The Hard Count Quotes

“Make me earn it,” he says, pausing again to take my top lip between both of his. “I’ll earn it. I’ll never stop trying to earn it…to earn you.”
― Ginger Scott, The Hard Count

“We do things in life to make others happy. We make sacrifices because that feeling—the one I once thought was altruism, but have since learned is just love—it makes us feel good. We give, but it’s never selfless.”
― Ginger Scott, The Hard Count

“Ugly doesn't have a color. It lives among selfishness and hate”
― Ginger Scott, The Hard Count

“There’s comfort in imperfection.”
― Ginger Scott, The Hard Count

“Reagan, your world…Nico’s world…same fuckin’ world. You come from different parts, but who cares? You meet in the middle.”
― Ginger Scott, The Hard Count

“We all have our own stories, and they part and intersect in many different places. It’s”
― Ginger Scott, The Hard Count

“I can tell within a glance if someone hates me. Sometimes it only takes one word. Other times, it’s those subtle nonverbal cues – a shift of the eyes or arms folded over a chest in an attempt to hide all of that hate inside that’s dying to bore through their chest and grip mine until I choke or die.
Nico Medina is subtle about it. It’s the way he doesn’t look at me, and how he breathes when I speak – the sound of air filling his chest so heavy I think it may just turn into fire and come back at me in flames.”
― Ginger Scott, The Hard Count

“We failed to learn from the stories that warned us that if we create environments that perpetuate poverty, that force the people in them to beg and steal, the we're equally to blame for many of their outcomes”
― Ginger Scott, The Hard Count

“Look at me like you expect more. Look at me like it isn’t going to be easy.” Nico breathes the words against my lips, pausing when his bottom lip connects with my top, the faintness of the touch so much better than any other real kiss I’ve had. “Make me earn it,” he says, pausing again to take my top lip between both of his. “I’ll earn it. I’ll never stop trying to earn it…to earn you.”
― Ginger Scott, The Hard Count

“I tug the band loose and let my hair fall down before sweeping it back up and into a knot again. When I look back to Nico, his expression is softer, and I like that he watched me do that. Maybe that’s why I let my hair down – to see if he’d notice.”
― Ginger Scott, The Hard Count

“In general, Reagan Marie Prescott, I’m so goddamned in love with you that I don’t even care about being right anymore.”
― Ginger Scott, The Hard Count

“Some people are racist. Some people are jealous. Some people are just fucking ignorant, she says, her eyes coming up to meet mine as her fingers let go of my shirt. Don't let someone else dictate how your heart feels about someone”
― Ginger Scott, The Hard Count

“I run my hand over my eyes again and move it to my open mouth then my chin, laughing into my palm. “She has me so completely, and the only thing I can compare it to is the way you said Alyssa hit your heart. Like there’s nothing too crazy, too far, too much...”
― Ginger Scott, The Hard Count

“The way you look at me…” My eyes flash wider, and I take a sharp breath through my nose. “Just don’t ever stop looking at me,” he says, scooting closer, his knees touching my leg, his hand bringing my face to his.”
― Ginger Scott, The Hard Count

“One, you are not stupid,” Nico says, pulling me forward and kissing my forehead softly. I blush when I notice a few girls walking by in the corridor spot us and whisper to each other with a giggle. “And two, I wouldn’t care if you were green. Me liking you…you liking me. That’s kind of our deal, and that’s all that matters, okay?”
― Ginger Scott, The Hard Count

“Some people are racist. Some people are jealous. Some people are just fucking ignorant,” she says, her eyes coming up to meet mine as her fingers let go of my shirt. “Don’t let someone else dictate how your heart feels about someone.”
― Ginger Scott, The Hard Count

“We all have our own stories, and they part and intersect in many different places. It’s what makes us individuals. And no matter who we decide to tie our story to, there is always going to be someone who thinks they know the secret about why someone fits or doesn’t fit.”
― Ginger Scott, The Hard Count

“I was afraid of you. I know that’s not what you expect to hear from someone like me. I’m the kid from West End—I must be tough, I must be a thug, I must have a gun in my home, I must be in a gang…I bet he’s killed someone, I bet his brother’s in prison. You can see why I was afraid. I was so afraid that I would get here, and that’s all you would see—a picture in your heads that was so far from the truth, but too impossible to overcome.” “I was afraid of discrimination. Of intolerance. Of ignorance. I remember the meetings the admissions board held when I was in junior high, the ones about getting rid of the scholarship program because it exposed good kids to at-risk youth. At. Risk. Youth. That phrase…it’s too small. It’s pejorative. It’s not entirely wrong. Growing up in West End made me. That risk…it toughened me up. It made me fast. It made me fight. When I was a kid, I remember hiding on the floor of my room on Friday nights so stray bullets wouldn’t harm me. I hated my home. I loved it. I would never choose it for someone—never wish for my child to feel the fear I did. I could never imagine growing up somewhere else. That fear made me. That fear is the reason I stand up here; the reason I pushed myself to learn, to question, to try—to argue. That fear was balanced out by faith.” ““You made me, too. You lifted me. You pushed me. You believed in me. You saw the boy from West End. I surprised you. But you—you surprised me, too“When I was afraid, you challenged me. And now, I dare you. I defy you to be great. Do not just be tradition—break tradition. As only you can.”
― Ginger Scott, The Hard Count

“Brothers,” he continues, “are lifelong. And though you take that field tonight, you have also taken that field before, just as you will tomorrow, and the next day, and the next. That field is your home—your battlefield—and those other men are intruders. They don’t respect it. They’re trespassing—unwanted guests..“I can assure you they didn’t,” my father says. Again, the room chants, “Hoorah!” I hold my breath because this next part, more than anything that led up to it, is what I’ve been waiting for. I check the camera, my father still centered in my frame and his face as serious as I’ve ever seen it. Our team has won the first two games of the year, but he knows that two is not ten. A loss, at this point, will be unforgiveable. “What’s that word on your backs?” His question echoes, and the answer is swift. “Honor, sir!” they all shout in unison. They always do. It’s more than memorization, and it’s always made me sit in awe of how it all plays out. “Honor! That’s right. There are no individuals in here. We all have one name. It isn’t the mascot. It isn’t your nickname or some fad that will be forgotten the second the yearbook is printed. It’s a word that means heart, that means drive and ambition, that means giving your all and leaving the best of every goddamned thing you’ve got out there on that field. Turn to your right!” They all do, seated in a circle on the benches, looking at the helmets and heads of their teammates. My dad should have been a preacher, or perhaps a general. He was born to stand before boys and make them believe that for two and a half hours, they are men. “Turn to your left!” All heads shift, the sound swift, but mouths quiet. “Honor. Brotherhood. Tradition.” He pauses, his team still sitting with heads angled and eyes wide on the dark blue sheen of the helmets and sweat-drenched heads next to them. “Again…” he says, and this time they say it with him. “Honor. Brotherhood. Tradition.” “Whose house is this?” my father asks, quiet and waiting for a roar. “Our house!” “Whose house is this?” He’s louder now. “Our house!” “Whose house…” My dad’s face is red and his voice is hoarse by the time he shouts the question painted above the door that the Cornwall Tradition runs through to the field. The final chant back is loud enough that it can be heard through the cinderblock walls. I know, because last week, I filmed the speech from outside. With chests full, egos inflated, voices primed and muscles ready for abuse, this packed room of fifty—the number that always takes the field, even though less than half of them will play—stands, each putting a hand on the back of everyone in front of them.”
― Ginger Scott, The Hard Count