“I know,” I say, scrunching my head against his and laughing. “Oh my God, that was amazing!”
I leave Noah and find my mom, holding her arm and smiling so hard my cheeks hurt. We both watch my father shake hands and congratulate Coach O’Donahue—the best satisfaction happening when he thanks my dad for congratulating him, without acknowledging the real gift my dad actually gave him. The second Jimmy turns around, my dad flips him off. The only other person to see it is Bob, and he winks at me and holds his finger to his lips.
My eyes scan the crowd, which only seems to be multiplying, searching for Nico. I let go of my mom’s hand and begin to work my way through bodies, congratulating every player I run into, but only really caring about one.
I find him finally in the very center, cameras around him snapping photos, his uncle squeezing him at his side, Nico’s arm is around his mother, and I wait patiently for them all to have this moment. When Nico’s eyes find me, he excuses himself, and he steps right into me, pushing his left hand through my hair and resting his forehead on mine while he walks me several steps backward before kissing me with all of the adrenaline I know is still pumping through his veins.
“Are you okay?” I ask, my hands roaming up his arm, to his face, inspecting him.
“Dislocated,” he says. “Bob snapped it back in. Said I’d be good as new…in about a week,” he chuckles.
My smile comes hard and fast.
“Great. Just in time,” I say through my laughter.
I hold his arm in both of mine until the crowd thins. I stay on the field with his family and my own while the state commissioner brings out the trophies, and I help him balance the MVP one in his hands so his mom can take a photo. Nico smiles and shakes hands, using his left and nursing his right, until we’re the only ones left on the field. I leave him just long enough to get my camera from the press box, and even though he’s exhausted and in pain, his arm wrapped in a plastic bag filled with ice, Nico gives me one more piece of him.
I sit him on the bench on his side of the field, his hair still slick with the sweat from the game, and I frame him in my camera, the field he just owned a blur behind him.
“Tell me about what went through your mind. Out there…those final few seconds. Did you think you were going to lose?”
I sit back while Nico’s eyes haze in his thought. He’s taking this seriously, and I love him for that. Finally shaking his head, he says, “No.”
“You weren’t worried?” I ask.
His lips pull into a tight smile, and he shakes his head again.
“No…well…maybe, when that guy had me over his head? That…that worried me,” he chuckles, but leans to the side, his laughter fading. “But really? No…I wasn’t worried.”
“Because you knew you could do this?” I ask, my lip curled up on one side with pride.
Nico surprises me, though, shaking his head no.
“Not me,” he says. “Us.”
I sit back again, and exhale, considering his response.
“You know our trainer? Bob?” he asks.
I smile.
“Yeah. He’s like an uncle to me,” I say.
“That guy…he’s really the one who should be coaching, you know? No offense to your dad,” he says.
“None taken. In fact, I think my dad would tend to agree with you,” I say.
“Well, he told me once, he said that the only thing that matters out here on the field, the only thing that really counts when that clock hits zero, are the people on my team,” he says.
“That sounds like Bob,” I grin.
“He’s right. And these guys? Somewhere along the way I decided that they’re my home. I’d put my body in their hands and trust them every second,” he says.
“Yeah?” I question, but I can tell from his face he’s serious.
“Absolutely,” he says.
“So home, you say. What does winning MVP say about a boy from your home…from West End? What does it say for little boys in West Ends all around the country?”
Nico sits forward, his hands coming together. His eyes focus on them.
“It says the home doesn’t make the boy—the family does. And my family, it’s grown a lot lately,” he says, looking up with a smirk. I hold his gaze, and I decide this last part—it’s just for me, not the camera.
I push the power button and sit forward on my knees, pulling the mic free from his shirt. Nico takes it from my hands, kneeling and folding the cord up for me.
“I have one more question,” I say, blushing.
“Go ahead,” he says, his eyes on me, searing.
“All of that—running the ball in with your hurt arm, winning this game single-handedly but giving credit to your team, as if they really had anything to do with it,” I say, my voice clearly denoting my sarcasm. “Taking a spot on my dad’s team, helping my brother. All of that, just to make me happy. Tell me, Nico Medina…how did that make you feel?”