The Hard Count(84)

I move my touch to Nico’s arm, gripping it and holding him close to me, but he pulls loose, looking at me and holding up a finger. Nico walks to my father and puts his hand on my dad’s shoulder, and that small touch pushes my father over the edge, his head falling forward into his palm, his body sinking into the door before silently quaking. Nico leans into him, resting his forehead on the place where his hand rests on my father, and I stand alone, watching.

“I’ll quit sir,” Nico says.

My dad straightens instantly, turning to face Nico as he runs his thumbs under his damp eyes.

“No,” my dad says, shaking his head. “No. Absolutely no, you will not.”

“I won’t play for someone else,” Nico says.

My father takes in a deep breath, his eyes at Nico’s feet at first, then gliding up to look his prodigy in the eyes. My dad lifts his hand and rests it on Nico’s shoulder, squeezing and forcing a hint of a smile to cross his lips.

“Nico, you play for you. You…you have never played for anyone but you. And…Jesus Christ, son, you frustrate me. Frustrated me, but hell if it didn’t work. It was the right way to coach you. To let you fly. You play for you, and you will continue to play for you. You’ve got six games—six! You win that championship, and you go play for some big school that you deserve. And then you give those f*ckers the middle finger, because they’ll still be right here. Without you, Nico? They’ve got nothin’.”

Nico’s silent, and I can read him more than I’ve ever been able to before. His jaw works, and his brow pulls in as he stares at my father, breathing in and out through his nose until he finally nods.

“I’ll play, Coach. But I can’t be quiet out there. I can’t just pretend any of this is okay. I’ll play, but I won’t keep my mouth shut,” he says.

“I wouldn’t expect you to, son. I wouldn’t expect you to,” my dad says, his mouth curving a hint more, this smile born from pride.

My father’s eyes move to me, and he holds them there for a beat before they drift back to the ground, his hand falling limp at his side.

“Reagan, go check on your mom and brother, would you? I’m…” he chuckles. “I’m going to go have a drink. A hard one. A few hard ones.”

“Dad,” I start, but he holds up a hand.

“Alone,” he says. “I’m all right, and I’ll figure this out, but right now, I just need to go be mad as hell, all right?”

I pull my lips in tight and my eyes flit to Nico. He nods to me, but I can tell from his face that he’s still processing, too.

“All right,” I say.

My dad moves into the kitchen, and I hear the back sliding door open and close a second or two later. He likes to sit at the edge of our property, where it’s dark and he can hide. It’s where he goes when he loses, usually. At least, after he’s done stewing in his office…which…isn’t his office anymore.

I’m hit with dozens of tiny realizations. My dad’s office, his job, his life and identity—gone. I turn to Nico, and he steps toward me, pulling me in his arms and pressing his lips on the top of my head. He’s still dressed in his perfect shirt, his collar loosened, but only a little, his tie the same. I hold it in my hand, righting the knot to face the front.

“I’m going to go talk to Noah. You…you don’t have to stay. Really, it’s…”

“I want to,” Nico says, cutting me off. His eyes level me, and I breathe in and out hard.

“I can’t believe they fired him,” I say.

Nico shakes his head, his gaze never leaving mine alone.

I lead him down the hallway, and we step cautiously through my brother’s doorway. He’s sitting on the edge of his bed, his leg out in front of him, his crutches on the floor. My mom is sitting next to him rubbing circles in his back. He’s twice her size, yet she’s still Mom, and he’s still a little boy, all of eighteen.

His head is in his hands, his fingers pushing deep into his forehead. My mom steps up, running her thumbs under her eyes as she stands.

“Where’s your dad?” she asks. Noah looks up, his eyes taking in me and Nico.

“He’s in his spot,” I say, looking from her to my brother.

She nods, then steps past me.

“I’ll go join him,” she says.

“He said he wants to be alone,” I say as she leaves the room.

“He always says that. Stubborn man has been wanting to be alone for years,” she says, her voice trailing off. I hear her open the fridge in the distance, the sound of a bottle clanking into glass, and I chuckle.

“Back to the wine, it seems,” my brother says. I look him in the eyes and offer a pathetic smile. “I ruined her pot access,” he chuckles.

I move to sit next to him, and we both lean forward with our elbows on our hands. We used to sit like this when we were kids and both were in trouble. I can remember every time—the spaghetti we stuck on the ceiling…the Kool-Aid we poured on the white carpet…the dog we tried to keep hidden in Noah’s closet…the party we tried to throw our sophomore year.

“I won homecoming king,” Noah says, reaching toward his pillow. He picks up a plastic crown and tosses it to Nico. “Here you go, man.”

Nico rolls it in his hands and lifts a brow at my brother.