balance my camera on top, flipping open the viewfinder and zooming in as tight as I can. At first, I can’t see much—the light too little—but as the action comes closer, my camera takes more in, and when the boys are yards away from me, I can clearly make out their faces.

Nico’s friend—the talkative one—waves at me, but I don’t wave back. I’m not part of the story. I hold my camera on him until I’m forgotten again, and the plays become all that matter. There are only eight of them down there, enough to play a small pickup game, to pass and run, but the longer I watch, the more I realize how very little Nico needs. He moves like Noah. His feet fall back naturally, and he glides out of the reach of his friend who dives at him, shaking off a tackle with no help from pads or a uniform. When his friend comes at him again, he shirks him off once more, twisting and sprinting to the opposite side, giving his receiver enough time to make it to the corner of their makeshift end zone marked with discarded shirts, skateboards, bikes and hats.

I watch through the safety of my camera lens, his arm coming back, his bicep coiling, his arm strong as it rushes forward, sending the ball racing into his receiver’s waiting hands. I don’t even notice I’m standing at first, but when I do, I stay on my feet, watching these eight boys celebrate together in a way that seems so much more important than what happens behind me. Under the lights, where a band plays and thousands cheer, hands get slapped and choreographed routines play out for attention while wealthy people keep tabs for bragging rights at weekend parties. Here, in the dark and forgotten field in a game that doesn’t matter to anyone, something beautiful plays out.

Brotherhood. Honor. Tradition.

“You decide to cover the real story there, baby girl?”

Before I can stick up for myself, Nico slaps his friend in the chest, the smack knocking air from his lungs.

“Fuck, man,” he coughs out.

“That’s quite an arm you have,” I say, deciding to ignore his friend.

“Thanks,” Nico says, stepping closer to me. I press the STOP button on my camera and let it fall to my side, but not before Nico notices. He bends down to lift a nearby gallon of water from the ground, bringing it to his lips and tipping it back, guzzling until almost half of it is gone.

“So what kind of camera is this? Like a DSLR or whatever?” His friend is trying to be nice, so I indulge him, even though he has no idea what kind of camera I’m using.

“It’s just a high-def handheld. It’s easier to maneuver it, when you want to get action shots,” I say, lifting it so he can see it more closely. He takes it in his hands, holding it with one while he pulls his hat from his head and runs his arm over his forehead, smoothing out his damp hair.

“Action shots, huh? You shoot a lot of porn?” he says, unable to get his jab out without laughing halfway through. Nico smacks him in the chest again, and I can’t help but smile.

“Nobody wants to see a porn starring you, Sasha,” Nico says, taking the camera from his friend’s hand and returning it to me.

“I meant her, Nic…” Sasha says, stopping before finishing when Nico shoots him a warning glance.

“My boy’s an * sometimes, but it’s only because he isn’t around girls a lot,” Nico says, and his friends join in laughing while Sasha flips them off.

My fingers are tingling, so I busy them by opening and closing the lens on the camera, while Nico’s friends all catch their breath and begin gathering their things from the field. Nico stays near me, and the longer we stand in silence, the stronger the urge is in me to fill the quiet.

“I’m making a film for my application to Prestige,” I say, tucking my lip in between my teeth while my fingers flip the camera lens even faster. I don’t know why I thought Nico was interested, and the longer it takes him to respond, the more desperate I am to escape this small dark patch of grass. I long for the press box, for the bleachers, for my mother’s circle of friends. The game clock has started again, and my mind is actively searching for the right words to say goodbye, to leave without making it worse, to not be a complete ass.

“Like a documentary? On what? The team?” His questions come several seconds later, and I trip over my feet a little at the sound of his voice. He grabs my elbow, steadying me as we walk the few steps up the slant of the hill.

I hold my camera in one hand and pull the long, blonde braid around one side of my body so I can hook the strap over my other arm. Nico’s eyes watch my hands, and my stomach rushes with a strange feeling that comes over me even more when his eyes snap to mine, catching me looking at him. I look down right away.

“It’s on the team…sort of,” I say, shaking my head and wondering how much sharing is too much. I don’t know Nico well, and I don’t really like him, but there’s this odd, overwhelming desire pushing at my chest right now to tell him things.

“Is it on your brother?” he asks, and I flinch at how remarkably close to home his question hits. He grins, recognizing my tell, and I deflate seeing him look satisfied.