Alyssa tucks her face into my arm, but smiles when she tilts it to the side, nodding in big movements.
“You maybe want to cheer with me? For a little while?” Izzy asks.
Alyssa’s eyes bulge, and Izzy jogs to the equipment box a few yards away, coming back with a set of golden pom-poms. Alyssa takes them in her hands, and as she stands to test them out, the other girls come over to meet her.
Within seconds, Alyssa is swept into the fantasy, the girls all working together to create a routine she can do. They teach it to her, while Nico leads the offense on the field to another six, this time with a forty-yard run of his own. In less than five minutes, we’re up by two touchdowns.
Nico’s play continues to be nothing short of miraculous. At one point, Coach O’Donahue begins to take credit, a certain swagger to his walk along the sidelines, as if any of this is his doing. As if he’s the one who believed in Nico Medina all along.
And maybe that’s the story the board will start to tell. Perhaps that’s how they’ll play this. It doesn’t matter, because run after run, pass after pass, my father stands and high-fives Nico’s uncle, he laughs and cheers with my brother—he hugs Nico’s mom. The real motivation, the real faith—it’s right here.
Alyssa performs with the cheerleaders during halftime, and Izzy lifts the little girl high on her shoulders, letting her rile up the crowd. The sight makes Valerie cry. When Alyssa climbs back up to join us in our seats, she keeps the pom-poms with her, showing each of us how to use them best. This little girl will never know her father, but his brother is playing for him out on that field—and I swear she can feel it.
We all feel it.
North has only managed a field goal, and with seconds to go, our team is on the fifty-yard line, and one more down before the lights go out and the history books on tonight are closed. I’m confident Nico is going to get a visit from the USC men in the booth. I’m certain they’ve already made phone calls, and I’m also sure that they’ll walk down to the field and shake Jimmy O’Donahue’s hand before they leave, asking for an introduction.
But Nico plays on. Just as hard. These few seconds…they aren’t for scouts, or haters, or boosters or even his team. This moment—it’s for Vincent.
Colton snaps the ball, and Nico moves with the grace of a panther on the hunt. His feet work in tandem, each knowing where to go, when to slide, when to push—when to run. He breaks a tackle and spins, bolting to the other side to give his best friend time to get in place. Sasha’s running with all he has toward the end zone just as Nico arches back, his arm pumping, his chest letting out a grunt that I swear I can hear as he releases the ball. The spiral is perfect. The distance is there. Sasha is being trailed, but he won’t be caught, and right as his feet cross the goal line, the ball is waiting to greet him, hitting his hands for the longest completed pass I’ve ever seen thrown on this field.
The stands erupt, and the band pumps out the fight song with enough verve that it shakes the metal floor beneath us.
“Oh my God,” Valerie says, over and over, her hands wrapped around my mom’s. Travis’s mom rushes over to us, hugging my dad, then both my mom and Valerie. The men celebrate, reliving the play, and students start to rush the field as the announcer confirms that The Tradition, once again, is going to the State Playoffs.
There are balloons, and my best friend dances her horrible dance, throwing in a few cartwheels with some of the other cheerleaders. Alyssa breaks free and runs down to join them, while even more people spill out onto the field.
The players bump fists and chests, and they all surround their coach, moving like a swarm toward the end zone, taking pictures and celebrating. My eyes search for Nico, and when I find him, he’s on his knees, his head in his hands and his helmet on the ground next to him, Sasha at his side. His shoulders shudder once, and my breath hitches with my cry.
“Daddy,” I say, reaching for my father’s arm.
“I see him. I see him,” my dad says, stepping over the seat in front of him, leaping over the bar to the track and jogging out onto the field.
People have begun to quiet, and the team has started to look on, many of them taking their helmets off, taking a knee while the boy who owns my heart tries to mend his broken one on the fifty-yard line.
I hold Valerie’s hand, and we squeeze each other hard as my dad rushes to Nico. He falls to his knees, too, Sasha standing behind him, and my dad holds his forehead to Nico’s, his hands gripping his shoulders while Nico shakes with grief.
“I can’t…” I say, letting go of Valerie and following my father’s path, sprinting the minute my feet hit the turf until I’m at Sasha’s side.