“Then she told him she planned on getting the game tape, and she’s still not sure if she wants to send it to the media or not,” my dad says.
His words spark my urgency in an instant. I squeeze his arm and dash off to the bleachers, rushing up the steps to the press box, tripping on the last few metal rows and racking my knee against the corner so hard that I’m sure it’s bleeding under my jeans. The press box door is still open, but the lights inside are off. I feel my way to the ladder and push up on the ceiling hatch to climb out onto the roof.
My camera is lying on its side, and I know before I even get to it that it’s likely turned off. I pull it into my hands and switch it on, then sink back, my body resting against the small half wall that lines the roof. The film was turned off after three minutes. I filmed nothing more than a few warm-ups. Those bastards thought of everything.
I sulk back to my parents, my camera packed away in the bag, and my father nods to me as I get closer, questioning if I got it on film without really asking. I shake my head no, and his eyes close slowly, his arm stretching out for me to fall into his side.
My dad eventually sends my mom home with Noah, and he stays with me while every player leaves the locker room. One by one, they walk up to him and shake his hand. It wasn’t something planned, which makes it all the more beautiful. My father’s eyes tear at one point, when players that rarely get a chance to even step on the field walk up, some of them hugging him and telling him they’ll always be playing for him, even if they’re not.
Jimmy O’Donahue’s coaching staff exits, too, but they stand against the far wall together, watching the display of affection for the man that should still be at the helm. My father was the victim of gross private-school politics, and they know it could happen to them at any moment. I don’t fault them for holding on to their jobs. I know as they stand there together—away from Jimmy, who still hides inside—they feel the same as every player giving Chad Prescott their allegiance.
Nico is the last to step out, and he walks up to my father without even wavering, his gear slung over his back, his board tucked under his arm. My father takes his bag from him without exchanging words, then puts his arm around him just as silently.
“I told your mom I would take you home,” he says, surprising me, because I didn’t know that was part of their exchange.
“Yes, sir,” Nico says.
“It’s just Chad now, son. Just Chad,” my dad says.
“Yes, sir,” Nico says again.
My father chuckles, and I follow them both a few steps behind. When we get to the car, my dad looks over to mine, then his eyes come to me.
“I’ll bring you back to get your car when we’re done. Come on,” my dad says.
I climb inside, letting Nico take the front seat next to my father, and we drive the eleven miles to West End in silence, Nico only speaking after we cross the freeway and my dad needs directions. We pull up to the house, and Valerie is waiting just outside the door with a bouncing Alyssa at her side. Uncle Danny’s car is still out front, so I’m sure he’s still inside.
I linger in the back seat of the car as Nico steps out, and I watch as my father helps him with his bag, walking him up to his house, and shaking hands with Nico’s mom. She grips my dad’s hand in both of hers, and my father doesn’t look up from their touch for the longest time while she just speaks. Nico turns in the doorway, his eyes meeting mine, and he pulls his phone from his pocket, waving it to let me know he’ll call. I pull mine in my hands and climb to the front seat as my father walks back to the car.
He gets in and shifts the car into reverse, exhaling heavily and checking his mirrors before finally pulling out into the roadway. We get to the stoplight at the freeway, and I feel my phone buzz in my hands. I’m about to look when my dad finally speaks.
“That kid is something special, and I’m not going to let what happened to me ruin it for him, Reagan. You tell him I promise, okay?”
My dad’s face is serious; the red glow shines over his skin at the light, reflected against the way his jaw works and his lips frown in frustration.
A few sprinkles hit the windshield, and as the signal switches to green, my dad flicks on the wipers, the car now filled with the low hum of some sports-radio station and the squeal of the rubber blade along the window. The sound is comforting and pulls a dozen memories to the front of my mind, remembering the smell, the feel, every little sensation that went along with so many games that I rode home from in this very seat with my dad. It makes me smile.
“Okay,” I say, finally responding to his question.
“Okay, then,” he says back, his heavy hand patting my knee twice.