The Hard Count (35 page)

Our defense takes the field for kickoff, and I get an idea. I ask Valerie if Alyssa can come with me, and when she nods
yes
, I take the little girl’s hand and tell her I’m going to show her something “very cool.” I lead her down to the steps at the middle of the bleachers, and at a quick glance to check that the coast is clear, we climb down to the field level, but stay near the stands until we walk over to Izzy and the rest of the cheer squad.

I sit with Alyssa and watch both the game and my best friend cheer as The Tradition defense holds North to three downs, forcing them to punt. Izzy jogs over to me during the timeout.

“Hey, I remember you,” she says. Izzy has always been good with kids, despite not having siblings of her own. She’s bright and bubbly, and I’m sure in Alyssa’s eyes she’s a fairy princess.

“This is my friend Alyssa,” I say, making eye contact with Izzy so she understands. She smiles at me softly before kneeling down to be on Alyssa’s level.

“Hi, Alyssa. I’m Izzy. I met you after one of Nico’s first games, and Reagan has told me a lot about you. She says that
you
…are quite the cheerleader,” my friend says.

Alyssa tucks her face into my arm, but smiles when she tilts it to the side, nodding in big movements.

“You maybe want to cheer with me? For a little while?” Izzy asks.

Alyssa’s eyes bulge, and Izzy jogs to the equipment box a few yards away, coming back with a set of golden pom-poms. Alyssa takes them in her hands, and as she stands to test them out, the other girls come over to meet her.

Within seconds, Alyssa is swept into the fantasy, the girls all working together to create a routine she can do. They teach it to her, while Nico leads the offense on the field to another six, this time with a forty-yard run of his own. In less than five minutes, we’re up by two touchdowns.

Nico’s play continues to be nothing short of miraculous. At one point, Coach O’Donahue begins to take credit, a certain swagger to his walk along the sidelines, as if any of this is his doing. As if
he’s
the one who believed in Nico Medina all along.

And maybe that’s the story the board will start to tell. Perhaps that’s how they’ll play this. It doesn’t matter, because run after run, pass after pass, my father stands and high-fives Nico’s uncle, he laughs and cheers with my brother—he hugs Nico’s mom. The real motivation, the
real
faith—it’s right here.

Alyssa performs with the cheerleaders during halftime, and Izzy lifts the little girl high on her shoulders, letting her rile up the crowd. The sight makes Valerie cry. When Alyssa climbs back up to join us in our seats, she keeps the pom-poms with her, showing each of us how to use them best. This little girl will never know her father, but his brother is playing for him out on that field—and I swear she can feel it.

We all feel it.

North has only managed a field goal, and with seconds to go, our team is on the fifty-yard line, and one more down before the lights go out and the history books on tonight are closed. I’m confident Nico is going to get a visit from the USC men in the booth. I’m certain they’ve already made phone calls, and I’m also sure that they’ll walk down to the field and shake Jimmy O’Donahue’s hand before they leave, asking for an introduction.

But Nico plays on. Just as hard. These few seconds…they aren’t for scouts, or haters, or boosters or even his team. This moment—it’s for Vincent.

Colton snaps the ball, and Nico moves with the grace of a panther on the hunt. His feet work in tandem, each knowing where to go, when to slide, when to push—when to run. He breaks a tackle and spins, bolting to the other side to give his best friend time to get in place. Sasha’s running with all he has toward the end zone just as Nico arches back, his arm pumping, his chest letting out a grunt that I swear I can hear as he releases the ball. The spiral is perfect. The distance is there. Sasha is being trailed, but he won’t be caught, and right as his feet cross the goal line, the ball is waiting to greet him, hitting his hands for the longest completed pass I’ve ever seen thrown on this field.

The stands erupt, and the band pumps out the fight song with enough verve that it shakes the metal floor beneath us.

“Oh my God,” Valerie says, over and over, her hands wrapped around my mom’s. Travis’s mom rushes over to us, hugging my dad, then both my mom and Valerie. The men celebrate, reliving the play, and students start to rush the field as the announcer confirms that The Tradition, once again, is going to the State Playoffs.

There are balloons, and my best friend dances her horrible dance, throwing in a few cartwheels with some of the other cheerleaders. Alyssa breaks free and runs down to join them, while even more people spill out onto the field.

The players bump fists and chests, and they all surround their coach, moving like a swarm toward the end zone, taking pictures and celebrating. My eyes search for Nico, and when I find him, he’s on his knees, his head in his hands and his helmet on the ground next to him, Sasha at his side. His shoulders shudder once, and my breath hitches with my cry.

“Daddy,” I say, reaching for my father’s arm.

“I see him. I see him,” my dad says, stepping over the seat in front of him, leaping over the bar to the track and jogging out onto the field.

People have begun to quiet, and the team has started to look on, many of them taking their helmets off, taking a knee while the boy who owns my heart tries to mend his broken one on the fifty-yard line.

I hold Valerie’s hand, and we squeeze each other hard as my dad rushes to Nico. He falls to his knees, too, Sasha standing behind him, and my dad holds his forehead to Nico’s, his hands gripping his shoulders while Nico shakes with grief.

“I can’t…” I say, letting go of Valerie and following my father’s path, sprinting the minute my feet hit the turf until I’m at Sasha’s side.

Nico’s friend puts his arm around me, and I cling to him while Nico cries so hard that his voice is incoherent, nothing more than moaning wails as my father lifts him to his feet and brings him to his chest to hug him tightly.

“I know, son. I know,” my dad says, his fingers flexed around the back of Nico’s head. “You did good. You were so good. He would be proud. You made him proud.”

My eyes burn with tears as Sasha’s hand rubs my back. He fights to fall apart on his own. Nico’s hands cling around my father, gripping his shirt, and he buries his face in my dad’s chest, his body shaking with each heavy sob. My dad continues to hold him tight, praising him over and over again while the rest of our world looks on.

My eyes scan the crowd, and people are still—voices hushed, mouths closed. The Tradition is still, every guy on the team now on a knee, even the coaches. We all wait while Nico grieves. I wish I could take his pain away. I wish I could reverse time, to somehow change the course of history so his brother wasn’t in the Humvee that was attacked by a rogue group of separatists. I wish Nico had more than the flag given to his mother, more than the golden star that is pinned to the sleeve of Nico’s jersey. I wish he had his brother. I wish Alyssa had her father.

I wish. I wish. I wish.

The silence is heavy, and I can tell we’re all beginning to feel it. Minutes pass with Nico in my father’s arms until he finally steps from my father’s hold, bending down to pick up his helmet. Nico runs his arm over his eyes, his focus on chalk paint of the fifty-yard line and the grass just a few steps ahead of him. He nods to himself slowly as the crowd begins to clap, and their support sends him to tears again, only this time he’s ready for feeling it. Nico raises his helmet in one hand and tilts his face to the sky, turning in a slow circle, his other hand a fist against his mouth. He kisses it finally, letting it go and pointing to the stars, swaying and talking to his brother—talking to the heavens.

When he looks back down, his eyes find me, and I rush to him, falling into his arms, leaping and wrapping my legs around him while he drops his helmet and holds me tight, crying into my neck.

“I’m so proud of you. He would be so proud, Nico,” I say. “He is. I know it.”

Nico kisses my neck and holds me close, holding a hand up again to acknowledge the people still cheering for him. His hoarse voice whispers, “Thank you,” in my ear, and I slide from his hold, but remain at his side while every single player and coach talks to him.

S
ince my lips
first touched his, perhaps even well before that, I knew in my heart that there was no winning a debate against Nico Medina. But since that time, in our days together, I’ve learned why.

He has simply lived too much for my small life to be able to compare.

“More’s idea that we make thieves, and then we punish them, is the basis for so many modern moral tales,” Nico says.

I watch him dizzily, awed by his speech on our reading of
Utopia
. When Mr. Huffman calls my name, I only startle.

“Huh? Oh, no…I…I actually agree with him on this. I’ve got nothing,” I say.

Mr. Huffman’s eyes narrow on me and his mouth forms a tiny tight smile, mocking me for giving in so easily to the boy I like.

But that’s it. I don’t just
like
Nico Medina. He has my heart, completely. In the weeks since his brother’s death, I’ve watched Nico become even more of a man of his house, helping his mother through funeral arrangements, benefits for Alyssa, and now court hearings to ensure that his niece stays with them.

Vincent’s ex, Alyssa’s mom, is a mystery. She could very well be dead. All they know is her name was Moriah Keaton, and she had a severe addiction. Nico made calls every day after school until he found a lawyer willing to take their case. He helped his mom work through forms and file testimonies to strengthen their case to keep Alyssa home, where she belongs.

Mostly, though, I can’t argue with Nico because he is the example—the exception. When Cornwall first met him, they labeled him. At-risk…
thief.
Turns out he’s the philosopher king.

“It’s why our system is broken,” Nico continues, Mr. Huffman nodding, a smile on his face. “We failed to learn from the stories that warned us that if we create environments that perpetuate poverty, that force the people in them to beg and steal, then we’re equally to blame for many of their outcomes.”

“People have choices,” Megan argues. I admire her will—now that I’ve stopped sparring, she’s still willing to try to provide a counterpoint to Nico.

“Sure they do,” Nico says. “But what you don’t have, when you live in the golden palace, is such severe temptation. You have to choose between a career in law or art or media or…film.”

He glances at me, smirking in apology. I glower a little, because I don’t like being an example when he argues against the privileged.

“But in some places, the choice is between taking two jobs at once that together barely pay minimum-wage and offer no guarantee that they’ll keep you employed, or something illegal that promises one-time riches, and guaranteed future opportunities if you’re willing to stomach selling your soul. It’s hard not to sell your soul when you grow up without food on the table.”

Nico leans forward, gripping his desk, but a smile curves on his mouth and he relaxes, leaning back and looking at me. I chuckle to myself because he’s proving that he doesn’t have to always avoid eye contact.

“Then how do you draw the parallel to selling drugs, taking drugs?” Megan asks.

Before Nico can answer, I do.

“Drugs make the pain go away—real or perceived. And more often than not, the palace pays the money, the ghetto deals what they want. It’s the perfect definition of supply and demand,” I say, my eyes flitting around the room, to the many faces looking right back at me. “We pay a lot of money to make them criminals.”

Megan scoots forward, her brow pulled in, ready to argue, and I twist in my chair, willing to offer up my own example—my
own
exception.

My family.

The bell rings before I need to, though, and Mr. Huffman writes our next reading selection on the board. I note it down, pulling my equipment bags from under my seat and meet Nico at the door. He holds it open for me, staring at me with a trace of a smile as I walk under his arm and through the door.

“You’re going soft on me,” he says.

“Am not,” I say.

Am I?

Nico laughs lightly next to me, sliding my heaviest bag from my shoulder and carrying it to the lab for me.

“You are. You would have torn me up over that argument three months ago,” he says, one eye squinted more than the other as he gives me a sideways glance.

“Not true,” I say.

“You know, I could totally argue the other side right now,” he says.

“Yeah, but you don’t believe that,” I say.

“Oh, but I
do!
” he says, his eyebrows lifting.

I stop at the lab door, tugging it open and dropping my things on the table just inside. I flick on the lights as Nico follows me in.

“It’s more of a question of free will, if you ask me. It’s easier not to fight the forces that work against you, to bend to your environment, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t possible,” he says.

I lean against the computer table and fold my arms over my chest.

“Well of course,” I sigh. “But in general…”

“In general…” he says, stepping up closer, his toes touching mine as his hands untangle my hands that are guarding my body. I stand up straighter, letting him pull my arms around him while he puts his over my shoulders. “In general, Reagan Marie Prescott, I’m so goddamned in love with you that I don’t even care about being right anymore.”

I open my mouth and close it just as promptly, my eyes pulling in, my heart starting to sound. “Shoot,” I say, letting my head fall against his chest as I stare at our feet, my toe kicking at his. “Damn you, Nico Medina. That shut me up fast.”

His lips come down on the top of my head as he wraps his arms around my head. I love life here in his small homemade cocoon.

“Good,” he hums.

My skin tingles, and my heart races even faster. I’m nervous, something I haven’t been with him in a long time.

“I love you, too,” I say, my face buried into his chest, burrowing further.

Nico steps away enough that I can’t hide, bending down and pulling my chin up, looking me in the eyes.

“Yeah?” he asks, his eyes hopeful and golden—so golden.

“Yeah,” I say, my nod small, but my pounding heart heavy.

“You love me?” he asks again, quirking a brow to question, now teasing me. I push against his chest.

“Yes, you big nerd! I love you!”

His smirk grows, and his dimple deepens, so I push him again. This time, though, he catches my hands and pulls me into him, moving his hands to my face and kissing me softly, saying the words again against my mouth.

“I love you,” he whispers, his mouth caught between kiss and smile.

My cheeks sore from smiling and my lips raw from kissing; I finally go to work on my film, wanting to make the deadline to deliver it to Prestige for consideration. Nico stays, pulling up a chair and sitting so one leg is behind me and one next to me. His kisses along my neck distract me at first, but once I get into my zone, I’m able to focus, even with my muse so close, tempting me.

Over the last few weeks, I’ve boiled down my footage to just enough. I need twenty minutes, so I have more editing and trimming to do—especially if I want to add the state championship game into the storyline, which…I do.

The Tradition steamrolled over everyone, and Nico is poised to break the state’s passing record in the championship game. He’s a hundred and ten yards shy, and the team—
his
team—wants him to get there.

The offer from USC hasn’t come yet, and I can tell it’s weighing on him. I know he wants it, but he hasn’t brought it up since the game the scouts were at. I think because that night is too painful to relive. I believe it’s coming, though. I know it, just as much as I know I’m in love with him.

I’m running through close-up shots from some of the earlier practices and games, forwarding and rewinding, finding just the right clip to cut, when Nico slides his chair back from me, scratching along the tiled floor.

“Sorry,” he winces.

“It’s okay. I’m not picking up any sound in here. It’s all…” I tap on the computer screen.

“Oh, yeah…right,” he says.

He leans over and kisses me, then pulls his bag up his arm and kicks his board up to his hand from the ground.

“You have to leave already?” I ask, wanting him to stay, but knowing he can’t.

“My chariot awaits new tires…and a radiator,” he says.

Nico’s been taking extra hours when he can at Hungry Hill. He’s already fixed up his car quite a bit, but there are a few…
unexpected
expenses that have put off driving a little longer than he had hoped.

“Will you make it to Charlie’s later? To celebrate?” I ask.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” he smiles, leaning in to kiss me one last time.

I watch the door, catching every last glimpse of his form the second the wheels of his board hit the hallway floor and he rolls down the hall. When the door falls closed completely, I stare at it a little while longer, smiling, because Nico loves me.

* * *

I
never bothered
to go home from the editing bay. It’s our bye week before the championship, and Charlie’s has a tradition of hosting our pep rallies during the playoffs. It’s strange coming here without my dad, but he didn’t want to make this night about him. He wanted this for the boys, because he said they earned the right to this memory.

Noah is coming. Despite Jimmy O’Donahue’s complete lack of morals and empathy, he did do right by Noah. My brother has been on the field, on the sidelines, for every playoff game, and Jimmy told the team last night that he’d like Noah to lead them on the field for State. Everyone agreed.

I know that most of the players won’t get here until late. That’s the thing about the pep rally—they all pretend they’re too cool for it, but they still really want to be here. They just think they should be in someone’s basement, getting lit on cheap beer like they do in the movies. They’ll do that, too—after they leave Charlie’s. But for a few hours, around midnight, boys will be boys, and football will bring us all together, and we will just be a bunch of teenagers…living.

Izzy pulls into the spot next to mine, and I hand her a frozen hot chocolate as she steps up to our favorite table, sitting on the top with me, our feet on the bench.

“So Noah and Katie…they haven’t gotten back together,” I say, doing my best to sound nonchalant, failing at it miserably.

“Knock it off, Reagan. Seriously…me and Noah are fine. We’re just what we are, and who knows, maybe,” she says, stopping to take a long sip of her sugary drink.

“I know, but you like him, and I could totally hook you up…”

“Stop,” she says, this time turning and raising a brow.

I huff and let my lips fall to my own straw, drinking my root beer float while I pout.

“Fine, but if you two end up getting married one day, and you regret missing out on all of these years you could have been a couple, I don’t want to hear it,” I say.

“Sounds good. Deal,” Izzy says, her answer clipped.

I give up my matchmaking mission, and my friend pulls a bottle of gold nail polish from her purse, nodding to me to lay my hand flat on the table so she can paint my nails.

“Why would you bother doing that? You know I’m just going to peel it all off,” I say.

She looks up at me, her hand poised with the brush above my knuckles, my hand still balled in a fist.

“Bitch, show some school spirit,” she teases, her face mean, but pretend.

I purse my lips and roll my eyes, but flatten my hand for her, because she would end up winning anyway. I sip my drink while my best friend paints glitter on my fingertips, and when she’s done, I spend the next ten minutes waving my hands, fingers sprawled, to make sure it all dries.

Colton shows up first, but Travis pulls in a second or two after with my brother. I show them my new manicure, and Noah laughs. “How long before you chew that shit off?” he asks, letting go of my hand after inspecting it.

“Careful, Noah. You’re out of the house on good behavior,” I say with a smirk.

“Pshh,” he says, rolling his shoulders and walking away from me.

My brother’s cast is off, and he’s wearing a giant plastic boot device with a long splint until he gets stronger. He walks like the Frankenstein monster in it, but I won’t make fun of him. He’s healing about two weeks ahead of schedule, and he’s hoping to make a few trips this week with our dad to some schools still interested in seeing what he can do. The scope of Noah’s dreams has been narrowed, but when he found out some of them were still viable, he started to act a little more like himself. I can’t take shots at something so important to him, no matter what kind of digs he’s taken at me.

Noah’s actually helped more with my film over the last weeks. He’s taken my camera on the field for me, and he talked Jimmy O’Donahue into sitting down for an interview, which he did…reluctantly. I didn’t pull any punches, and I asked him about working in an environment where everyone is always gunning for his job—especially since he took out my dad just to get the gig. He said it was a matter of knowing his enemies and keeping them happy. He’s right.

I suppose my dad will be playing the same game in the fall, only on a bigger scale. At least he’ll be the guy bucking for the job, for a little while, rather than the one fending off the attacks.