The Hard Count (38 page)

His step slows just enough near the sideline, and the corner that’s rushing at him manages to grab his arm, trying to strip him of the ball. Nico brings it into his body tightly, the defender pulling him down, swinging him by his arm and eventually flipping Nico like one of those old-school wrestlers pumped up with steroids and cocaine. His body falls with a heavy thud out of bounds.

Nico’s down.

He stays down.

The ball is secure in his arms, but The Tradition is still thirty yards short of where they need to be.

The clock has stopped.

But Nico. He’s down.

“Why won’t he get up,” Valerie says, her hand reaching out for her brother. Danny moves in front of my dad and puts his arm around her.

“He’s fine. He just got the wind knocked out of him, that’s all. He’s okay,” he says, but I can tell from his tone, he’s not sure. My dad used that tone. I bet he used it with my brother, until he found out his leg was bent like an
L
.

“He’s breathing. And he’s moving his legs. He’s okay,” my dad says, assuring her.

My brother turns and waves at my dad, signaling something again.

“What’s he saying?” I ask.

“I think…I think it’s his arm. Noah can’t tell those things, though. Let’s wait. Bob’s going out,” my dad says.

The Great Vista band begins to play Seven Nation Army, and I want to run across the field and punch them all in the face. I begin to bounce on my toes, needing to see Nico stand, needing to know he’s okay. The rest of The Tradition crowd needs it, too, because selfishly, they know we need Nico to win.

Bob gets him to his feet, and Valerie leans into me, breathing for the first time in almost a minute.

“Oh thank God,” she says.

“It’s his arm,” my dad says. “He can’t throw. Nico…he can’t throw.”

Seven seconds, and thirty yards, even Jimmy knows his nephew can’t make that happen. He’s not naïve enough to try, either. He knows that it would be perceived as playing “daddy ball” and doing his relative a favor. That only works if you win, and Brandon—he can’t win. Not this. Only Nico can.

I turn to my right and find my dad is gone, and I look back to my left at my mom, and she’s biting her nails—for once not nervous about losing a job or a position or points with some special society. She’s just nervous about losing, period.

“Where did he go?” I ask.

“Press box,” she says, and I turn behind me to see my dad sprinting up the steps two at a time, his hat still curved in his hand. I watch just long enough to see him standing on his toes, shouting through the open windows, then moving just far enough that the offensive coordinator inside can see the gestures with his hands. I don’t know what any of it means, but someone does, because I watch Coach O’Donahue push his headset into his ear, cupping it while he paces until he stops in front of Nico, who is sitting on the bench, his helmet off and ice on his arm.

Nico gets to his feet and pushes his helmet on his head, my brother and several other teammates slapping his helmet while he runs out to the line of scrimmage just as my father makes it back down to stand by me.

“He can’t throw,” my dad says, eyes on the field, his mouth a hard line, his forehead creased with the wrinkle born from years of stress. Then suddenly, a smile creeps in, and his eyes shift to me. “But he can sure as shit catch.”

“What?” I ask, turning to see Sasha lining up behind Colton.

Valerie begins screaming in front of me, leaning forward, looking to make eye contact with Sasha’s mom. When she does, she claps, then crosses her fingers before looking out to the field.

It all happens in a blink, and if I didn’t know who they were, I would have sworn that this was how they always played—that Sasha was the quarterback, and Nico was the one racing down the field.

Colton snaps the ball, and Sasha peddles back, the line working hard to give him time. He’s not Nico, though, and his feet—they aren’t as steady. The defense starts to penetrate, and Sasha panics, sprinting to the side—making his throw even farther.

But Nico runs. Nico just runs.

The clock times out when Sasha has no choice, the defense about to take him down as he releases the ball. We all hold our breath—both sides, the stadium filled with at least four thousand people. We could have heard a pin drop. My eyes follow the line, the ball on target, and Nico has managed to separate himself by two, maybe three steps. His right arm, the hurt one, tight against his side, he reaches out with his left, his fingers tipping the ball once, giving him just enough time to catch up to it in the air to bring it completely into his body.

If we thought Nico was fast before, he finds a new gear the second the ball is secure. His feet pound. My heart beats. Our mouths begin to chant. The crowd stomps on the metal stands. The Tradition players raise their helmets and rush down the sidelines, swinging their arms in circles, willing him to go.

Go!

Go!

Travis throws a last-minute block, tripping up the only player who has a shot at catching Nico, and I scream just as my boy’s legs cross the goal line. He knew we had one shot.

My dad knew.

Nico was it. He was always it.

Travis rushes toward him, lifting him over his shoulder and carrying him into the rest of the rushing team—Coach O’Donahue throwing his clipboard down and rushing into the dogpile with them.

“Oh my God,” Valerie says, turning into me and pulling me in for a tight hug. I rock with her, feeling her cry well-earned tears of joy; then I hug my parents and Nico’s uncle, before I follow Valerie down to the field.

She pushes her way through bodies, stopping to bring Sasha into her arms, kissing him on the cheek, and leaving a pink stain from her lips. I hug Sasha, too, then let my dad congratulate him, finally pulling him in for a hug. My dad looks worn and relieved—gone is all bitterness. The feeling is freeing, and when I find my brother, his face is elated as if he were the one to make the throw himself.

He lifts me in a circle, spinning on his good leg, and I hug him tight.

“That was so bad-ass. Dad called that, did you know that? Dad called that!” he says, a boy proud of his father.

“I know,” I say, scrunching my head against his and laughing. “Oh my God, that was amazing!”

I leave Noah and find my mom, holding her arm and smiling so hard my cheeks hurt. We both watch my father shake hands and congratulate Coach O’Donahue—the best satisfaction happening when he thanks my dad for congratulating him, without acknowledging the real gift my dad actually gave him. The second Jimmy turns around, my dad flips him off. The only other person to see it is Bob, and he winks at me and holds his finger to his lips.

My eyes scan the crowd, which only seems to be multiplying, searching for Nico. I let go of my mom’s hand and begin to work my way through bodies, congratulating every player I run into, but only really caring about one.

I find him finally in the very center, cameras around him snapping photos, his uncle squeezing him at his side, Nico’s arm is around his mother, and I wait patiently for them all to have this moment. When Nico’s eyes find me, he excuses himself, and he steps right into me, pushing his left hand through my hair and resting his forehead on mine while he walks me several steps backward before kissing me with all of the adrenaline I know is still pumping through his veins.

“Are you okay?” I ask, my hands roaming up his arm, to his face, inspecting him.

“Dislocated,” he says. “Bob snapped it back in. Said I’d be good as new…in about a week,” he chuckles.

My smile comes hard and fast.

“Great. Just in time,” I say through my laughter.

I hold his arm in both of mine until the crowd thins. I stay on the field with his family and my own while the state commissioner brings out the trophies, and I help him balance the MVP one in his hands so his mom can take a photo. Nico smiles and shakes hands, using his left and nursing his right, until we’re the only ones left on the field. I leave him just long enough to get my camera from the press box, and even though he’s exhausted and in pain, his arm wrapped in a plastic bag filled with ice, Nico gives me one more piece of him.

I sit him on the bench on his side of the field, his hair still slick with the sweat from the game, and I frame him in my camera, the field he just owned a blur behind him.

“Tell me about what went through your mind. Out there…those final few seconds. Did you think you were going to lose?”

I sit back while Nico’s eyes haze in his thought. He’s taking this seriously, and I love him for that. Finally shaking his head, he says, “No.”

“You weren’t worried?” I ask.

His lips pull into a tight smile, and he shakes his head again.

“No…well…maybe, when that guy had me over his head? That…that worried me,” he chuckles, but leans to the side, his laughter fading. “But really? No…I wasn’t worried.”

“Because you knew you could do this?” I ask, my lip curled up on one side with pride.

Nico surprises me, though, shaking his head no.

“Not me,” he says. “Us.”

I sit back again, and exhale, considering his response.

“You know our trainer? Bob?” he asks.

I smile.

“Yeah. He’s like an uncle to me,” I say.

“That guy…he’s really the one who should be coaching, you know? No offense to your dad,” he says.

“None taken. In fact, I think my dad would tend to agree with you,” I say.

“Well, he told me once, he said that the only thing that matters out here on the field, the only thing that really counts when that clock hits zero, are the people on my team,” he says.

“That sounds like Bob,” I grin.

“He’s right. And these guys? Somewhere along the way I decided that they’re my home. I’d put my body in their hands and trust them every second,” he says.

“Yeah?” I question, but I can tell from his face he’s serious.

“Absolutely,” he says.

“So home, you say. What does winning MVP say about a boy from your home…from West End? What does it say for little boys in West Ends all around the country?”

Nico sits forward, his hands coming together. His eyes focus on them.

“It says the home doesn’t make the boy—the family does. And my family, it’s grown a lot lately,” he says, looking up with a smirk. I hold his gaze, and I decide this last part—it’s just for me, not the camera.

I push the power button and sit forward on my knees, pulling the mic free from his shirt. Nico takes it from my hands, kneeling and folding the cord up for me.

“I have one more question,” I say, blushing.

“Go ahead,” he says, his eyes on me, searing.

“All of that—running the ball in with your hurt arm, winning this game single-handedly but giving credit to your team, as if they
really
had anything to do with it,” I say, my voice clearly denoting my sarcasm. “Taking a spot on my dad’s team, helping my brother. All of that, just to make me happy. Tell me, Nico Medina…how did that make you feel?”

His lip ticks up, and his eyes narrow, his hair falling forward over one eye—my heart pounds at the sight of him.

“Terrible,” he says, his lips fighting not to laugh. “I took absolutely
zero
pleasure from it. If I could go back, I would hide and avoid you like the plague.”

His laughter breaks through, and I push into his chest, knocking him to sit on the grass. He pulls my legs around him, holding me tight.

“It made me feel like everything else I do for you does,” he says.

The intensity of his stare and the closeness of him makes my skin tingle. I suck in my bottom lip and breathe in quickly through my nose.

“And how’s that?” I ask, my head falling forward, my lips craving his—coming home.

“Alive,” he says against me, his lips grazing mine with the sweetest words ever. “Loving you—it makes me feel alive.”

T
he grass is cold
.

It surprises me, because the last few weeks have been so warm. I’ve gone running every morning for the last month, and by the time I get back to my house after crossing the bridge and back, I’m dripping with sweat.

There’s a chill in the air today.

I think that’s Vincent…talking to me.

“Hey, bro,” I say, pulling my shirt from my body and laying it on the grass, sitting on it and bending my legs in front of me.

I rest my palms on my knees, and spend the first several minutes just…feeling. It took a while before I could find the courage to talk out here. It took me a while to find my voice, I guess. My mom had Vincent buried in West Haven. It’s on the other side of the freeway, and newer than the city cemetery closer to our house. She didn’t want to see him surrounded by graffiti, she said. I’m glad he’s here. He’s close enough to home, but he also got out. My heart feels a stabbing pain every time I see his name etched in the small concrete slab buried in the ground, the green grass bordering it on all sides, the small metal vase perched on the corner—a rose, or something else, always inside.

I tip the vase back to check the level of the water and smirk when I see it’s full. Momma and Maria don’t miss a day. When the roses are out of season, the Mendozas plant something else.

“The women are still working hard to make sure you look good, Vincent. Your flowers are always the best,” I smile, leaning back on my hands and tilting my chin to the sky, feeling a warm breeze brush my face while my fingers dig into the cool blades beneath them.

I breathe in deep, holding the air in my lungs. I need my brother today. I can’t explain why exactly. I think it’s just that this day was one I always pictured him being here for, and the fact that he’s not? I feel it.

It hurts.

I sit up again, leaning forward and pulling the folded paper from my pocket. It’s funny how easy it’s always been for me to just speak. Last year, I argued both against
and
for
the death penalty in front of the school board, a few legislators, and the two hundred people who attend the annual debate with St. Augustine. I didn’t sweat. Nerves weren’t even in the picture.

Today feels heavy, though. I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s because it’s the last time I get to be this version of me. I haven’t felt like a kid since Alyssa moved into Vincent’s room the day my brother shipped out, but I also haven’t quite been
adult.
I’ve been…something else. Today, though…today, I become something
more.

“I’m making a speech tonight,” I say, unfolding the paper in my lap. “I know, I know—
of course I am. I never shut up.
You were always the first to tease me for being such a goody-goody.”

I look up from the page, the breeze blowing the deep-green tips of grass around me. That’s Vincent—
laughing.

“I also know you were proud,” I say. “You didn’t have to say it. I felt it.”

A car drives by slowly, so I lean forward and look into my lap. There’s something personal about being in the cemetery. It’s a place for secret conversations. Maybe that’s just the way I feel, but I’ve noticed that other people that come out here—they like to be left alone, too. It’s sort of an unspoken agreement. We don’t stare, and we let people have their space and time. I glance up when the car disappears behind the thick trees.

“I was wondering if maybe I could just run this by you once? I know you never really liked to hear my speeches. You always said I was better when I didn’t have something planned, but this one’s important. There are a lot of people that show up for this thing, and I just want to make sure I get it right.”

I clear my throat and look around to make sure I’m still alone. It’s just me and the car—the woman driving was older, and she’s too far for me to see now.

“Okay…here goes…”

I breathe in deep.

“I was afraid of you. I know that’s not what you expect to hear from someone like me. I’m the kid from West End—I must be tough, I must be a thug, I must have a gun in my home, I must be in a gang…
I bet he’s killed someone, I bet his brother’s in prison.
You can see why I was afraid. I was so afraid that I would get here, and that’s all you would see—a picture in your heads that was so far from the truth, but too impossible to overcome.”

“I was afraid of discrimination. Of intolerance. Of ignorance. I remember the meetings the admissions board held when I was in junior high, the ones about getting rid of the scholarship program because it exposed good kids to at-risk youth. At. Risk. Youth. That phrase…it’s too small. It’s pejorative. It’s not entirely wrong. Growing up in West End made me. That risk…it toughened me up. It made me fast. It made me fight. When I was a kid, I remember hiding on the floor of my room on Friday nights so stray bullets wouldn’t harm me. I hated my home. I loved it. I would never choose it for someone—never wish for my child to feel the fear I did. I could never imagine growing up somewhere else. That fear made me. That fear is the reason I stand up here; the reason I pushed myself to learn, to question, to try—
to argue.
That fear was balanced out by faith.
”

“I was so afraid of you,” I say, stopping and folding the paper, looking to the flat stone in front of me. These words…I know them by heart now. They’re about Reagan and the friends I’ve made, but they’re also about Vincent. “You made me, too. You lifted me. You pushed me. You believed in me. You saw the boy from West End. I surprised you. But you—
you surprised me, too.
”

“This life, our lives—they are colored by expectations. It’s the surprises, though—how we deviate—that define us. Our time here at Cornwall, together…it’s so very short. Today, we’ll all stand on this field one final time and move a tassel on our caps to mark an end. We’ll blink, and then we’ll begin. We’ll be afraid, but we’ll fight. We’ll push, and we’ll remember who we were, what we thought we knew, what we know now, and how it’s made us—and then we’ll surprise. We’ll shock. We’ll amaze.”

“When I was afraid, you challenged me. And now, I dare you. I defy you to be great. Do not just
be
tradition—
break
tradition. As only you can.”

I fold the paper again and push it in my pocket, shaking my head as my mouth falls into its comfortable smirk.

“Do you have any idea how much you mean to me, brother?”

I know he won’t answer, but I think he hears me anyhow. My brother could have died a dishonorable death. He didn’t. His story is this blueprint for me, even the dark parts. I run my palm over my face, my eyes burning as I hold his memory close.

“I wish you could have met Reagan,” I say, my smile growing, knowing how much my brother would tease me for falling for a girl so much like me despite our differences.

“She’s so talented. The film she made is going to air on the public television station in California sometime in the fall. She had applied to USC as a backup, but she swears I’m not her only reason for wanting to go there.”

“Truthfully, though?” I look down at my fidgeting hands, laughing to myself. “Vincent, I wouldn’t care if I
was
the only reason. Is that bad? It’s bad, isn’t it? It’s selfish. I know it is. But this girl, Vincent.”

I run my hand over my eyes again and move it to my open mouth then my chin, laughing into my palm.

“She has me so completely, and the only thing I can compare it to is the way you said Alyssa hit your heart. Like there’s nothing too crazy, too far, too much...”

I stretch my legs out in front of me and rest back on my palms again, feeling my brother there with me. I don’t speak any more. My nerves are calmed, and I know that when I step in front of my graduating class as their valedictorian in just a few hours, I’ll be all right. I know when I pack everything I own—however slight those possessions may be—and pile into my barely-running car, that I’ll make it all the way. I know that when I’m throwing the ball down the field, competing for the starting job at USC, that there’s going to be a guy building up some young quarterback on the field in Alabama at the exact same time. And he’ll be rooting for me. All because I surprised him.

I stand, shaking out the damp shirt I’d been sitting on and tucking it in the band of my shorts for the walk home. I bend down over Vincent’s stone, balling my hand into a fist and resting it against the cool cement until I feel him tap back. My knuckles remain cold, and eventually I stand, pushing my hands into my pockets to begin the long walk home alone.

Alone, but not for long.

I love my home.

And I love what it made me.