The Hard Count(88)

“She did, huh?” my dad says, looking from me back to the metal steps where my mom climbs down and tugs down her shirt, straightening her sleeves and pants to make sure she looks as if nothing happened at all. Polished and perfect—the Lauren Prescott way.

Her eyes meet my father’s as she walks up to join us, and there’s a slight sway to her hips, her own feminine brand of swagger. Her lips are puckered in a smile, and I’m sure if she could get away with it at night, she’d slide her enormous round sunglasses on just to prove how little she’s bothered by everyone else right now. I know most of it is all an act, but the fact that my mother is finally acting like she doesn’t give a shit is downright refreshing.

“You have a little…something happen up there?” my father asks, his right brow about two inches higher than his left.

My mom’s lip ticks up to match it. She opens her mouth to speak, but stops at the cackling sound of the women walking down the steps a dozen feet behind us, one pulling a sweater out from her chest, some of the paint on her arms and hands.

“Those women are real bitches, Chad. What did I ever see in them?” she says, leaving her gaze on the ladies as they march to the center of the parking lot to the large Cadillac Escalade with a plate that reads JIMSGAL.

While my mother looks on, my dad’s eyes never leave his wife, his mouth curving up sinisterly. My mom looks back to catch his stare.

“What?” she says.

“Absolutely nothing,” my dad says slowly, shaking his head, stepping toward her and kissing her hard on the mouth, just like he did that morning in the kitchen.

In an instant, our attention is swung to the locker-room entrance on the other side of us. Valerie Medina has stopped Coach O’Donahue right outside the locker room. She timed it perfectly, letting all of the players filter in first and cutting him off just after his coaching staff stepped inside to safety. She isn’t touching him, but with the way he’s backed off into the dark corner, one would think she was wielding a sword and fists of fury.

“You will apologize sir, right now. You will apologize to me. To my family. And most importantly, you will apologize to my son. You do not touch him like that!”

We can only hear bits and pieces of her rampage, but that part rings out clear. My father hears and steps up to join her, crossing his arms just as her brother, Nico’s uncle, has, which only inflames Coach O’Donahue more.

“Oh, come on! What the hell…did you put her up to this, Prescott?” I hear him say as my dad moves in closer.

My father only shakes his head. I draw in when I see my brother walking out from the locker room along with Travis and Colton.

“Listen…ma’am,” Coach O’Donahue begins. His reference to her only makes her grow more stiff, and I can tell he’s not scoring any points.

“It’s clear you don’t understand how things work out here. This sport is a tough sport, and I need these young men to be able to stand up to a lot of things. Now, if he can’t handle me being tough with him, then maybe this team isn’t for your boy…”

The underlying smile as he speaks says volumes. Jimmy O’Donahue needs Nico Medina to be anywhere close to successful for the rest of the season. But if Nico quits? If his mom pulls him? Well, that’s out of his hands.

What he didn’t bargain on, however, was Valerie Medina’s spirt—and her coaching brother. And the rest of us, who remain here, all watching.

Valerie steps in close, her hair still flawless from her day at work, her blouse an exact match to her silky pants, her purse gripped tightly at the straps in her hand at her side. Her heels click against the concrete as she steps toward him, and she holds her finger in front of his face. Her words are so soft they’re kept between her and the coach who tried to strong-arm her son. But he never speaks back when she’s done. She backs away slowly, leaning in to say something to my dad, then turning to her brother and nodding for him to join her as they both move to the parking lot at a steady pace, her feet pounding into the ground with force in every step.

I move up and slide my hand under my dad’s arm; Jimmy O’Donahue cracks his neck, spits on the ground, and steps into the locker room barking at Travis and Colton, “Get your asses in there,” as the door closes behind him. The boys do, leaving my brother with me and my father.

“What did she say?” I ask my dad.

“She told him…he had a lot to learn about being a human, and that if he ever belittled her again—assuming she didn’t understand football or the law—she would have her brother shove a helmet on his head so she could jerk his neck around and see how he liked it,” my dad says, blinking, almost in amazement.

“Wow,” I say, the word slow and round as it escapes.

“Then she told him she planned on getting the game tape, and she’s still not sure if she wants to send it to the media or not,” my dad says.

His words spark my urgency in an instant. I squeeze his arm and dash off to the bleachers, rushing up the steps to the press box, tripping on the last few metal rows and racking my knee against the corner so hard that I’m sure it’s bleeding under my jeans. The press box door is still open, but the lights inside are off. I feel my way to the ladder and push up on the ceiling hatch to climb out onto the roof.

My camera is lying on its side, and I know before I even get to it that it’s likely turned off. I pull it into my hands and switch it on, then sink back, my body resting against the small half wall that lines the roof. The film was turned off after three minutes. I filmed nothing more than a few warm-ups. Those bastards thought of everything.