Thanks, though,” Nico says, dismissing her.
I never take my eyes from him, and I search for that last vestige of inner strength for me to be the girl who pitched this wild idea to her dad an hour ago.
“Why not?” I ask, setting the rest of my soda down on a small coffee table and standing with my arms folded in front and my posture as straight and rigid as I can hold it.
Nico laughs silently, locking his gaze with mine for a few seconds before blinking and glancing down. He sets his soda next to mine, then stands in the same pose as me, his smirk—his armor—in its place.
“For starters, I don’t need the football team,” he says.
“You’re right. But we need you,” I say, surprising myself. I practiced this on the way here, however short that rehearsal was. I knew I wouldn’t be able to trick Nico. I’d have to appeal to his empathy—I’d have to ask, make him feel needed and wanted. Frankly, he is.
His smirk drops a little at my reply, which makes my chest loosen just a little. I breathe in long and deep, but the longer he looks at me without speaking, the more my fingers twitch and my feet grow restless until I break my folded arm pose and bring my hands to my eyes, rubbing while I pace a stride or two in either direction.
“My dad needs you. The team needs you,” I say, opening my eyes to see him still staring at me, his smirk now gone completely.
I sigh, then tug my hair loose from the knot at my neck, scratching the sore spot where the band pulled it tight. Everything about me feels awful and uncomfortable right now, and I hate that Nico is looking at me. I’m already here, though, and I’ve already said the hard part, so I stare into his eyes and wait until his arms uncross, so I know he’s feeling a little off his game, too.
“Friday night…when I watched you with your friends?” I wait for him to nod; to know he’s willing to at least listen to me. “You guys were…you were really good,” I say through a nervous laugh. I suck in my lip, needing something from him to encourage me to keep going.
“I’m sorry about your brother,” he says, and my heartbeat kicks up at the mention of Noah.
My eyes fall to my feet, and I shift my balance, looping my thumbs in my pockets while I nod lightly.
“Thanks,” I say.
When I look back up, Nico’s gaze is now on the ground between us, and he’s chewing at the inside of his cheek, which means he’s thinking. I know he is, because I’ve seen him work through things in class—bide his time before he could speak and make a well-rounded, hard-to-argue-with point. I can’t let him hit me with a foolproof defense before I get one last shot at this.
“He broke the tibia and fibula; he’s going to be out for the season. My dad…” I stutter, my breath catching hard, because I know this move could be a defining moment for my father. Win or lose means in or out for Coach Prescott, and his fate is literally in the hands of his quarterback. “I know what I saw you do out on that field. I’ve watched my dad coach the best, and I know how they move. You…you look like my father’s been working with you for years.”
“Yeah, well, he hasn’t,” Nico snaps, his eyes still down and his mouth tight.
“No, I know,” I say. “But I showed him…”
Nico’s body jolts at my words, and I pause long enough for our eyes to meet. His are wide now, and I think maybe this is the only time I’ve ever seen him on edge, unsure of the next move or what side of the coin he needs to pick.
“I showed him the video I shot. And he can’t ask you to come out, because of your scholarship. It can’t be part of recruiting. But if you decided that football was maybe something you wanted to try…if you, say, stopped by his office hours in the morning and asked about a supplemental tryout…”
Nico doesn’t blink. He also doesn’t frown or smile or react in any way. But he hears me.
“Look, I’ll understand. Or…well, no, I probably won’t.
I never take my eyes from him, and I search for that last vestige of inner strength for me to be the girl who pitched this wild idea to her dad an hour ago.
“Why not?” I ask, setting the rest of my soda down on a small coffee table and standing with my arms folded in front and my posture as straight and rigid as I can hold it.
Nico laughs silently, locking his gaze with mine for a few seconds before blinking and glancing down. He sets his soda next to mine, then stands in the same pose as me, his smirk—his armor—in its place.
“For starters, I don’t need the football team,” he says.
“You’re right. But we need you,” I say, surprising myself. I practiced this on the way here, however short that rehearsal was. I knew I wouldn’t be able to trick Nico. I’d have to appeal to his empathy—I’d have to ask, make him feel needed and wanted. Frankly, he is.
His smirk drops a little at my reply, which makes my chest loosen just a little. I breathe in long and deep, but the longer he looks at me without speaking, the more my fingers twitch and my feet grow restless until I break my folded arm pose and bring my hands to my eyes, rubbing while I pace a stride or two in either direction.
“My dad needs you. The team needs you,” I say, opening my eyes to see him still staring at me, his smirk now gone completely.
I sigh, then tug my hair loose from the knot at my neck, scratching the sore spot where the band pulled it tight. Everything about me feels awful and uncomfortable right now, and I hate that Nico is looking at me. I’m already here, though, and I’ve already said the hard part, so I stare into his eyes and wait until his arms uncross, so I know he’s feeling a little off his game, too.
“Friday night…when I watched you with your friends?” I wait for him to nod; to know he’s willing to at least listen to me. “You guys were…you were really good,” I say through a nervous laugh. I suck in my lip, needing something from him to encourage me to keep going.
“I’m sorry about your brother,” he says, and my heartbeat kicks up at the mention of Noah.
My eyes fall to my feet, and I shift my balance, looping my thumbs in my pockets while I nod lightly.
“Thanks,” I say.
When I look back up, Nico’s gaze is now on the ground between us, and he’s chewing at the inside of his cheek, which means he’s thinking. I know he is, because I’ve seen him work through things in class—bide his time before he could speak and make a well-rounded, hard-to-argue-with point. I can’t let him hit me with a foolproof defense before I get one last shot at this.
“He broke the tibia and fibula; he’s going to be out for the season. My dad…” I stutter, my breath catching hard, because I know this move could be a defining moment for my father. Win or lose means in or out for Coach Prescott, and his fate is literally in the hands of his quarterback. “I know what I saw you do out on that field. I’ve watched my dad coach the best, and I know how they move. You…you look like my father’s been working with you for years.”
“Yeah, well, he hasn’t,” Nico snaps, his eyes still down and his mouth tight.
“No, I know,” I say. “But I showed him…”
Nico’s body jolts at my words, and I pause long enough for our eyes to meet. His are wide now, and I think maybe this is the only time I’ve ever seen him on edge, unsure of the next move or what side of the coin he needs to pick.
“I showed him the video I shot. And he can’t ask you to come out, because of your scholarship. It can’t be part of recruiting. But if you decided that football was maybe something you wanted to try…if you, say, stopped by his office hours in the morning and asked about a supplemental tryout…”
Nico doesn’t blink. He also doesn’t frown or smile or react in any way. But he hears me.
“Look, I’ll understand. Or…well, no, I probably won’t.
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