The Hard Count(83)

18





We pull onto my street with exactly eight minutes to spare. I think Nico was watching the clock all along to be sure he delivered me home early. He confirms my suspicion when his car clears over the hump of the curb and he shifts it into park, turning to me and says, “Brownie points.”

My smile meets his, and for a moment, we sit in the quiet of my driveway staring at one another—nothing but a night full of football, dancing, and kisses between us. Tonight…it was a perfect fairy tale. But all tales have villains. Ours is ruined the moment my eyes realize the other cars in our driveway—two parked on the street. The cars…they’re familiar.

“Did your parents have a party or something?” Nico asks, twisting in his seat and looking around us.

“It’s the board,” I say.

I slump back into my seat. I don’t want to go inside, because I know.

I know.

“Like, for Cornwall?”

Nico still pivots where he sits, glancing from the two cars in front of us to the few parked near my favorite tree. I take in a deep breath, and as I exhale, I let my eyes fall shut, remembering all that was good tonight—before everything fell apart.

“Why would they be here?” Nico asks. I open my eyes on him, the wrinkle of confusion set deep in his brow.

“You have the fifty-seven…we live with the board,” I say, and his head cocks to the side. I watch as realization washes over him, his expression shifting from confusion to understanding in a breath, his eyes moving toward defiant.

“Why would they want to meet with your dad now?” Nico says, his hand on his door. He’s out of the car before I can answer, running to my side to open my door for me.

“I don’t know,” I say, even though in the pit of my stomach, I have a suspicion. The board doesn’t make house calls unless they want to take care of something they perceive as a problem. Noah’s indiscretions perhaps. My mom has already been let go of her post. The only other thing would be my father.

Nico grips my hand as I step up from the car, and we take a few steps toward my front door just as it swings open. Men and women—all dressed as if they’re heading to Sunday school—spill from my home. A few of them laugh together, as if they’ve just left a business retreat and are excited to be heading to the bar. The others behind them have more somber faces. I recognize Thomas Loftgrin, my brother’s now ex-girlfriend’s father; he makes eye contact with me.

I know.

Nico steps to the side while nearly a dozen people leave my home, and as they head to their cars, we look toward the open front door they left behind. My parents didn’t see them out.

I swallow as we walk up to the house, and when we step inside, my mom is standing behind her sitting-chair by the fireplace, her hands on the high back as if she’s using it to protect herself from something bad. My dad sits across from her, his head in his hands, elbows on his knees. He’s still wearing his deep-blue polo short, still tucked in to his khaki pants, his belt still tight. I bet he had just gotten home from reviewing the game, from talking with his coaching staff.

I bet they were here, waiting for him.

My mom’s mouth falls open, and she begins to greet Nico and me, but her words never come. She pulls her mouth into a fake, tight smile, tears threatening to fall from her eyes. She’s trembling, and I know she is near falling apart.

“Dad?” I ask, needing someone to confirm it—to say it out loud.

He lifts his head from his hands, his face serious, his eyes narrow and angry. Chad Prescott doesn’t get emotional, but he does get pissed. Whatever this is, it’s moved beyond that.

My dad’s eyes meet mine, and he works his lips, sucking in the top one and letting it go with a slow nod.

“It’s done,” he says.

My mom gasps and covers her mouth.

“What’s done?” Nico asks.

Shifting his focus to his young quarterback, my dad stares at Nico hard. He doesn’t blink and he doesn’t speak.

“Coach, what…what happened here?” Nico asks.

My dad’s head falls slightly to the side as he exhales through his nose, his mouth still a hard line.

“It isn’t Coach anymore, Nico. On Monday, you’ll be playing for Jimmy O’Donahue. Don’t worry, though. You…you’ll be all right,” my father says.

Nico’s feet shift where he stands, and his hand grips mine harder.

“I don’t understand. We…we won. We’re winning,” Nico says.

“It wasn’t going to matter, Nico. This…it isn’t your fault,” my dad says.

“It’s nobody’s fault,” my mom pipes in, her words coming out raw, through a stifled cry. “And it isn’t fair. I hate this place! I hate their rules! You lose once…once! They hold it against you forever. I…I need to go talk to Noah.”

“Noah was here?” I ask, my mom holds up a hand, covering her mouth with the other one as she excuses herself down the hallway. I turn my attention back to the room.

“He was. He had just come in, left the dance early—just like we asked him to. He pulled up right before Jimmy,” my dad says, shaking his head as his eyes move toward the still-open door. My father stands and walks toward us, continuing on to the door so he can push it closed. As soon as it clicks in place, his fist comes down against the panels hard, rattling the door, frame, and wall that surround it. “Those goddamned *s!”