The Hard Count (8 page)

Nico must have asked. My dad must really want Nico to feel comfortable.

The circle of wants, needs, and punishment is in full effect as Sasha’s heavy feet clunk down the bleachers next to me. The team is on the opposite end of the field, and it’s clear—even from where I sit—that they’re a squad divided. Nico’s half is smaller. It isn’t even a half. It’s…maybe six or seven guys.

“So how long do you think your dad will make me do this shit?”

Sasha’s steps slow completely, and I turn just in time to see him taking a seat behind me.

“Probably a lot longer if he sees you taking a break,” I say, craning my neck to look over my shoulder.

Sasha’s eyes meet mine, and he smiles on one side of his mouth, running his arm over his forehead, clearing it of sweat.

“You’re lucky you’re not in full pads doing this,” I say, just as he dips his head. He pauses and tilts his chin up enough to look me in the eyes. I nod to confirm I’m not kidding.

Sasha rolls his eyes along with his shoulders, adjusting his position and sinking more into the bleachers as he leans to one side and spits through the small opening to his left.

“Why are you even doing this?”

He doesn’t look at me when I ask, his focus on the loose drawstring dangling from the waistband of his gray practice pants. He tugs the string between his thumb and forefinger, pushing the end in the elastic. When his face comes up, he looks beyond me, out to the field. Leaning to his side again, squinting, he holds his finger out straight and points.

“That’s my boy, right there. He’s never quit on me. Not once.” His gaze shifts to mine, his expression tired but hard—determined. “He asked me to be here. So I’m here.”

I look from Sasha back out to the field, where my father is talking to Nico.

“You better get up, then, before my dad sees you,” I say.

When I turn around, Sasha’s already five steps up and climbing again. His pace is steady, and his legs look exhausted. But he’s not quitting.

Sasha runs the entire practice. My dad calls him out to the center of the field when he dismisses everyone else, but Nico stays behind, walking over to me. I don’t shut my camera off, and he’s quiet when he sits next to me. We don’t say a word as we watch my father speak with his best friend—both of them standing closed-off, their arms crossed over their chests. When my dad moves his hands to his hips finally, I hear Nico breathe in deeply. He doesn’t exhale until his friend reaches a hand forward and shakes my father’s.

I shut the camera off when they both walk out of the view from my frame, and as I’m packing up, Sasha and my dad are both at the bottom of the bleachers.

“We good?” Nico says, his feet tucked underneath the bleacher seat, and his hands gripping the metal front as he leans forward to make eye contact with his friend.

Sasha nods.

“Yeah, we all good,” he says.

My dad twists the leather band of his watch on his wrist, repositioning it and checking the time. The sky is transitioning from orange to violet behind him. “I’ll see you at home,” he says, his eyebrows raised just a hint. I’m sure only I would notice the difference in his expression, but I know my dad means it’s time for me to quit hanging out at dusk with two boys on the bleachers—two boys he’s called
at-risk
at least a dozen times at home.

He’s being protective. It’s sweet. But it’s also…I don’t know...something more. I kind of want to stay. Maybe I feel like I owe it to Nico, because he walked over here to sit by me
.
I would be abandoning him. And maybe I want him
and
Sasha to think that I’m better than the eighty percent of the football team who doesn’t seem to be on board with the idea of Nico taking the lead.

“I won’t be far behind,” I say to my dad, and the way his eyes level on mine, I get the subtle warning and nonverbal translation. I may be eighteen, but there will always be a curfew for me when boys are involved.

“A’right then,” he says, pulling a pack of gum from his pocket and unwrapping a single piece. He pushes it into his mouth, chewing vigorously, and I smirk because he’s being so very much a dad right now.

I watch my father walk around the end of the bleachers toward his office where, while I know he said he’d see me at home, I suspect he will be for the next several hours reviewing plays and thinking about how his offense
could
run if he really goes through with this.

When I turn back, Sasha has climbed the steps to sit on the rail near us. He pulls the tape from his ankles and balls it up, throwing it in the trash while he and Nico talk about meeting up with Colton.

“Dude, I need to get my ass home. My mom’s already pissed that I’m getting a
C
in Government,” Sasha says.

“That’s because you keep
skipping,”
Nico says, tilting his head toward his friend.

“Yo, I do. And it’s worth it every time. Damn Brittany Shafer! Fuck, man…that girl is so fine,” Sasha says as he brings his knuckles up to his mouth, biting them to show exactly how
fine
he thinks Brittany is.

“Pssshhh, dude, don’t be like that in front of Reagan,” Nico says, which only makes Sasha roll his eyes.

The entire exchange makes me suddenly aware of every inch of my skin, and I push my feet farther under my seat, tucking my hands under my thighs and looking down to notice the goosebumps raised on my pale white and freckled skin.

“No, it’s fine. I get it. Brittany’s pretty fine. I’m with him on this one,” I say, mostly to deflect.

Sasha begins laughing instantly, holding his palm out for me to slap. I do, and as lame as my attempt to fit in probably is, it feels good to do this stupid little thing with him.

“Hey, just go with her,” Sasha says when he leans back on the railing. “Reagan, you’ve got your car here, right? Can you take my boy to Charlie’s?”

My mouth feels dry and fat all at once, but I manage to mutter out a “Sure.”

At some point, Sasha tells me I’m, “Awesome,” and we slap hands again, this time my palm numb and my head spinning, trying to figure out what I just agreed to. The longer it takes Sasha to leave, the more I realize that I’m going somewhere with Nico, together, and I start to work out the excuses in my head. I’ll need to get him home, because that wouldn’t be cool. But I could do that; take him home? I know my way in and out of West End now, and I could go now, and still get home way before my dad does, and nobody would need to know any of it…

“You don’t have to go. Really. I can walk,” Nico says, already standing and slinging the small gym bag, that I know is only a fraction of his things, over his shoulder.

“Oh…no, really. I don’t mind. I was just going to go home, and I don’t really have anything to do,” I say, suddenly overwhelmed with the need to erase any evidence that excuses were ever floating through my mind. I stand nervously, and my bag tumbles open at my feet, my camera and several memory cards spilling out along the grated metal landing.

“Here,” Nico says, dropping his bag and helping me pick up my pieces quickly. My heart is racing ridiculously, and my fingers can’t seem to work right to flip open my camera and test it. Nico notices, and when his hands cover mine, squeezing them to calm down, it has the opposite effect, and everything starts to feel faster—the world brighter, my legs wobblier.

“I’m sorry, I…” I don’t finish, instead just sitting down and giving over my camera to his steadier hands. I tuck my nervous ones back under my thighs and suck in both my top and bottom lip to quell my anxiety while my inner voice prays that my camera isn’t broken.

Nico kneels in front of me, his lip raised without laughing, and his able fingers flip open my view screen easily. He doesn’t know where the power button is, so I reach forward to show him, my hand still trembling with the jolt of adrenaline, and he nods. I pull my hands back in, this time pushing a few of the nails on the edge of my teeth. It’s a bad habit, and it’s the reason I don’t have long, pretty fingernails. It’s also the reason I can type wicked fast, though.

“Am I supposed to see you through this thing,” Nico says, holding the camera up to face me. He stands when I reach for it, and then holds his arm out to stop me when I stretch forward again. “Oh no, it’s your turn. Tell us, Miss Prescott. The academy wants to know why film is so important to you.”

“Oh my God, stop. I don’t like being on camera,” I say through nervous laughter. My hand finally snares the sleeve of Nico’s jersey, and he brings his left hand down, gripping mine tightly while he holds the camera steady on me with his right. “Nico, I’m serious!”

I
am
serious, but I’m also laughing hysterically, and I’m holding his hand…or rather, tug-of-warring with his hand. I battle with him, squealing and using my other palm to block my face when I finally give in and sigh, folding my arms over my chest before pushing my now-tangled hair out of my face, blowing the final strand out of my eyes before pursing my lips in the best pout-face I can make.

Nico keeps the camera on me for a few seconds, his face hidden behind it as his laughter subsides, until he lets it slide a few inches down, still recording though he’s no longer viewing. His smile is sweet and simple, no dimple or bragger’s rights painted on his expression. It makes my breath stop, but I hold my pose, praying I can bluff my way through this without giving anything away—without him realizing exactly what that look does…to me.

The heavy locker room door slams in the distance, and it breaks the strangeness we were both just living in. Nico looks down at the camera he’s holding, turning it off and flipping the view screen back in its place. He puts it in my bag, zipping it and handing it to me. I clutch it tightly this time, and I stand as he takes a few paces back to his own bag.

“Really, I can walk,” he says, looking up at me sideways as he lifts his bag back up to his arm.

I give myself exactly three seconds to consider my options, and I
do
consider them. I could go home, where my mom is sleeping thanks to her heavy prescription and my brother is locked in his room, pretending that he isn’t feeling the pangs of disappointment. I could wait for my dad, like I usually do, only to have a short conversation with him in front of the refrigerator while he kicks off his shoes and drinks milk from the carton. Or I could take Nico to Charlie’s Custard, and take him home when he’s done, and maybe help him find a way to convince people other than my dad, Sasha, and Colton that he’s just as good at leading as Noah.

He’s better.

“I swear I really don’t have anything to do. And I’d…” I stop for a breath. This part wasn’t planned. “I’d like to come.”

His lip ticks up as he winks, and there’s absolutely nothing cocky or arrogant about it. His eyes avert, and his cheeks are either red on their own or the setting sun is painting them. Either way, he can’t look at me when he says, “Thanks.”

And I can’t look at him while we both walk along the main path between the locker rooms and the parking lot.

“I’ll wait for you at my car. It’s the gray one with…”

“I know your car, Reagan. Remember, you stalked me at my house?”

The flush happens quick, and I crinkle my eyes and nose when I look at him guiltily.

“Maybe that was my stakeout car,” I say, just needing to make this less about how odd I am and more about how clever and funny I am.

“Okay,” he laughs, holding up a thumb as he turns toward the locker room, leaving me and my
oh-so-clever
self to walk toward my gray car. That is
not
a stakeout car; that he already knows, so I can spend a few more hours trying my damnedest not to superimpose scenes from my dream into every real-life moment I’m with him.

I march to my car, my feet picking up speed the closer I get, and I’m almost walk-jogging by the time I grab the handle and the sensors unlock, letting me in.

“Reagan Prescott, you should have said
no
,” I say to myself in the safety of my two-door sedan. I let that thought sink in, but it’s quickly clear that I don’t mean it. Flipping my visor down, I raise the mirror, turning on the light so I can wipe away the streaks of dark brown eyeliner smudged under my eyes. I run my fingers quickly through my knotty hair, scratching my fingertips along my scalp to give my hair some sort of body. I pull the long waves over one shoulder and rake my fingers through, combing as quickly as I can, checking around the visor constantly to see if Nico’s coming. As soon as I see the door open, I flip the visor up and pull the bottom of my plain, gray T-shirt up, rubbing it along my dry lips. I would give anything for a tube of ChapStick right now.

Nico walks toward me with his heavy bag from earlier on one shoulder, and the smaller duffle on the other. He changed into his faded jeans and a black T-shirt that has words on it that I would probably read if I weren’t so freaked out about being caught looking at his chest. My mind flips back and forth from wishing I’d said
no
to affirming that I can do this, be his friend, support him, not…freaking fantasize about him, and then he tugs on the door, opening it just enough to lean in, and all of my senses go numb.

He showered. Quickly. His hair is wet, and he smells like that kind of body wash that guys use when they want the hint of cologne without actually wearing it. And it works for him. Because all I can focus on in the immediate are the beads of water somehow still on his forearms, the way his hair slicks back except for that long part up front, and the way he freaking smells.

“Trunk?” he says, and I think he’s said the word twice. I don’t know, because I’m having a neurological response to his goddamned soap.

“Right, hang on,” I say, leaning down and pushing my teeth into my bottom lip hard enough to feel it, like pinching in a dream, though I doubt that really works.

I pull the lever for the trunk, and Nico drops his heaviest bag inside, closing it and coming back to his seat in seconds. As good as he smelled when he was outside, the effect is only multiplied by being enclosed in about one hundred cubic feet with him.

I flip the air on, despite the chill already brewing outside. Nico leans forward to press a few buttons on my stereo, and I fight my urge to be in control, wanting to be a good host—
not wanting to be a bitch
—when he stops on the jazz station. My brow pulls in quickly as he sits back, adjusting his seatbelt along his chest and relaxing into his seat, his arm resting along the base of his door and his fingers drumming to the beat.