I laugh as she walks away and rub my arm instinctively.
I don’t bother going to my father’s office. I know he won’t talk to me, and I’m not ready to do the ripping just yet. But soon—I’ll rip soon. I move out toward the field where the team is stretching, and I set up my things on the bench the cheer squad usually takes up during games. They practice inside during the week.
My eyes work to find Nico while my hands begin to unpack my equipment. It doesn’t take me long to catch his familiar frame. He has a certain profile that I gravitate to, and he stands an inch or two taller than everyone else. I sit down with my tripod standing between my knees, pulling down the legs to click them in place.
“Seat taken?”
I heard my brother’s familiar new gait scraping along the track. He’s gotten faster on his crutches, and he’s begun to put pressure on his cast from time to time. I’m not really glad he’s come close to me. We haven’t spoken much since our blowout. I am glad he’s at practice, though. I look for positive signs in everything. This…it’s a positive sign…I think.
“You thinking of joining the cheer squad, too?” I say, squinting as I look up to Noah, the sun bright behind him. I’m trying to be normal with him, even though I don’t really want to.
“I do think I could probably up their game in the dance department,” my brother says, pushing his tongue in his cheek and ultimately chuckling.
“They are pretty awful, aren’t they,” I say, sliding my bag closer to my hip so my brother has a place to sit.
“Nobody cares if cheerleaders can dance, Reagan. We watch them because their skirts are short and we like to look at their asses,” he says, leaning his crutches along the metal bench and sliding down to sit, working to keep his leg straight.
“Keep it classy, Noah,” I say.
“Always do,” he says back quickly. He leans forward and pulls a bag of sunflower seeds from his pocket, pouring a handful into his palm and tipping his head back to dump them in his mouth. He holds the bag out for me, and I scrunch my nose at it.
“You’ve got something against sunflower seeds now, too?”
“I just don’t like spitting,” I say.
Noah leans forward and spits out three or four shell pieces at once, sending them to the ground like darts.
“That’s the best part,” my brother says, leaning back with his arms stretched out on either side. Even injured, my brother is larger than life. His build came with little effort, probably thanks to our dad’s genetics. He’s broad-chested and his arms have always bulged with muscles, from the time he hit puberty. He looks like a college man now, even if his maturity level says otherwise.
My dad walks through the center of the field, and his eyes settle on me and my brother, his mouth a hard line under the shadow cast by the brim of his hat. We both sit up a little straighter, holding our positions until he looks away.
“I hate it when you can’t see his eyes,” my brother says.
I chuckle, then turn my attention to my camera, focusing and recording some basic footage I might be able to use for B-roll. I fight my instincts to zoom in on Nico, spending extra time on Sasha and Zach and a few of the other guys until one of the coaches whistles for the players to pair up. I’m focusing on Travis when that happens, and I follow him through my lens as he stands up and walks to the other end of the field—to Nico.
“Wha…” I begin to say, catching myself, my mouth hanging open. I glance over to Noah, but he’s still sitting in his upright position, maybe a little forward so he can spit out more shells. His eyes see it, too, though. I follow his line of sight, and I know he’s watching them as they eventually shake hands. Nico lies down first, and Travis takes his leg and walks it forward in a stretch. I no longer care about the B-roll—I’ve moved on to voyeurism. I watch it all through my lens, and I see their mouths move, Travis smiling, maybe even laughing.
“Nico tell you that A&M is sending people out to watch homecoming?” Noah says, pouring a new handful of seeds into his palm, tilting, then chewing.
“No,” I say.
“They are,” Noah says, spitting again before leaning back into a relaxed position. He pulls his sunglasses from his hat and slides them over his eyes. “Specifically to watch those two.”
Noah points his finger to the field, to the far end, where my camera is focused. I look into my lens, watching Travis help Nico to stand and trading positions with him.
“Is that why Travis is playing nice?” I ask, my stomach sinking because what a second ago I found hopeful has soured into pretend.
“Sorta,” Noah says with a shrug.