The Hard Count (20 page)

* * *

T
he Tradition wins
twenty-eight to twenty-one, and Nico ends up playing both ways for several plays. Another interception from Sasha helps tie the game, then Nico runs in the final play with a few minutes left on the clock. Our defense holds them to win.

The walk to the bus is quiet. I film it, but stop, because it makes me sad. We just won a tough game, and nobody is celebrating. They aren’t celebrating because their egos are mad about petty shit that doesn’t matter. I don’t even know
why
half of them have decided to work against Nico, but I know the reason can’t possibly be rational. It’s spiteful, and it’s built up on rumors and lies, I’m sure.

Near the end of the bus, I hear a woman squeal a happy sound, so I turn and see Nico being embraced by his mother, Alyssa wrapped around his leg. A man who looks a lot like him, only many years older, stands with his hand on Nico’s shoulder, facing him and nodding silently. Nico glances in my direction, and I smile, lifting my hand for a subtle wave. I didn’t want to interrupt his family, but he jogs over to me, gripping my hand in his and urging me toward them.

“I want you to meet my Uncle Danny,” he says, grinning at me bashfully, looking up at me from the side then back down at his feet. I notice his mom spot our hands as we walk up, and she pinches her lips into a tight smile, raising her eyebrows at her son.

“Danny, this is the girl I was telling you about. This is Reagan,” Nico says.

My insides drop and my head feels light hearing him admit to talking about me to a man I know he admires. I turn to Nico, who’s once again looking at his feet, then give my attention to his uncle, reaching out to take his hand.

“It is so nice to meet you,” I say.

“The pleasure is mine, Reagan,” Danny says, covering the top of my hand with his other. He squeezes once, then lets my hand go, pushing his own into his pockets, just like his nephew always does.

“Some game, huh?” I say, and Nico laughs once next to me, lifting his head to look at the bus, and the few players still walking up from the field. He shakes his head and breathes in deeply, so I brush my arm into his to let him know I understand.

“It sure was,” Danny says. “I never thought I’d see this kid play again. He was always the best player on our team. Thank you for getting him back out there.”

“Oh, I don’t think I did anything,” I say.

“That’s not what I hear?” Danny says with a wink.

“I gotta go. I’ll see you at home, Mom,” Nico says, cutting the conversation short. My face is burning at his uncle’s teasing, and I’m sure his is worse.

“Thanks for inviting me out, Nico. I’ll head over to Cornwall next week. I want to see you take that field,” his uncle says, pulling Nico under his arm. They break apart and tap their knuckles, and Nico glances to me briefly, showing a hint of his embarrassment as he turns to head to the steps for the bus. I catch my father waiting for him at the entry, his eyes moving to me after Nico passes by. I raise a hand to wave, but my father ignores it, getting on the bus with his team.

“I have to drive back, too. It was really nice meeting you,” I say, shaking Danny’s hand again, then moving on to Nico’s mom. She pulls me in surprisingly for a hug, tilting my face and kissing my cheek, and I smile at her gesture.

I feel warm and loved all the way to my car, and I drive home in silence, not wanting even my favorite music to break my momentary bliss. It all ends the second I pull into the school lot, the bus arriving right before me, and Sasha and Travis shoving one another under the orange glow of the parking lights.

More players tag along, and pretty soon, fists are flying and blood is spilling. I catch Noah standing near the exit of the bus, and I walk over to him.

“What’s happening?” I say, my head shaking while the coaches all struggle to stop one brawl while another starts.

“They’re falling apart,” Noah says. I nod to agree with him, but when I look to his face, I see the smile spreading along his lips.

“Noah!” I shout.

He flits his eyes to me, but doesn’t try to mask his expression.

“He shouldn’t have played tonight, Reagan. Quit trying to act like he’s so perfect. He ditched school today. I told Coach O’Donahue. Dad’s the only one that wanted to start him…”

“You told Coach O’Donahue? Are you insane?” I interrupt, my face falling at my brother’s confession.

“They wouldn’t have played me,” he says.

“You don’t know that. You don’t know why Nico was missing today. Jesus, Noah. Are you trying to get Dad fired? You can’t play, so what…Dad should lose his job, too?” I’m shouting, but the words seem to run right through my brother. He shakes my temper off and pushes forward on his crutches, moving to a few of the players on the other side of the crowd.

The buzzing sound is loud and impossible to ignore. It blares three or four times until everyone turns to see my dad standing in the center of the fight, a bullhorn in his hands, his finger pressing on a red button. He holds it the final time for several seconds, the shrill sound echoing off the bus, school, and neighboring houses.

Eventually, fists stop and bodies shift, every player and coach standing to face my dad, even the ones who I know aren’t in his corner.

My dad spins in a slow circle, looking every single person in the eyes, including me.

“I have coached for two decades. I’ve assisted before this, and I sat there on the sidelines, like many of you, on a team that had a lot of integrity and reputation for greatness. I wore Crimson in Alabama, and I wore blue and gold here. I understood what an honor it was just to put on that goddamned uniform every Friday or Saturday night.”

My father’s nostrils flare with his breath, and I can feel him struggling to remain composed—as much as he can—in the middle of his team’s self-destruction.

“What did I tell you at halftime?”

It’s silent, and my dad waits for almost a full minute before someone finally steps forward to speak. When I realize it’s Travis, I hold my breath, worried that he’s only going to make this worse.

“You said nobody’s job out here was guaranteed, sir,” Travis says.

“Damn right,” my father responds, loud and quick.

He begins to pace, and I lean against the bus, my eyes moving from him to Nico, who is watching my father quietly and respectfully. His face is bruised, and he is finally showing the wear from tonight’s game.

“Monday, we begin again. We…start over. I’m going to post a list. If you’re on that list, then you are on the team. The rest of you better show up ready to try out. Nobody is guaranteed, and I don’t give two shits who your dad or uncle is!” My father shouts his ultimatum, and a few of the coaches flinch at his choice of words. Jimmy O’Donahue snickers to himself and looks away.

“I suppose Nico gets to be on that list?” Travis says, stepping forward more, backing up his opinion. I think he was expecting others to join him, and when they don’t, he starts to sway on his feet and look around.

“You all can probably guess the few names that will be on that list. And if you think they’re going to be there, then guess what?” My dad stares into Travis’s eyes, moving closer until there are only inches between them. “That means
you
know who’s really playing with their heart and who’s doggin’ it. Quit pretending you don’t. And quit being an embarrassment to this program. You embarrass me, your parents, and yourselves.”

My dad holds Travis’s gaze until my brother’s best friend blinks and his eyes fall down to his feet. He knows my dad’s right, and he knows he’s acting like a child. I don’t know why he’s taking over for acting out on my brother’s aggression, but it’s not winning him any points in anyone’s eyes but Noah’s.

“I don’t want to be on that list,” Nico says, breaking the silence. Heads shift and my father turns to look at him quickly, his brow pulled in. Nico steps forward. “That’s part of the problem, Coach. I know you mean to reward hard work, but that’s just not how it comes across.”

Nico turns to look down the line of players, most of them the guys who gave up on him tonight and let him struggle.

“You all think I’m getting some sort of special treatment. I’m not stupid. I hear the shit you say—sorry Coach, no disrespect with the language,” Nico says quickly, holding up his hand. “I hear you, though. I know I’m the scholarship kid. I know that Sasha and I, and maybe Jason and Malachi over there, are the only people with brown skin on this damned team. We feel it. You don’t have to say anything guys, if you don’t want to, but you know…you
all
know. We feel it. You whisper about it, even when you don’t think you are. We must be getting favors. We must be here to make sure Cornwall isn’t
too white.
Why the hell couldn’t it be because…we’re good. Maybe we’re just…good.”

Nobody speaks. Mouths are shut, and consciences are evaluating the words Nico just said. He isn’t wrong, and even though I feel some of the guys wanting to protest, they won’t—they can’t. They would be liars.

“So keep me off that list. I’m going to earn my way just like the rest of you. But you better be willing to prove your skills, because I’m done holding back, and I’m done not beating other teams by thirty or forty points,” Nico says, turning so he faces Travis, stepping forward until they stand only feet apart. “And I’m done pretending I don’t hear the things you say.”

Travis swallows, his eyes meeting Nico’s. The standoff is short, and it ends in Travis giving Nico a slight nod, a silent pact between the two of them.

I wait by the bus, watching as the team slowly breaks away, some not even bothering to head to the locker room at all. My brother walks away with Travis, but the bond that was there for years feels different between them. When Noah starts to talk, Travis doesn’t engage. That might change the minute they get in the car and drive home, but the fact that Nico put those thoughts out there in the open has done something to everyone—even my dad.

After several minutes, I’m standing in the parking lot alone. My father’s car is the last one besides mine in the lot. Nico left with Sasha, not bothering to stop to talk to me. I didn’t expect him to, but I felt slighted somehow still. Izzy tried to talk me into going to Charlie’s, mostly because she likes drama and wants to see how many people still decide to show up.

I want to go home, and maybe for the same reason Izzy wants to go to the ice cream shop. I want to see how tonight affected my mom. I want to see if Travis drove home, and if my brother and he parted ways. I want to ask my brother what he was thinking. I want to shake him, and scream at him.

I want him to apologize to me—for being a goddamned asshole!

And I want the adults to quit plotting for ways to take my father down. They’re not so different from the students, and Nico said it all. I hear them, too. They think I can’t…they think my mom can’t. We all hear them.

The streets are quiet on the way home, and I purposely don’t drive near Charlie’s, so I’m not tempted to stop. I head directly home, pulling into my driveway, feeling a sense of comfort when I see Travis’s Jeep in his driveway. My mom’s car is still not home, though, and when I unlock the front door, the house is quiet and dark. My brother’s door is wide open, his lights off, and his bed the same unkempt mess it’s been for days.

His leg may heal soon, but the rest of him—the other parts he’s slowly destroying—I don’t hold out much hope.

“
M
om
? I can’t find my nice shoes!”

On my knees, I burrow into my closet, tossing loose clothing from the floor. It’s picture day at school, and I have one pair of nice shoes—the ones I wear to church.

Church!

I leap to my feet, remembering taking my shoes off on Sunday on the ride home. I’m sure they’re still in the back seat. I sprint down the hallway, sliding in my socks. I stop hard when I see Vincent standing in the front doorway, close to Momma.

“Vincent!” I shout, running to my brother.

“Shhhh,” my mom says, twisting to face me with a finger over her lips. She’s holding a tiny baby, bouncing lightly, and there are tears in her eyes.

Whose baby is this?

“Nico? I’d like you to meet your niece…Alyssa,” Momma says.

I step closer to see the tiniest person I’ve ever seen. She’s wrapped in a pink blanket, her mouth moving like a fish’s, her hand struggling to pull loose from the blanket.

“She’s hungry,” Momma says. She looks up at Vincent. “Do you have a bottle for her?”

My brother is shaking. He balls his fists and pushes them into his eyes.

“I don’t know. I…I don’t know how to do any of this. And she just left. This morning, I got up, and she was gone. And I don’t know how to do any of this,” Vincent says.

He lets his hands fall and his eyes dart from me to our mom to the tiny baby, and his chest begins to shake. My brother starts to cry, and he covers his mouth with his hand while our mom bounces the baby lightly and whispers softly in the tiny girl’s face.

“It’s okay, isn’t it Alyssa?” she says.

The baby…my niece…starts to make more noise, almost like hard hiccups. And in a second, her face turns red and her lips curl down as she begins to cry.

“Vincent, bring the bag. I’ll show you,” my mom says.

She carries the baby into the kitchen and tells my brother to sit in a chair. She hands him the baby—his baby—and he holds her close to his chest, his eyes almost frozen open. The little girl looks so breakable in his giant arms and against his chest. His arms are covered in grease marks, and the number tattoos he had before are marked over with designs and pictures.

“What happened to those?” I ask.

My brother glances to me quickly, then looks back at his child. My mom begins shaking a bottle, spilling a small amount on her arm. She wipes the drops off on the front of her shirt then hands the bottle to my brother, guiding his hand as they both work the tiny tip into Alyssa’s mouth. She starts to suck on it instantly, her cheeks pushing in and out, and the look of it makes me giggle.

“It’s pretty cute when she eats, isn’t it, Nico?” my mom says.

“Yeah,” I say, dragging my chair closer so I can watch.

We’re all silent for more than a minute, and then Alyssa makes a suckling sound that makes me laugh again. Vincent laughs with me, and he looks up, into my eyes.

“She’s amazing,” he says.

“I love her,” I say, bending forward and pressing my lips on her tiny warm forehead.

“I love her, too,” my brother says, his eyes back on his daughter.

“We’ll figure this out, Mijo. Come home,” my mom says.

My brother watches Alyssa in his arms, adjusting his feet under the chair and moving her even closer to his body. He nods.

“Okay,” he says. “Okay.”