Page 43 of Hard Count
“Why did you lie about it?” I grip the edge of the counter until my knuckles turn white. The truth scares me. For so longI’ve heard what I wanted to. Everything he did or said filtered through my brain and I gave it a negative connotation.
But what if it wasn’t negative, what if it’s been me interpreting everything wrong and believing the worst from the beginning? Having basement level expectations was the only way to keep the pain minimal.
His fork stops mid-air and he lowers it down to his plate. I ignore Nash’s worried look. He’s the reason I’m feeling brave enough to travel down this road to begin with. He’s been helping me find the confidence to do a lot of things lately. I hated admitting I was jealous. I don’t understand why everyone else gets to see that side of my dad and I’m stuck with condescending remarks and basic pleasantries.
“Because it made you happy. You were excited about it. I didn’t want to take that away from you I guess. I don’t know. It was a long time ago,” he answers, not realizing the importance of my question.
“I guess it was a long time ago.” I grab a few napkins and join them at the table. Staying in his seat, Nash pulls my chair out for me. I don’t miss how he moves it closer to him in the process.
Last week I let Nash and my dad monopolize most of the conversation. But tonight feels different. I don’t sense the built up frustration swimming in my gut like I usually do.
“Did you enjoy the game?” my dad asks in between bites.
“I did.”
“I’m glad you’re going. It’s good to show support for the team and school spirit.”
I nod and smile briefly when Nash catches my eye. “It’s fun. Especially when we’re winning.”
“We had their kicker working overtime,” my dad jokes. “Our boys did well.”
“We had a little help,” Nash says. I kick his foot under the table. He promised he would keep my assistance a secret. I’m not sure why I don’t want my dad to know. I tried to help once and he rejected me. I guess I don’t want to live through that feeling all over again.
“Oh yeah?” my dad asks.
“Ever since Drew’s been coming to the games she’s been helping.” Nash lays his hand over my balled fist in my lap and forces me to relax my hands. I glare back at him. What is he doing?
‘It’s okay’he mouths silently to me. Letting go of my hand, he nods toward my dad. He wants me to fess up? I don’t think so. I go back to eating my food and hope the subject gets changed before I finish my last Rangoon.
“What have you been doing?” Dad asks before dunking an egg roll in a ramekin of soy sauce.
“Nothing really.” I shrug.
“She’s being modest. She’s been pointing out gaps in our defense and inconsistencies in our offense. She studies our opponents too.”
“I see.” Dad takes a sip of his tea. “I should have known you would do what you wanted despite me telling you we already had coaches on staff.”
“I was trying to help,” I say.
His face softens and lets out a sigh. “I know. You've always wanted to be part of the team. Did she tell you she joined me at practices when she was little?” he asks Nash.
“Yes, sir,” Nash replies and my dad levels him with a look. “Gavin. She mentioned it once.”
“One of her friend’s parents would pick her up from elementary school and drop her off at the high school every afternoon. She would stand on the sidelines with a clipboard in her hand and a whistle around her neck.” Dad chuckles at the memory. “She gave those boys hell.” His eyes flick to mine and for the first time in years I see pride.
“I wish I could have seen it for myself,” Nash says.
“There are some photo albums around here somewhere. She even made the yearbook a few times. We can look through them while we watch the night game. There might even be a few of you—”
“Let’s not. Please,” I beg. I’m not sure what all my dad has hoarded away but I can only imagine. There are a few photos I would prefer Nash to never know about.
“You’re no fun,” Nash teases. “I would love to see what Coach Drew looked like.”
“I will spare you the second hand embarrassment and say thanks but no thanks. It will distract us from watching the game anyway.” I stab my fork in a piece of chicken and tear off a bite with my teeth.
My dad smirks. “That’s why we have commercial breaks.”
I drop my head back and groan.
