The Hard Count

by Ginger Scott

  We turn back to the field as whistles begin to blow, and my eyes search for a clue. Coach O’Donahue is talking with the referees while one of his assistant coaches rushes back down the field, hopping the fence for the shortest route and sprinting to the locker room. The other team’s four captains are holding hands, waiting in the center of the field for the coin flip, and I start to worry that Jimmy’s not going to cave.

  “They’re going to forfeit,” I whisper.

  “Huh? Why? Why would they do that?” Nico’s mom asks, scooting forward, her eye worried and searching.

  “Nah…they won’t,” Noah says, leaning forward and winking just as the chant of “hoorah!” echoes from the dark behind him.

  My chest fills with air and my body feels light, and I realize just how much my muscles have been clenching, on edge.

  The team moves toward the field, and I see my friend holding a banner up while she sits on another cheerleader’s shoulders, stretching the hand-painted paper, perhaps the ugliest looking drawing of a Tiger I’ve ever seen, across several feet to another pair of cheerleaders on the other side. The team huddles and disappears behind the banner, their “woofing” and chest-pounding growing like thunder until they break through the center, Nico and Colton at the front, Travis right behind them.

  My family and Nico’s stands and screams. I’m filled with adrenaline, and my nerves are out of control, my fingers tingling and my legs unable to stop moving. I apologize as I sit down next to Valerie, and she hugs me from the side.

  “I can’t stop moving, either. It’s okay,” she says.

  With my camera set and propped next to me, I let myself watch kickoff with my own eyes. The North team is huge—in both numbers and size—and they manage to gain twenty yards on their initial run. They make the fifty, and I start to worry—my father and Nico’s uncle both shouting the things they see wrong, agreeing and shouting louder.

  In a blink, Sasha changes the course of the game. He pulls away from the line, shifting and staying with the targeted receiver, reading the pass perfectly and leaping in front at the right time. He’s only able to bring the ball down before the North offense tackles him, but he jumps and pounds his chest as he makes his way to our side, tossing the ball to the ref.

  Coach O’Donahue has his offense pulled off to the side, and he’s holding up a hand to the ref, giving them instructions before yelling, “Break.” When Nico rushes to the field, I get to my feet, not caring that it’s only the first play. I’m so happy to see him out there, so proud and so relieved that Jimmy didn’t ruin this, too; I have to stand. My mom stands with me, and before long, I’ve started a movement, and the entire right side of the bleachers is on their feet, screaming.

  The hard count is a thing of beauty when it’s done right. It requires trust. It thrives on surprise. It needs precision and a certain amount of faith. Rarely, if ever, have I seen a quarterback use it right out of the gate. My dad recognizes it, too, and I smile seeing the smirk on his face. Nico shouts his cadence, the rhythm different, his offense ready—North falls into their hands.

  “Offsides!” the announcer says.

  The head ref signals the five yards, and both teams move—our opponent now lit and flustered. This is where Nico wants them.

  Off guard.

  Before the defense is even set, Nico’s calling the play, only enough time for them to make it to the line before he’s backpedalling, Colton holding the line, Travis sprinting. Fifteen yards out, Nico’s pass is a bullet to his chest, and the defense wraps him up. In no-huddle, hurry-up mode, The Tradition scrambles, and they do it again. And again. The same play, only slight variations. North has no answers, and in less than a minute, Nico hits Travis in the end zone, and we’re up six to zero.

  “That was unbelievable,” my dad says, scratching at his chin while my mom grabs his arm in both of her hands, shaking it in her excitement.

  “He’s better than me,” Noah says.

  My mom starts in quickly with her “no, honeys” and “you’re different,” but Noah holds his hand up to stop her.

  “He is. He’s better than me, and it’s okay, Mom. I’m in awe,” Noah says, his eyes clear and wide, his head shaking at what just happened on the field.

  Nico’s Uncle Danny leans to high-five both my brother and my dad, while Nico’s mom beams with pride, Alyssa clapping and screaming her uncle’s name over and over again—Nico, Nico, Nico!

  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.

  22

  Since 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.”