The Hard Count (30 page)

W
e pull
onto my street with exactly eight minutes to spare. I think Nico was watching the clock all along to be sure he delivered me home early. He confirms my suspicion when his car clears over the hump of the curb and he shifts it into park, turning to me and says, “Brownie points.”

My smile meets his, and for a moment, we sit in the quiet of my driveway staring at one another—nothing but a night full of football, dancing, and kisses between us. Tonight…it was a perfect fairy tale. But all tales have villains. Ours is ruined the moment my eyes realize the other cars in our driveway—two parked on the street. The cars…they’re familiar.

“Did your parents have a party or something?” Nico asks, twisting in his seat and looking around us.

“It’s the board,” I say.

I slump back into my seat. I don’t want to go inside, because I know.

I know.

“Like, for Cornwall?”

Nico still pivots where he sits, glancing from the two cars in front of us to the few parked near my favorite tree. I take in a deep breath, and as I exhale, I let my eyes fall shut, remembering all that was good tonight—before everything fell apart.

“Why would they be here?” Nico asks. I open my eyes on him, the wrinkle of confusion set deep in his brow.

“You have the fifty-seven…we live with the board,” I say, and his head cocks to the side. I watch as realization washes over him, his expression shifting from confusion to understanding in a breath, his eyes moving toward defiant.

“Why would they want to meet with your dad now?” Nico says, his hand on his door. He’s out of the car before I can answer, running to my side to open my door for me.

“I don’t know,” I say, even though in the pit of my stomach, I have a suspicion. The board doesn’t make house calls unless they want to take care of something they perceive as a
problem
. Noah’s indiscretions perhaps. My mom has already been let go of her post. The only other thing would be my father.

Nico grips my hand as I step up from the car, and we take a few steps toward my front door just as it swings open. Men and women—all dressed as if they’re heading to Sunday school—spill from my home. A few of them laugh together, as if they’ve just left a business retreat and are excited to be heading to the bar. The others behind them have more somber faces. I recognize Thomas Loftgrin, my brother’s now
ex-
girlfriend’s father; he makes eye contact with me.

I know.

Nico steps to the side while nearly a dozen people leave my home, and as they head to their cars, we look toward the open front door they left behind. My parents didn’t see them out.

I swallow as we walk up to the house, and when we step inside, my mom is standing behind her sitting-chair by the fireplace, her hands on the high back as if she’s using it to protect herself from something bad. My dad sits across from her, his head in his hands, elbows on his knees. He’s still wearing his deep-blue polo short, still tucked in to his khaki pants, his belt still tight. I bet he had just gotten home from reviewing the game, from talking with his coaching staff.

I bet they were here, waiting for him.

My mom’s mouth falls open, and she begins to greet Nico and me, but her words never come. She pulls her mouth into a fake, tight smile, tears threatening to fall from her eyes. She’s trembling, and I know she is near falling apart.

“Dad?” I ask, needing someone to confirm it—to say it out loud.

He lifts his head from his hands, his face serious, his eyes narrow and angry. Chad Prescott doesn’t get emotional, but he does get pissed. Whatever this is, it’s moved beyond that.

My dad’s eyes meet mine, and he works his lips, sucking in the top one and letting it go with a slow nod.

“It’s done,” he says.

My mom gasps and covers her mouth.

“What’s done?” Nico asks.

Shifting his focus to his young quarterback, my dad stares at Nico hard. He doesn’t blink and he doesn’t speak.

“Coach, what…what happened here?” Nico asks.

My dad’s head falls slightly to the side as he exhales through his nose, his mouth still a hard line.

“It isn’t
Coach
anymore, Nico. On Monday, you’ll be playing for Jimmy O’Donahue. Don’t worry, though. You…you’ll be all right,” my father says.

Nico’s feet shift where he stands, and his hand grips mine harder.

“I don’t understand. We…we won. We’re winning,” Nico says.

“It wasn’t going to matter, Nico. This…it isn’t your fault,” my dad says.

“It’s nobody’s fault,” my mom pipes in, her words coming out raw, through a stifled cry. “And it isn’t fair. I hate this place! I hate their rules! You lose once…
once!
They hold it against you forever. I…I need to go talk to Noah.”

“Noah was here?” I ask, my mom holds up a hand, covering her mouth with the other one as she excuses herself down the hallway. I turn my attention back to the room.

“He was. He had just come in, left the dance early—just like we asked him to. He pulled up right before Jimmy,” my dad says, shaking his head as his eyes move toward the still-open door. My father stands and walks toward us, continuing on to the door so he can push it closed. As soon as it clicks in place, his fist comes down against the panels hard, rattling the door, frame, and wall that surround it. “Those goddamned assholes!”

I move my touch to Nico’s arm, gripping it and holding him close to me, but he pulls loose, looking at me and holding up a finger. Nico walks to my father and puts his hand on my dad’s shoulder, and that small touch pushes my father over the edge, his head falling forward into his palm, his body sinking into the door before silently quaking. Nico leans into him, resting his forehead on the place where his hand rests on my father, and I stand alone, watching.

“I’ll quit sir,” Nico says.

My dad straightens instantly, turning to face Nico as he runs his thumbs under his damp eyes.

“No,” my dad says, shaking his head. “No. Absolutely no, you will not.”

“I won’t play for someone else,” Nico says.

My father takes in a deep breath, his eyes at Nico’s feet at first, then gliding up to look his prodigy in the eyes. My dad lifts his hand and rests it on Nico’s shoulder, squeezing and forcing a hint of a smile to cross his lips.

“Nico, you play for you. You…you have never played for anyone but you. And…Jesus Christ, son, you frustrate me.
Frustrated
me, but hell if it didn’t work. It was the right way to coach you. To let you fly. You play for you, and you will continue to play for you. You’ve got six games—
six!
You win that championship, and you go play for some big school that you deserve. And then you give those fuckers the middle finger, because they’ll still be right here. Without you, Nico? They’ve got nothin’.”

Nico’s silent, and I can read him more than I’ve ever been able to before. His jaw works, and his brow pulls in as he stares at my father, breathing in and out through his nose until he finally nods.

“I’ll play, Coach. But I can’t be quiet out there. I can’t just pretend any of this is okay. I’ll play, but I won’t keep my mouth shut,” he says.

“I wouldn’t expect you to, son. I wouldn’t expect you to,” my dad says, his mouth curving a hint more, this smile born from pride.

My father’s eyes move to me, and he holds them there for a beat before they drift back to the ground, his hand falling limp at his side.

“Reagan, go check on your mom and brother, would you? I’m…” he chuckles. “I’m going to go have a drink. A hard one. A
few
hard ones.”

“Dad,” I start, but he holds up a hand.

“Alone,” he says. “I’m all right, and I’ll figure this out, but right now, I just need to go be mad as hell, all right?”

I pull my lips in tight and my eyes flit to Nico. He nods to me, but I can tell from his face that he’s still processing, too.

“All right,” I say.

My dad moves into the kitchen, and I hear the back sliding door open and close a second or two later. He likes to sit at the edge of our property, where it’s dark and he can hide. It’s where he goes when he loses, usually. At least, after he’s done stewing in his office…which…isn’t
his
office anymore.

I’m hit with dozens of tiny realizations. My dad’s office, his job, his life and identity—
gone.
I turn to Nico, and he steps toward me, pulling me in his arms and pressing his lips on the top of my head. He’s still dressed in his perfect shirt, his collar loosened, but only a little, his tie the same. I hold it in my hand, righting the knot to face the front.

“I’m going to go talk to Noah. You…you don’t have to stay. Really, it’s…”

“I want to,” Nico says, cutting me off. His eyes level me, and I breathe in and out hard.

“I can’t believe they fired him,” I say.

Nico shakes his head, his gaze never leaving mine alone.

I lead him down the hallway, and we step cautiously through my brother’s doorway. He’s sitting on the edge of his bed, his leg out in front of him, his crutches on the floor. My mom is sitting next to him rubbing circles in his back. He’s twice her size, yet she’s still Mom, and he’s still a little boy, all of eighteen.

His head is in his hands, his fingers pushing deep into his forehead. My mom steps up, running her thumbs under her eyes as she stands.

“Where’s your dad?” she asks. Noah looks up, his eyes taking in me and Nico.

“He’s in his spot,” I say, looking from her to my brother.

She nods, then steps past me.

“I’ll go join him,” she says.

“He said he wants to be alone,” I say as she leaves the room.

“He always says that. Stubborn man has been wanting to be alone for years,” she says, her voice trailing off. I hear her open the fridge in the distance, the sound of a bottle clanking into glass, and I chuckle.

“Back to the wine, it seems,” my brother says. I look him in the eyes and offer a pathetic smile. “I ruined her pot access,” he chuckles.

I move to sit next to him, and we both lean forward with our elbows on our hands. We used to sit like this when we were kids and both were in trouble. I can remember every time—the spaghetti we stuck on the ceiling…the Kool-Aid we poured on the white carpet…the dog we tried to keep hidden in Noah’s closet…the party we tried to throw our sophomore year.

“I won homecoming king,” Noah says, reaching toward his pillow. He picks up a plastic crown and tosses it to Nico. “Here you go, man.”

Nico rolls it in his hands and lifts a brow at my brother.

“Just figured you usually end up with everything that’s mine,” my brother says.

“Noah!” I scold him.

“I’m kidding,” my brother says, but I think part of him still isn’t.

“Don’t be a prick. Not now,” I say.

“Sorry,” he says, looking up to Nico and holding up a hand. “For real, man. I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right,” Nico says, spinning the crown in his hand and placing it on his head. His eyes look up at it, and I chuckle because he looks ridiculous. “Hey, maybe I can wear this at the Hungry Hill.”

“You working there?” my brother asks.

Nico tosses his crown back to him.

“Yeah, on Sundays,” he says.

“Isn’t that place, like…where truckers get blow jobs and stuff?” Noah says, and Nico and I both laugh at the inside joke.

“That’s,” Nico pauses, pushing his laughter down, “that’s not what I’ll be doing.”

Noah nods, then joins our quiet laughter. Soon, it’s silent again in his room. We all stare at the space on the floor between us. I’m searching my mind for something to say, something that will make the last few hours disappear, only leaving behind the good parts with Nico. But I can’t. I can’t just have the good and leave out the bad in life. I have to take it all, for what it’s worth. It’s how people learn, I guess. Those bad things, they teach us stuff. My dad’s job, and the loss of it? That taught me a hell of a lot about people, and the kind of people I want to be around.

“If Cornwall were in West End, they wouldn’t treat people like this,” I say.

My brother and Nico are quiet for a few seconds, then Nico breaks the silence with a laugh.

“If Cornwall were in West End,
you
wouldn’t go there,” he says.

“Not true,” I lie.

Nico tilts his head and purses his lips.

“Fine, but still. You know what I mean,” I say.

“Yeah, I know what you mean. People are allowed to make mistakes where I’m from. We have forgiveness,” he says.

I hear Noah swallow next to me, so I move my hand over to his leg, nudging him.

“You all right?” I ask.

He’s looking down, his hands folded over his knees. His face is more somber than I’ve ever seen it.

“It’s my fault,” he says, pulling his top lip in and sucking, letting it snap free with a pop before looking me in the eyes. “All of this…Dad’s job? It’s all my fault. If I hadn’t fucked up. If I wasn’t so damn angry that I was blind to what was really going on. Reagan, this is
all
my fault.”

“Noah, no. It’s not,” I say, grabbing his arm. “Your problems…they don’t bleed into the school’s politics. The board didn’t look at you having a hard time and decide to fire Dad because of it.”

“No? You really think they didn’t look at Chad Prescott’s fucked-up son and make a judgment on him? You think Mom crashing her car through our house…because of something
I
did…didn’t reflect on Dad? They were worried his fucked-up personal life was going to bleed out onto the field.”

“Noah, you don’t believe that,” I say, standing in front of him and pulling his chin up, forcing him to look at me. “They’ve been dying to fire Dad the second Jimmy O’Donahue said he was interested in the job. And it’s not about Brandon, because we all know he’s a shit quarterback, Noah. It’s about Jimmy, and Jimmy’s pedigree, and the fact that his family name is on a dozen gold plates at the front of the school. The O’Donahues may as well have built Cornwall, Noah. It’s about money. You cut them and they bleed goddamned gold! Dad didn’t have a shot in hell.”

Nico’s head falls back against the wall and he sighs. I turn to face him, and his head comes up enough to look at me.