Authors: Ginger Scott
They just fight.
They battle until they close, and his eyes flit open to mine with a hard swallow, our fingers still feathers dancing and barely holding on.
“I’m scared of failing,” he says.
I can feel his fear—it radiates; it’s in his touch and reflected in the way his eyes tilt with worry. He doesn’t blink, and I hold his stare and force my eyes to remain open, too. I don’t want to breathe too hard. I don’t want to startle him. I want to give him what he needs.
Seconds pass, and every pass of his thumb and forefinger against mine pushes me forward, each press from one part of his hand on mine like a slow ballad being tapped out on a fragile piano. When his fingers stop moving, my breath hitches, and I react—clinging, my fingers wrapping around his, threading and squeezing tightly. The force is like when two magnets come together in just the right way, and I feel his arm grow stronger as mine falls apart, and when I can no longer squeeze and hold, he takes over—he takes my strength.
“You won’t fail,” I say, our eyes not once leaving one another, my hand now gripped in his between us. My mouth whimpers a sound that is part cry and part laugh, the product of all of my fears and reservations mixing with confidence in this boy who has invaded me without warning—without asking.
“You never do,” I say, the nerves that I’ve held in my chest pushing out, making my lips tremble with my words. I want my camera. I want the safety of living this part through the lens. I don’t want to be part of the story, but I am.
I’m a part of Nico’s story. And he’s a part of mine. I believe in him. More than I’ve believed in anything, and the enormity of it makes my chest hurt. I ache, and I want to escape, my fingers numbed by his tight hold, my face hot under the reflection of his rapidly-growing smile. His dimple. His confidence.
His power.
“Nico.”
The sound of his name. My father’s voice. Our hands drop, and when I shift to the side I see my father’s eyes down at the floor, his hands on his hips. I ball my fingers into a fist, savoring the feeling they had seconds ago, ashamed my dad caught us. Nico does the same, and when I see him flex his fingers, I worry he’s trying to rid himself of the memory.
“Sorry sir. I’ll be right there,” he says. My father nods, and Nico looks to me, mouthing “thanks” before jogging to the door held open by my father’s foot. My dad pushes it open wider as Nico jogs through, then catches it with his hand before it closes, his eyes coming to meet mine for only a beat.
My dad looks at me just long enough for me to know that he’s going to pretend he didn’t see us holding hands. He also looks at me in a way that lets me know he doesn’t approve. He’s gone behind the heavy blue door in a blink, and I open my hand wide again, brushing the tips of my fingers along the top of my other hand just to see if it feels anywhere close to the same.
It doesn’t.
Not even close.
T
he hype Nico
infused in the team at the pep rally carried through the third quarter of the game. I have never seen the team look so gelled, so together as one on the field—at least on offense. The score, unfortunately, also tells a story about our defense, and with about four minutes to go, The Tradition sits at forty-six, while St. Margaret’s Prep trails only by four.
I leave my camera posted on top of the press box and climb down the small set of steps to the bleachers, weaving through the crowd of students all standing with their arms raised—as they have for the last three minutes—until I get to the bottom, to Izzy. I just can’t handle watching the game alone any more. Even though I’m surrounded by coaches, it’s still lonely in the press box. And Coach O’Donahue has kept his mouth shut tight—I think inwardly rooting for Nico to fail. Every time I felt him make a wish for something to go wrong, I made two for something outstanding to happen. My wishes must carry more weight.
“Hold that line, Tradition! H-O-L-D!”
The cheer squad is shouting, and I can tell Izzy’s voice is hoarse. Even my best friend is more invested in this game than she’s ever been.
I sit on edge of the bleachers, poking my legs through the front by the railing and resting my arms on the bar in the middle. I’m just high enough to see the play on the field, and the pass from St. Margaret’s quarterback is almost caught, broken up in the last minute by Sasha. I scream when it works, bumping my elbows on the metal bars—forgetting where I am.
Nico is standing a few steps behind my father, his helmet on, but tipped so his face is exposed. He’s chewing on his mouthpiece nervously, his hands gripping at the pads by his neck while he sways with the countdown of the clock. On the far end of the field, near Travis, my brother is doing the same, his weight held by two crutches. They’re both almost in sync, the way they look to the clock, then to the field, over and over again as if they’re hoping to somehow speed it up.
I’m watching them when it happens, I don’t have to look at the field to know that St. Margaret’s completed a pass. Their faces both look pained, and the roar from the other side of the field grows until it absolutely swallows us whole—our fans falling silent.
“Block it, block it!”
The guys all shuffle down the field as St. Margaret’s sets up to kick the extra point. Arms waving as those not on the field leap—including Nico—as if somehow they can jump and make a difference from here.
They don’t. The ball sails through the uprights, and this game shifts into that precarious place with a minute and fifteen seconds on the clock. We can either win—or we lose or tie; despite those options, there’s really only one that anyone cares about at Cornwall. We win. Ties are losses. And no matter how great Nico was tonight, it won’t matter if that scoreboard doesn’t fall in our favor.
He’ll lose the starting position.
My father will lose control.
And we’ll all slip deeper into the cesspool of whispers and snide remarks when we run into families from the school off campus.
My father is holding Nico’s face close to his, his hands gripping both sides of his quarterback’s helmet, his jaw hard, veins exposed, his face red as he yells over the cacophony of screams, drums, and whistles from the refs who want to finish this game, and finish it now.
I can’t hear him, and I wish I could because not once did I ever see him talk to my brother this way. He isn’t mad. He’s passionate right now. He’s…begging. Willing Nico to go out there and give him one more miracle, on a night that he’s thrown for three hundred yards.
Nico jogs out to the guys waiting in the huddle, and the cheering around me grows even louder. My brother looks on, standing alone, at least a dozen feet away from the rest of the team. My heart breaks for him because he’s helpless. All he can do is watch. All any of us can do is watch.
Nico’s hands gesture, moving to both ends of the field, up the middle, then coming to the center of the huddle in fists. He looks each of his teammates in the eyes, then, hands in the center, they all chant “break.” The Tradition all filter to their positions, Sasha and Travis both lining up on the far right side of the field. They are the speed, and if we have any shot at all, Nico is going to need to hit one of them.
Nico begins to shout, raising his knee once on the count. He repeats everything again, his eyes on his opponents, assessing them and every tiny move they make. He moves in closer to Colton, his hands ready, then shouts something different, his line shifting maybe a second before the ball is snapped, never once offsides, but on the edge enough to force St. Margaret’s to scramble to play catch-up. The move buys Nico a precious extra second, his feet falling into step, his legs carrying the defense to the opposite end while Travis and Sasha divide and sprint forty yards out.
The clock is at fifty-six seconds; Nico stops hard, changing direction and shirking two defenders, one gripping his pads and nearly pulling him off balance. His feet recover quickly, and his speed only grows with the close call. He works his way back to the center, the ball clutched in both hands as he pumps once…twice…getting his timing just right, waiting just long enough until he lets it go right before a defender’s hands find the center of his chest, shoving him to the ground so hard he bounces and skids. Nico pushes his tackler off him so he can get to his knees to watch as his best friend runs as fast as he can, his right hand out as the ball begins its decent. My head works to calculate the angle, and it seems so impossible.
Tradition players crowd down the field, running in step with him, bodies low and crouched with hope until they explode in leaps, arms pumping as they all chant “Go! Go! Go!”
I can’t see Sasha through the bodies, but I do see Nico. He’s on his feet in a blink, his arms over his head as he rushes toward the rest of his team, the crowd behind me the loudest they’ve been tonight. I know he pulled it off. I don’t need to see the scoreboard. I only need to see the sheer elation exuded in every step Nico takes until his chest collides with his best friend’s, the ball that a breath ago passed into the end zone still clutched in Sasha’s hand. Sasha lifts Nico, who hugs his friend’s helmeted head, his palm patting it in pride. This is what makes football great. The moments when impossible happens; the boys who make impossible happen.
My eyes scan the field while our team kicks an extra point, and as I trail down the sidelines to where my brother stands, I see a different emotion. His hand runs over his face, and his jaw hangs open. Travis runs up, raising a hand that Noah takes, clutching it as they come together to bump chests. My brother smiles when Travis celebrates, but he doesn’t give him everything. He holds something back.
Envy.
I get lost watching it—not really coming out of the scene my eyes can’t seem to tear themselves away from until I feel a tug on my dangling feet. I startle and look to see the top of Izzy’s head. She steps up on a block below me so we can look eye to eye, her hair teased out in a ponytail, her face sprinkled with golden glitter.
“That was seriously the best game we’ve ever had!”
Her red lips stretch into an enormous grin, and her eyes are vibrant, almost twinkling like the gold on her skin. She talks rapidly, her hands moving with every word.
“Oh my God, Reagan. Seriously…I thought we were going to lose, and then no…Nico just says
no,
and it’s like awesome, and he almost gets tackled and then he doesn’t and then he throws the ball. I mean, that was far, right? So far!”
I giggle the more she talks, and eventually she smacks my bare knees playfully.
“Don’t make fun of me. I’m excited!” she says.
“I’m not,” I say through laughter. “It’s just…I watched the game, too. You don’t need to give me the play-by-play.”
“Right,” she says, nodding with a short breath, lips closed in a tight smile. I hold her gaze for a second, and then roll my eyes.
“Go ahead,” I say.
“Oh, thank God. I just can’t quit talking about it. That was seriously the best thing I’ve ever seen. And Sasha is so fast! And Nico…oh my God, Nico! Reagan, he is so freaking hot!”
I force the same look on my face, but the second she shifts from being excited about the game to being excited about Nico, my body does the strangest thing. My skin goes numb, and there’s a rush through my veins that feels like morphine—tingling until my stomach drops and clenches. She’s talking so fast that I hope she doesn’t notice the small flinch that I can’t control. I blink it away.
He’s hot. She thinks he’s hot. It’s nothing. It’s just the game. The excitement.
I preach to myself over and over, but my friend mentions Nico one more time before she’s done. And I can’t lie to myself this time.
“I am so into him, Reagan. He better be going to Charlie’s for after-game,” she says, and I get to my feet, letting my eyes focus on the rail I hold, on getting my feet back under my body, on the crowd exiting behind and around me. I turn so I face them, and I keep my eyes down while my head begs “no!”
I’m not sure what that
no
means—no, Izzy cannot be interested in Nico, or no, I should not care. I think it’s both.
“Hey, I’ll meet you at Charlie’s, okay? I have to go change!” my friend shouts from the field level. I raise my hand with a thumbs up, and I turn enough to see her grab her pom-poms and weave through the stream of friends and family all making their way out to the field.
The stands empty quickly, and I give a polite nod to Coach O’Donahue as we pass on my way back into the press box to get my camera.
“Hell of a game,” he says.
“Sure was,” I say, turning to watch his back as he takes the steps down one at a time. He’s faking, too. I recognize it, because that’s the way I walked away from Izzy—like everything’s fine. He wanted Nico to fail, and he’s going to want that every single Friday until it happens.
I get back to the press box rooftop and my hands grip my camera, turning it to power it down and begin packing up, but my sideways glance also catches a glimpse of Nico…and Izzy. I leave the camera running and point it on my surveillance targets, every piece of me feeling childish, just not enough to stop. I look through the lens, but can only tell Nico is smiling and Izzy’s head is bopping up and down, her hands still wild and her hair vibrating with every word she says.
I almost quit watching, but then Alyssa comes running up, and Nico bends down, sweeping his niece into his arms, holding her on his hip and nuzzling noses with her. He looks to Izzy and says something, and Izzy hands Alyssa one of her pom-poms, which she grips and shakes against her chest. The sick feeling rushes back, so I drop my camera lower and power off, promising myself not to look again.
I keep the promise, packing and carrying my equipment to the film room, dropping most of my things in the locker in my father’s office so I can keep them safe while I go to Charlie’s. I’ll pick them up again over the weekend. I keep the small handheld camera out, holding it in my lap while I shuffle to the training table in the back of the room, sliding into my familiar seat, my legs stretched out in front of me and my father’s favorite assistant and trainer, Bob Melch, by my side.
“Hey, Reagan. You get that dandy of a game on film?” Bob asks.
I smile and nod.
“Sure did,” I say.
He places his large, wrinkled hand on my shoulder and pats down twice. Probably even more than my dad, Bob is excited about the film I’m making. He’s been the trainer here for two decades, and this year—it’s his last. While most of the members of the coaching staff fall into that football-coach stereotype, Bob bucks the trend. He has sixteen grandkids, and not a single one of them plays football. I asked him about it once, and he told me he’d rather they got into the arts—or took up film, like me.
“This right here? It’s just a game. What matters are the relationships inside of it,” he told me.
I was maybe thirteen when we had that talk, and I’ve never forgotten those words. I hope I never do. I wish my brother heard them. I’m not sure he would understand, though. Noah’s programmed to win, and the rest doesn’t really matter much to him.
It’s almost twenty minutes before everyone is showered and sitting on the rows of benches in front of my dad. His arms are folded, the playbook still tucked under his forearm. He hasn’t changed positions since he entered this room several minutes ago, looking up only slightly to congratulate certain players on specific plays he thinks they went above and beyond on. His mouth is a hard line, and his players begin to quiet as they nudge each other until the room becomes so still that I hesitate to breathe.
“Congratulations,” my dad says.
Several seconds pass without a response. He doesn’t want one. They know. No shouts, no “hoorahs” right now. They look him in the eyes and he nods, taking in the young, naïve faces in front of him.
My head falls forward to check my camera view, and I zoom in tighter on my dad.
He lets his arms move to his sides, the playbook clutched in his right hand where he taps it against his thigh.
“You’re not celebrating. That’s…that’s good. I was afraid this would be harder, but I’m glad to see that you recognize what this really is…what…
tonight…
really was.”
I register a few swallows by players in the row closest to me. Nico is at the front, nearest to my dad, his head down and eyes at the place where my father’s shoes hit the floor.
“Defense,” my dad begins, pausing to breathe in deeply through his nose. “Boys, tonight was pitiful. I’d like you all to line up here right now. Come on. Line up. Up front. On your feet!”
Players look around the room, staring in one another’s faces, as members of our defensive squad get to their feet and amble toward the front of the room, standing in a line facing my father, their backs to the rest of us.
“Gentleman,” my dad says. My heart is beating with the power of a sports car’s engine as I wait for his voice to rise, for the shouting to begin. I knew my dad would not be happy with just winning. Winning—that closely—is still failing in a lot of eyes around here, and even though Coach O’Donahue is his point on defense, the responsibility falls squarely on my dad’s shoulders.