Page 3 of Hard Count
“I’m not going to make this easy for you. Watch the tape. You’ll see it.”
Moving closer, I say, “Give me a little hint.” My eyes drift over her face and land on her pink lips momentarily.
Letting out an irritated sigh, she says, “Fine. Your hands.” Her eyes drop to my arms resting on the bar. She runs her pointer finger over the vein on my hand like a fortune teller tracing a lifeline on your palm. Instinctively I squeeze my hand into a fist making the vein plump even more.
Her eyes catch mine and a tiny breath escapes her mouth, filling the small distance between us with the scent of the sugary cherry syrup of her drink. I dart my eyes down to my hand where the tip of her pale blue fingernail still touches my skin. Realizing her hand is still touching mine, she curls her fingers into her palm and pulls away.
“Thanks for the tip but I’m doing just fine. I don’t need to rewatch tapes.” I straighten my spine and square my shoulders. At six foot three, I should be intimidating. Self preservation should have her shrinking back, instead she rises to the challenge.
“Of course. Ignore everything I’ve said. You know best. I’m sure your coaches have already told you what I know anyway. And if they haven’t, you’re in for a rough season.” She spins in her seat dismissing me.
I’m overcome with the need to have the last word. Yet, I can’t think of anything to say. Coach Prescott hasn’t mentioned an issue with my hands. I’ve been working on my agility and speed during the off season. I’ll never admit she’s right about that.
“What’s your name?” I ask. The basic question makes her shoulders stiffen.
“It’s not important.” Her eyes meet mine in the mirrored wall behind the bar before drifting over to the television. I decide not to push the issue. She’s right. It’s not important. She’s likely drifting through town on summer break. I won’t be seeing her again. Putting a name to the girl with an arsenal of insults about the way I play football doesn’t do me any good.
I leave the bar more tense than when I entered. She was also right about another thing. This game is mental and I need to focus. I try to shake off all her snide remarks. Commentary on my performance is nothing new. I hear it weekly, if not daily, from coaches, trainers, and sports anchors. Yet, there’s something about her words that hit differently.
2
NASH
FOUR WEEKS UNTIL GAME ONE
Your hands.
What does that even mean? I don’t do anything weird with my hands. Practice and complete exhaustion have kept me from grabbing last season’s game film from the media room. I’ll be doing that before I head home today because I can’t stop thinking about what she said. Or maybe I just can’t stop thinking about her.
“Hydrate,” Asher, one of our athletic trainers, says, handing me a water bottle. “They say today’s heat index is the highest of the week. It’s going to be uncomfortable.”
“If we’re comfortable, we aren’t working hard enough,” Eli says, joining us on the sideline and grabbing water from Asher. Eli plays on defense. He’s also one of my roommates and close friends. He moved in with me over the summer along with Gage and Ozzy—two Newhouse soccer players.
“Nash, Lucas, Marcus, you’re up again.” Coach Prescott waves me onto the field. “Let’s run through each passing play without defenders and then a second time with them.”
I nod and get myself into position. These drills are like riding a bike. My first year at school I gave up most of my social life to study every play inside and out. I may have been the new kid and the backup quarterback but I was eager to learn. I was ready to put in the work and make a name for myself here.
Marcus hikes the ball. I catch it and line it up in my hand. Taking a few steps back, I swiftly scan the field. The timing on this pass has to be perfect because I’m throwing to an empty spot downfield and hoping Lucas will be there to catch the ball. If I’m a second too late or my accuracy is off, it could be disastrous.
The what-ifs run through my head long enough I end up over throwing the pass forcing Lucas to chase after it. If this was a real game, it would have been a missed pass at best or a pick at worst.Fuck. I’ve got to stop doing this to myself.
I run back to the sideline and gulp down more water before we have to run through the plays all over again with the defense.
“What happened back there?” Coach asks. “You had Lucas running laps chasing after the ball.” His brow bends under the rim of his sunglasses and his lips flatten. I stare at his visor that’s currently trapping his full head of dark hair.
I don’t like letting Coach down. Newhouse University was my dream school. I’ve wanted to play for Coach GavinPrescott since I was in middle school when I watched him turn the organization around. We went from barely winning games ten years ago to being repeat champions several seasons in a row. I want to feel that once before I graduate.
“I got in my head, Coach. It won’t happen again.”
“See that it doesn’t. You need to concentrate. We take it one play at a time. Don’t think about anything else except executing the play.”
“Yes, sir.” I nod. He’s right. One play at a time. Forget everything else. I need to clear my head and not worry about what could happen. I especially don’t need to think about the dressing down I received from some random girl I met at a bar weeks ago.
“Everything good?” Eli asks.
“Just a quick reminder to keep my eyes on the end game.” I grab my towel off the bench and wipe the sweat off my face.
“How are we supposed to stay focused when girls who look like her show up at our practices?” Trey asks, staring at the bleachers behind me.
