“I’m nobody’s baby girl,” I say the instant his words truly register. My chest begins to pound, not from nerves, but with that same anger I get when I’m in a debate with Nico or trying to convince my parents that film school is the right place for me after graduation.
I bend down to set my camera in the bag at my feet, and take the opportunity to squeeze my eyes closed and calm my pounding heart and heavy breath.
“You’re Coach’s girl. That’s just what we call you,” he laughs out his words. Nico shoots him a hard stare that I catch, and I also notice his friend shrug his shoulders and mouth the word what in question-slash-apology. He rolls his eyes and looks back to me. “Sorry,” he huffs. It’s completely not genuine. “I’m mostly bustin’ my boy because douchebag took the ball. Come on, Nic. We’ve got game,” the guy says, brushing his hand forward until his fingers touch my arm. I fight the instinct to flinch and instead nod. He nods back with a wink, pushing Nico off balance as he runs back to the empty practice field lit only by the spill-off of light from the main field on the other side of the parking lot.
When I look back to Nico, I expect to see the hard face I’m used to in class, the one ready to argue, but instead his dimple is deep and his eyes are creased, his lips almost smiling, like he has more to say. I swallow. He sees it, and his lip quirks a hint higher. I hate that.
“You making a movie or something?” His eyes gesture to the equipment at my feet. I look down, too, then over my shoulder, remembering the camera I left behind in the film room.
“Uh, yeah. Something,” I say, my mind ping-ponging between wondering if the room is unlocked still, and this conversation with Nico Medina, which is bizarre.
I snap back to attention when Nico’s friend shouts something, and Nico tosses him the ball, underhand throwing a tight spiral that disappears briefly before falling back into the light.
“Right, well…you ever want to film a real game…instead of that display that happens over there; we’ll be over here,” he says, chuckling and jerking his head toward the dark field where his friends have started running and tackling one another.
I’m too tongue-tied to respond, but I manage to keep my nerves in check for the few seconds he’s still close enough to hear me. When he turns to jog down the slope into the field, I let out the air I’d been holding hostage in my lungs.
I pick up my small camera bag and loop it over my shoulder, checking the scoreboard before walking quickly back to the locker room. The home score reads seven, and the air smells acrid, so I know the fireworks went off for the extra point. Somehow, though, I never noticed.
The film room is unlocked; I grab the rest of my things and make my way back to the main field in time for the second quarter. I hear a few mutters from the most-vocal critics as I walk up to the press box. They know who I am, and I know they only say those things in hopes that I’ll repeat their concerns to my father.
“This is how our team started last year.”
“Only up by a touchdown at the end of one. Maybe Coach isn’t playing the right talent.”
“I sure hope Jimmy’s ready to step into the job.”
That last comment comes up a lot, and I never repeat it to my dad. He hears it enough on his own. Jimmy O’Donahue is Dad’s assistant. He was voted onto the staff by the board, and my father begrudgingly lets him handle the defense. Jimmy is the son of one of the board members, and he’s alumni. While my father’s alumni, too, his tradition stops there. He was the start of our family line. Jimmy’s goes back to the day the school was founded, and there are a lot of people who would like to see him in that beloved head-coach role. Fortunately, my dad has enough friends on the board to keep him safe for now.
He just needs to keep winning.
Once my camera is set, I crawl out to the small section of bleachers on the rooftop of the press box and slide my notebook from my bag, where I write down the latest round of comments I’ve overheard. I know I need interviews to really make my documentary solid, but I can’t seem to get the nerve to face the haters. I’m not sure what worries me more—if they’ll pretend to love my dad to my face, or if they’ll let me tape their honest opinions.
Instead, for now, I work things into my own narration script. I plan to catch their quips and jabs secretly with my recorder, and maybe that will be enough. It’s probably not ethical, but neither are some of the threatening things they say.