The Hard Count by Ginger Scott

my lips, so completely rocked by everything he says. We’re nowhere near even. And…I frustrate him? He’s standing here, waiting to walk with me. I wonder if there’s a pill I can take that will keep me from dreaming, because…he’s waiting to walk with me. I like that, and that… that’s all the damn dream’s fault. I know it!
    “Yeah, I’m coming to practice,” I say, stepping away from the door and falling in next to him.
    The door slams shut behind me, and we’re now the only two people left in the hallway. When we get to the end, Nico holds the glass door open for me, then stops with his hand out. I stare at it, my stomach actually swimming, unsure what he means by this gesture. I bunch my brow and look from his hand to his eyes, to his smirk which breaks quickly into a laugh.
    “Can I help you carry some of that? Your bag always looks so heavy,” he says.
    “That’s because it is,” I snap.
    “Wow,” he responds quickly, eyebrows lifting with the single word.
    I pull my mouth in tight and squint. I’m being short.
    “Sorry,” I say, not liking this emotional yo-yo I’m on.
    “I get it,” he shrugs, but can’t hold in his laugh as he mocks what I said to him earlier.
    “No, you really don’t,” I say back—just like he did. I’m unable to keep a straight face, and soon we’re both laughing.
    Nico reaches for my bag, his fingertips running along my shoulder as they sweep underneath the strap. The touch hits me with such surprise that I let him take my bag without any protest; whatever will get his fingers off my bare skin faster because… holy .
    “Touché, Reagan Prescott. Touché,” he says.
    All I can think of while we walk across the main lawn is how Nico is carrying my bag along with his, and how they both look to weigh a good thirty or thirty-five pounds. I’m sure he’s carrying his books along with his practice clothes and shoes, but then it hits me—something’s missing.
    “Where’s your board?” I ask.
    “Sasha’s driving me home,” he says.
    I stop walking, but Nico continues on a few steps before his feet finally halt. His legs bend slightly and lift up quickly as he adjusts the weight on both shoulders before turning to face me.
    “I need your advice,” he says, his eyes making it to mine briefly before getting lost in the activity of the parking lot behind me. I know what he’s going to ask, and part of me wants to make him go through the painful task of mustering up the words and having to make his case to me because I’m going to be a hell of a lot easier than my dad, but then again… I’m going to be a hell of a lot easier than my dad. He needs to save his strength.
    “You want him to give Sasha another shot,” I say.
    Nico grimaces.
    “My dad doesn’t do that,” I say.
    “I figured,” he says.
    He leaves it at that, but he doesn’t move. His eyes stay on mine, wearing away at me until I have to avert them. I pull my hair loose from the twist, my fingers pushing the band down around my wrist as I cross my arms over my chest, letting the breeze unwind my hair around me. I watch as players file one by one into the locker room door, some of them leaping to tap the metal sign on the way in that reads TRADITION OF BROTHERHOOD—the answer to the question on the other side—WHOSE HOUSE IS THIS? I think some of them believe it. Some. Not all, though. Definitely not all.
    Nico and Sasha do. What I saw that night on the field. What I saw in practice yesterday. One leads, one follows—neither abandons.
    “All you can do is ask,” I say, not looking at him until I’m done talking, not expecting his eyes to be waiting for me. They’re sincere and hopeful, and my small sliver of a boost pushes his mouth up on one side.
    “A’right,” he says, slipping my bag down his arm and holding it out for me to take. I grab it and pull it up on my shoulder, letting the weight of the tripod rest on my hip.
    “Good luck,” I say, my eyes squinting from the