They all turn their attention back to the TV, and my brother pushes himself up to his feet awkwardly, having to use Nico’s shoulder for a lift so he can stand, his arm pumping as he shouts, “Go, go, go!”
“Wooo whoo!” There’s a collective scream from the living room, and Alyssa runs through waving a homemade golden pom-pom in her hand, doing her best to do a cartwheel in the small space between the living room and kitchen.
It quiets again after the celebration, and for some reason, my eyes move to my father. He’s stopped eating, and eventually he leans forward enough to set his half-full plate on the small coffee table in the center of the room. He rests back in the chair again and rubs his hands together, his eyes eventually settling on Nico.
“They’re interested,” my dad says.
Nico glances to him briefly, but looks back at the television, not realizing what my father means. My eyes grow wide, and I step from my seat, moving to the living room. My quick movement catches Valerie’s attention, and she slides up next to me, looking at me, about to ask if something’s wrong, when my dad continues.
“Nico,” he says, getting his attention. Nico’s laughing at something with Noah, but he turns to my dad, quieting down. “USC…they’re…they’re interested.”
The only sound now is the announcer on the TV. Nico reaches forward and clicks the mute button, dropping the remote back to the table and folding his arms over his knees, leaning toward my dad. He looks stunned, and maybe a little frightened.
“I’m sure there are more, but I don’t get all of the calls now. USC called before I was fired, and I sent them game tape. They followed up last week, and they’re coming. They didn’t say for sure, but I’d be ready to have the game of your life Friday.”
“You’re serious,” Nico says, his voice almost a panic.
“I don’t joke about football, son,” my dad says.
Nico lets out a heavy breath, his hands moving to his hair, pushing his hat from his head and letting it fall against the wall while his fingers thread through the dark-brown strands on his head. His eyebrows lift high, and his eyes are glued wide.
“Nico, baby,” his mom says, moving to sit on the arm of the sofa. He twists and hugs her, and she kisses the top of his head, looking to my dad as she does, mouthing, “Thank you.”
My father smiles and nods, a look of pride on his face, but also pain. He wants to guide him through it all, but he has walls in his way now. He hates that he can’t hold his hand completely. My father—he loves Nico. Just like I thought he would.
The lunch party lasted well into the dinner hour with neighbors, church members, family, and friends dropping in and out of the Medina house until the sun began to fall. My parents left, my mom rounding up my drunken sleepy father by about six. Colton and Sasha ended up coming over, and my brother stood in the middle of the road throwing a child-size football to them and Nico while they all made bets over who could catch the best pass.
Watching them made me wish we’d all grown up together—more than we already have.
Eventually, Sasha, Colton and my brother leave, each offering to give me a ride that I don’t take because I want to stay here, with Nico. Our time alone is mostly non-existent. We see each other at school, under my dad’s watchful eye, in busy hallways, or at Charlie’s with the rest of the school. I think we’ve both been counting on the time when the sun went down, and as his mother sits at the kitchen table with her girlfriends playing cards, his niece asleep on the sofa, a cartoon on the TV, Nico takes my fingers in his, leading me down the hallway to his room.
He leaves his door open a crack at first, but it falls more and more closed each time he passes. He turns on his stereo, then pushes the door in more. He pulls his blinds closed, and nudges the door. He spreads his blanket out nicely over his rumpled bed; the door clicks to a close.
“You are a bad boy, Nico Medina,” I say, suddenly very aware of the loose shirt I wore over my favorite leggings, my feet in only socks as I left my Vans by the front door. My hair, of course, is down.
His eyes narrow on me as his chin falls toward his chest, his back against his door, and he reaches his finger forward, hooking it in the neck of my shirt, tugging me toward him. My feet obey, my hands feeling the softness of his gray Tradition football T-shirt, the ridges of his abs hard underneath. I breathe in and out once quickly in anticipation, catching just enough of his scent, the mix of him and whatever it is he showers in. I dream that scent.