The Hard Count (27 page)

Noah shifts his weight and looks out to the right. The team is breaking for water behind him, and our father is walking across the field slowly in our direction, just out of the camera’s view.

“When I started? I wanted to make Dad proud,” Noah says. My father is too far to hear it, and I know it’s why he said it now.

“Okay, but why keep going?” I ask, pushing him for more.

He leans forward, his leg stretched out in the only position it can rest, his hands on his knees, his fingers flexing around the caps.

“Because being the son of a man who had a legacy, though not big…it puts thoughts in your head. You start to think you can beat that legacy. You start to think people expect you to at least meet it. And then, there’s this weird life we have because this team…it’s so important to people. And the way they look at Dad when he wins? The way they treat us when we lose? It’s fucked up, Reagan…”

He pauses, and holds up a hand to apologize for swearing.

“It’s okay. It’s a documentary. Speak like you really do,” I say.

“Fine, well…yeah, then. It’s fucked up,” he says, his eyes low again, his lids blinking. I feel our father’s presence behind me. That’s why Noah isn’t talking, and I start to tell him we can finish this up later, but he looks right into the lens and doesn’t give me the chance.

“As screwed up as it is to live your lives for a game, I still wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world. Getting to lead these guys, getting to have them look up at me…have the alumni look up to me, the boosters…
Dad—
well, I imagine that’s what it’s like for people that get voted into seats in Congress or get to run major corporations. It’s such an unbelievable privilege. And I lost it, because of…
dumb luck.”

Noah glances over my shoulder, and I know he’s looking at our dad.

“Doesn’t mean I don’t still want to see them win, see Dad win. Doesn’t mean I don’t believe in them…without me. I just hate it. It hurts more than anything I’ve ever known,” Noah says.

“You’ll get it back,” our father says, his voice carrying from over my shoulder. I don’t turn, instead keeping my focus on my brother’s face. He chuckles to himself quietly, but keeps his eyes on our dad’s.

“You think so?” he asks.

“I know so,” Dad says. “Dumb luck be damned. It hasn’t seen the spirit of a Prescott boy pissed off at the world.”

Noah’s lips twist as he tries to keep his smile in check. The right side finally lifts high enough that he gives in and smiles, nodding.

“True story,” he says.

“True story,” my father echoes.

I cut the camera off, and step away.

“We’re going to see if we can work on a few of the blitz plays, teach Nico how to read them and avoid them. Think you’re up for helping?”

My father stands with his hand out for my brother, and after a second, Noah takes it and lets my dad help him up to a stand. He pulls his crutches under his arms and swings a step or two away from the bench.

“I’d love to,” he says.

I wish I’d gotten that on film. But maybe…maybe some things are meant to be private.

I watch them both begin to walk away, but before my brother gets too far, he stops, urging my dad to keep walking. Noah takes a few swinging strides back in my direction, stopping, his weight propped up on his crutches.

“Your video isn’t stupid,” he says.

“I know,” I say, proud that I had that response ready.

Noah smirks, looking down at his feet and nodding.

“I was a dick to say that the other night,” he says.

“I know,” I say again, twice as proud this time.

Noah laughs.

“I deserve that,” he says.

“Yes, you do,” I say.

“We good then?” he asks.

“Not even close,” I say. His eyes flash to mine, and I let my lip curl the tiniest bit on the right side, just to ease his conscience enough that he can get through today. I don’t want him off the hook, but I do want my brother back.

“A’right then,” he says, smiling enough that I know he knows I love him, and that I’m still pretty mad. He ambles toward the team—still very much his team, and he moves in next to our dad, trying to find his place now…whatever that is.

T
he evening air
is unusually warm, and I’m thankful. Cornwall always holds the homecoming dance directly after the game. It’s one of the few incredibly typical things that we have here, but even still, it’s always made into something bigger than it really is or needs to be.

Paper decorations go up around the gym walls, and bleachers are pushed in to make room. Lights are off, special kinds brought in to set the mood. We hire a deejay. All of that is fairly normal, but then expectations are placed on everyone and everything. Dresses are the best. Couples are judged, while whispers begin to pick up the week before about who is going with whom, why they broke up with someone else, or if they’re going to
hook up
after the dance.

My dress is three years old. It’s white, eyelet style—the hem falling just above my knees. The sleeves are straps, and I left my sweater in my car since the weather was so nice. However, now all I can think about are my bare, freckled shoulders. The skirt is an A-line because those are the only types of dresses that don’t make me think about my hips. I wore it last year, when I came with Travis, but spent most of my time with Izzy. While this afternoon, when I slipped it on during my dash home before the game, I told myself I was fine with wearing the same thing two years in a row, now—sitting on the first row of bleachers with my mom and Travis’s mom, Linda—I feel like maybe I should have tried harder.

“What is Katie wearing,” my mom asks, almost a whisper.

My brother’s girlfriend will be wearing something designer and new. She does for everything. So will Izzy.

So will every other girl going to the dance.

“I don’t know,” I say, my attention on the field.

There are five minutes left in the fourth quarter, and we are up 38-14. Nico has had a spectacular game, running the ball in twice on his own and connecting with both Travis and Sasha for twenty-plus yard passes in the end zone. I’ve been splitting my time focusing on his game and the booth filled with maroon-and-white shirts up above. I left my camera recording on its own for the night on top of the box, but I amped up the mic, just in case it might be able to pick up their conversation. Now, though, I doubt I’ll even listen. Nico has been so impressive, there’s no way they don’t want him.

“I would have taken you shopping,” my mom says next to me.

I turn to respond, but see she’s still looking out on the field. I think her feelings are hurt that I didn’t ask. She’s just been so erratic the last few days that I didn’t want to push things with her. I wasn’t sure what version of my mom I would get—the one who says she’s fine with being off the social committee, who says she hates those women and can’t wait to see how great her life is without them, or the one who not-so-secretly cries about it all in the bathroom.

“I just really like this dress,” I settle on saying.

My mom looks over and runs her hand down the fabric, folding it over my knee and patting my leg.

“You look beautiful,” she says, and I can tell she means it. It warms my chest.

“Thanks, Mom,” I say, placing my hand on hers, threading our fingers, and squeezing.

The game clock is ticking down quickly now. St. Augustine isn’t a very strong squad, and we’ve run them ragged. My dad lets Brandon take the final set of downs, and Nico joins Colton and several of the other guys—including my brother—near the middle of the field on the sidelines. Helmets off, they all seem light and happy, a different mood from the one that has dominated practices this week. They’ve worked hard, and tonight…it showed.

With only a few seconds on the clock, I stand and begin to straighten out my dress, suddenly even more aware of my curled hair, my lack of lipstick, my self-applied eyeshadow and blush. I can’t see my reflection, but in my imagination, I look like an ill-prepared clown. I start to fidget with my hands when I glance around the stands and see the other moms and booster parents—the crowd that just last week sat down here, with my mom.

I glance to my mom and see she’s looking at them, too.

“You’re better off without them,” I say.

She looks to me and smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

“I told them I was stepping down, too, but they made me promise to finish this godforsaken barbecue tomorrow,” Linda says.

“You don’t have to step down; I told you that,” my mom tells her friend—maybe her
only
friend.

“Lauren, I hate those women. I’ve been dying to be done with this. Way I see it, you’ve given me six extra weeks of my life back,” she says.

My mom smiles bigger now.

The clock hits zero, and the cheers aren’t as loud as normal with most of the fans already leaving, rushing toward the gym doors or to the field exit to take photos with their sons and boyfriends. I make eye contact with Nico, and he bunches his hand in a wave. His mom had a church event tonight. She made him promise her he would take photos of the two of us. I know my mom won’t leave without snapping a few of her own, so I’ll make sure she takes some with our phones.

I watch as Nico talks to Colton, and I see my father walk up next to him, along with my brother—the four of them making their way slowly through the crowd, up the walkway to the locker rooms, until they disappear into the darkness.

“I’m really looking forward to meeting him,” my mom says.

I smile at her, but let it slip a little when I turn away. I’m nervous about them meeting, because my mom has been so odd about it, almost like she’s overcompensating for her questions she has. She’s asked me about Nico’s family, his home, his brother, his niece, his car, his grades, his voice, his height, his looks—it was a piecemealed interrogation of sorts to get a picture in her head of what this boy from West End is like. I went on a double date with Izzy over the summer, and I don’t even think my mom asked the boy’s name. He was a friend of Izzy’s family, and that was good enough.

I joked, finally, telling my mom that we didn’t live in
West Side Story
, and we weren’t the Jets and Sharks. She rolled her eyes at me, but her constant questioning still came.

I lead her to the walkway outside the locker rooms, and I wait nervously while more people gather around us. My white dress begins to feel less and less formal as girls walk up in sequins and silk. Hair is done up in twists, and one girl has diamonds embedded into a braid that wraps around her head.

“That’s lovely,” my mom says, pointing it out to me. I smile and nod, all the while feeling my stomach grow tighter. My hair is straight, but curled on the ends. I thought I was really going the extravagant route by blowing it out.

My eyes fall to my feet, to the only fancy thing I have on—a pair of wrap-up wedges that zigzag around the top of my feet and crawl halfway up my calves. I take refuge in the fact that at least my feet look like they belong here.

Several of the players are starting to exit, and there are squeals and flashes from cameras as girls meet their boys. My eyes dart around, and I offer fake smiles to anyone I make eye contact with, concealing the rolling nerves playing out in my stomach and chest.

My father finally walks through the metal door, and when he spots us, he raises his lip on one side and runs his hand over his face while he walks over. He stops a few steps shy and holds his hand over his mouth, nodding.

“She looks nice, doesn’t she?” my mom says, reaching out and touching the skirt of my dress again, making it sway briefly along my legs.

My dad lets his hand fall, and his eyes focus on my waist for a long while, his expression something foreign. He begins to nod again as his eyes make their way to mine, and he steps in closer, pulling a small box from his front pocket. I glance to my mom, whose lips are still in a tight smile, and then back to my dad. His fingers tremble while he works open the small, beaten-up box, and he pulls out a thin, silver chain with a star on the end made out of stone.

“I’m not real good with jewelry and stuff, but your mom said I picked all right,” he says, unhinging the clasp and nodding for me to lift my hair and turn. I do as he says, and he loops the necklace around my neck, the weight of the star comforting against my collarbone. I hold it between my fingers as I spin back into him.

“Daddy,” I say, my head falling to the side, and my eyes matching his. I understand that look now, and it’s the kind that can only be explained by the special bond between a girl and her father.

My dad clears his throat, and takes a step back, his eyes falling to his feet and his hands going to his pockets. I pinch my brow, but quickly realize what he’s reacting to. I turn to see Nico, his hair wet and combed back, and his equipment bag stuffed with pads and clothes at his side. He’s wearing a dark-gray button-down, a black tie, and black slacks. His shoes are shiny, like a patent leather, and in his other hand is a plastic box with a deep-blue flower and ribbon. He follows my gaze to his hand and lifts it up.

“Oh, I…I brought a corsage. It’s a little wilted…I left it in my locker during the game,” he says, his eyes meeting mine in brief snapshots, his lips caught in a forever kind of smirk that is pushing his dimples deep into his cheeks.

“Here,” my dad says, reaching for Nico’s bag. “I’ll take your things home. You can get them when you drop Reagan off tonight.”

“Oh, thanks,” Nico says, handing his bag to my father. They don’t make eye contact, and the awkward exchange is somewhat amusing.

“Yeah, well, I’m holding your things hostage until I get her, and if you’re a minute late…” My dad lets his words trail off as he pushes his tongue into his cheek. Nico blinks a few times, then chuckles.

“Yes, sir,” he says.

“I’m not kidding,” my dad says.

“Oh, I know,” Nico responds.

He takes my hand in his, and his eyes flit to mine, words perched on his lips. He doesn’t speak, but I can tell he wants to, and the look on his face makes me blush. He holds the cluster of flowers to the top of my wrist, turning my hand and tying the ribbon on the underside, just above my palm. The soft material dusts along my skin, and tickles, but I leave it as he tied it, grateful for the reminder that it’s there. Blue flowers have fast become my favorites.

“Well, Nico,” my mom says, shooting my father a glance that warns him. He raises his brows and takes a step back so my mom can move in closer. “It is such a pleasure to meet you.”

My stomach is pattering heavily with butterflies, and I wait for something to go wrong as my mom takes Nico’s hand. I’ve run through the dozens of embarrassing things she could say, based on the questions she asked about him, including what country he was from.

“
This
one,” was what I told her. She responded with a surprised “oh,” and that was the last question she asked.

“Nice to meet you, too, Mrs. Prescott. Thank you for coming to our game,” Nico says.

My mom’s head tilts to one side, and she keeps his hand in hers. Her gaze comes to me, and I smile tightly, widening my eyes, mentally begging her to let go of his hand. She finally does, but looks back to him.

“I don’t miss a single game, Nico. Haven’t in years,” she says. “I have to say, you’ve given our family a reason to be hopeful this season.”

“Noah’s shoes are hard to fill,” Nico says. Without my coaching, he says the absolute best thing he could ever have said to my mom, and I can tell he’s won her for good by the look in her eyes.

“Well, yes…but you bring some pretty nice shoes of your own out there. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen someone run the hard count out on that field,” she says, and I chuckle lightly to myself when I see Nico’s head tilt in surprise. “Honey, I’ve taken in a lot of football games in my lifetime. Pretty sure there isn’t a single thing you can do out on that field that I won’t recognize.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he says, laughing lightly.

“Lauren is fine.
Ma’am
…that’s too old, and my hair color is too good for you to think I’m old,” she says, giggling.

My eyes flash wide and meet my brother’s, who has walked up to join my dad. My mom is falling into flirty behavior now, so I step in before it becomes embarrassing.

“Mom, can you take our picture? I promised his mom we would send her one,” I say, handing my mom my phone and Nico’s. She smiles and nods, obliging and taking several photos of both of us, and then some of me with my dad and brother. Noah is wearing his best gray suit, the pant leg pulled down taut over his cast. It takes me a few minutes and photos to realize that Katie hasn’t shown up to take pictures with us, and before I can ask, my mom does the honors.

“Is she meeting you here?”

My brother’s brow lowers and his mouth grows rigid as he blinks a few times.

“Katie and I aren’t together anymore,” he says, and instantly my mind goes to my best friend. This is Izzy’s chance!

“Oh, honey…” my mom says, falling into her doting habit.

“I broke it off; it’s okay. We just…I don’t know, she’s like
really
into clothes and shoes and shopping. We’re too different.”

“So you’re coming…alone?” I ask, my head leaning to one side as I ask.

“Uh…yeah…why?” my brother asks.

“No reason,” I respond quickly, my answer clipped. He pinches his brow, and I wink, now wanting to sprint to the gym, to find Izzy and tell her the good news.

I kiss my parents on their cheeks, leaving them with my brother while I take Nico’s arm and walk toward the gym. I drown in his scent, a mixture of soap and cologne, and something else that is always so distinctly him. I’ve come to recognize it, noticing when he’s near and missing it when he’s gone. It feels silly to love the way someone smells so much, but I do with him.

He stops me at the corner of the building, taking both of my hands in his, lifting the one with the corsage slightly higher.

“I hope it’s okay…the flower. My mom insisted I give you one, and she said blue would match your eyes,” he says, laughing out the last few words and shaking his head, embarrassed. When he looks back up at me, he bites his lip. The silence is unsettling, but in the best possible way.

“What?” I ask.

“You look really pretty,” he says.