The Tradition steamrolled over everyone, and Nico is poised to break the state’s passing record in the championship game. He’s a hundred and ten yards shy, and the team—his team—wants him to get there.
The offer from USC hasn’t come yet, and I can tell it’s weighing on him. I know he wants it, but he hasn’t brought it up since the game the scouts were at. I think because that night is too painful to relive. I believe it’s coming, though. I know it, just as much as I know I’m in love with him.
I’m running through close-up shots from some of the earlier practices and games, forwarding and rewinding, finding just the right clip to cut, when Nico slides his chair back from me, scratching along the tiled floor.
“Sorry,” he winces.
“It’s okay. I’m not picking up any sound in here. It’s all…” I tap on the computer screen.
“Oh, yeah…right,” he says.
He leans over and kisses me, then pulls his bag up his arm and kicks his board up to his hand from the ground.
“You have to leave already?” I ask, wanting him to stay, but knowing he can’t.
“My chariot awaits new tires…and a radiator,” he says.
Nico’s been taking extra hours when he can at Hungry Hill. He’s already fixed up his car quite a bit, but there are a few…unexpected expenses that have put off driving a little longer than he had hoped.
“Will you make it to Charlie’s later? To celebrate?” I ask.
“Wouldn’t miss it,” he smiles, leaning in to kiss me one last time.
I watch the door, catching every last glimpse of his form the second the wheels of his board hit the hallway floor and he rolls down the hall. When the door falls closed completely, I stare at it a little while longer, smiling, because Nico loves me.
I never bothered to go home from the editing bay. It’s our bye week before the championship, and Charlie’s has a tradition of hosting our pep rallies during the playoffs. It’s strange coming here without my dad, but he didn’t want to make this night about him. He wanted this for the boys, because he said they earned the right to this memory.
Noah is coming. Despite Jimmy O’Donahue’s complete lack of morals and empathy, he did do right by Noah. My brother has been on the field, on the sidelines, for every playoff game, and Jimmy told the team last night that he’d like Noah to lead them on the field for State. Everyone agreed.
I know that most of the players won’t get here until late. That’s the thing about the pep rally—they all pretend they’re too cool for it, but they still really want to be here. They just think they should be in someone’s basement, getting lit on cheap beer like they do in the movies. They’ll do that, too—after they leave Charlie’s. But for a few hours, around midnight, boys will be boys, and football will bring us all together, and we will just be a bunch of teenagers…living.
Izzy pulls into the spot next to mine, and I hand her a frozen hot chocolate as she steps up to our favorite table, sitting on the top with me, our feet on the bench.
“So Noah and Katie…they haven’t gotten back together,” I say, doing my best to sound nonchalant, failing at it miserably.
“Knock it off, Reagan. Seriously…me and Noah are fine. We’re just what we are, and who knows, maybe,” she says, stopping to take a long sip of her sugary drink.
“I know, but you like him, and I could totally hook you up…”
“Stop,” she says, this time turning and raising a brow.
I huff and let my lips fall to my own straw, drinking my root beer float while I pout.
“Fine, but if you two end up getting married one day, and you regret missing out on all of these years you could have been a couple, I don’t want to hear it,” I say.
“Sounds good. Deal,” Izzy says, her answer clipped.
I give up my matchmaking mission, and my friend pulls a bottle of gold nail polish from her purse, nodding to me to lay my hand flat on the table so she can paint my nails.
“Why would you bother doing that? You know I’m just going to peel it all off,” I say.
She looks up at me, her hand poised with the brush above my knuckles, my hand still balled in a fist.
“Bitch, show some school spirit,” she teases, her face mean, but pretend.
I purse my lips and roll my eyes, but flatten my hand for her, because she would end up winning anyway. I sip my drink while my best friend paints glitter on my fingertips, and when she’s done, I spend the next ten minutes waving my hands, fingers sprawled, to make sure it all dries.
Colton shows up first, but Travis pulls in a second or two after with my brother. I show them my new manicure, and Noah laughs. “How long before you chew that shit off?” he asks, letting go of my hand after inspecting it.
“Careful, Noah. You’re out of the house on good behavior,” I say with a smirk.