The Hard Count Read Online Free Page A

foreign, and it takes my mind a second longer to catch up to what my eyes see. Nico’s shirtless, but still in his dark jeans that he wore to school, his T-shirt tucked into the waistband and his arm damp with sweat.
    “Thanks,” I say, peering at his bare skin, but quickly turning my attention over to my camera that I almost dropped on the asphalt. I’m sweating.
    “For rescuing that fancy lens of yours?” he asks, taking a step or two away while he shuffles a football from one hand to the other. “Or for complimenting your brother?”
    “Both, I guess,” I stammer, my eyes unable to look away from the ball now clutched at the center of his chest. I force my gaze up, and I’m greeted by the dimple. That small trait of his kicks in my stubbornness. I open my mouth to speak, hoping something strong and independent will come out, but in a quick flash I recognize that Nico’s not alone. Five or six guys are walking up behind him, all of them shirtless and out of breath, a few with gallons of water in their hands. I don’t know why I’m overcome with nerves now; my brother’s team is at the house swimming and running around half naked all the time.
    “Yo, if you want to hit on baby girl, do it on your own time, Nico. Don’t take the fuckin’ game ball with you,” one of them says.
    His words stun my mouth shut instantly, and my brow pinches in an effort to ward off the red embarrassment I can already feel creeping up my ears as the rest of the guys snicker and call out “ooooh” while they high five. Nico Medina is not hitting on me. That’s not our routine. In fact, talking outside of the one class we share is not part of the routine. He shouldn’t be here, and...
    “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