I can’t take it anymore. “Are you serious? You talking to me about specimens? You do know that if Mom ever hears you talking like that. she’ll ground you until you’re thirty-five, right?” I wait for a second, then lean forward on my bed to whisper like I’m sharing some secret code. “But, yeah, Jayson. Those southern girls are all that.”
“I knew it!” he says, practically popping off his bed with excitement.
Then it’s time for me to head to the gym. I start packing my bag while Jayson sinks back into his manuscript. I take a quick look around the room. The LeBron and Steph Curry posters. The mess of Jayson’s schoolwork on the floor. The tangle of his X-Box cords in the corner. I didn’t think I’d spend my senior year still sharing a room.
“Catch you later, Jayson,” I say.
He looks up from his script. “You still here? Get on out and give me some quiet.”
“Shut up,” I say.
We’re both messing, and we both know it. Still, just to be sure, Jayson glances over at me and puts his script down again. “D?”
“Yeah.”
“Before you go on to college, just take care of business at Marion East, okay?”
“Most definitely,” I say.
Taking care of business is going to be a lot more work than anyone thinks. We’ve got a trip to play Muncie Central tomorrow. And if we don’t tighten it up fast, they’ll make us look foolish. We’re a complete mess now.
Most of last year was wasted because there was a gap between me and the rest of the team. My fault? Their fault? Didn’t matter. We couldn’t get ourselves on the same page. It wasn’t until I blew out my knee that we figured out how to be teammates again. And here we are, right back in the same place.
The shift of me to the two–guard just means I can score just about any time I want. In a lot of cases, I’ll still have an inch or two over the other team’s two. That’s even true at practice. That inch I gained in the off-season gives me a slight edge on Reynolds, and I’ve got a year of bulk on him too. So I just wear the kid out—flares to the stripe for three, rises from mid-range, duck-ins to the post, even some rips to the rim.
Every time a shot finds bottom, I can feel Reynolds get a little hotter. He mutters obscenities under his breath. If a teammate shuffles over to give advice or tell him to hang in there, Reynolds just spins away in anger.
Murphy and Kid don’t say a word. They just crank the offense back up so we can prep for Muncie Central. “Again,” Murphy says.
But to everyone else, I’m the bad guy. They feel for their boy Reynolds. Or they’re like Jones and Xavier—they liked it a lot better when I was running point and looking to get them shots instead of hunting my own. Even Gibson seems angry at me. In live action, he’d have double-digit assists by now. Instead of caring about that, he seems to hesitate every time he looks my way. If I pop free on the perimeter, he’ll wait just a split second before getting me the pill. I know he sees me in rhythm. He’s just waiting to give Reynolds a chance to close. Doesn’t matter. Even if Reynolds has solid position, I just throw a quick move on him—jab right, then blow by left for a leaner—and it’s a bucket again.
Maybe Murphy finally senses the static. He cuts the offensive drill short and flips the squads so the ones can work on D. Right away, the tension between me and the rest of the team becomes more evident. On offense, I could still take over every time I touched leather. On D, you always need communication—and I’m not getting it. Checking Reynolds is usually not a problem, but today I need my head on a swivel. I get blindsided by a back-screen. Then, when I sense a ball-screen coming to one side, I hedge—but nobody tells me the screener slipped to the other side, and I get a face full of chest. Meanwhile, Reynolds gets a free run at the rack. Even he can bust out a nasty throw-down with that head of steam. He woofs about it pretty good too. “That’s what I’m talking about,” he says. “Ain’t nobody gonna check that.” Most of that’s meant for me, but he cuts his eyes toward Murphy too. Reynolds still hasn’t forgiven Murphy for exiling him to the bench.
I take the opportunity to turn to Xavier. “How ‘bout a little talk?” I say. It was his man setting the ball screen, so it’s on Xavier to let me know what’s up.
“Whatever,” he says. He turns away. I grab him by the wrist to stop him. He yanks it away, but I squeeze. “Son of a bitch, let me go!” he yells. His arm is slick with sweat, so finally he pops it free from my grip. When he does, the momentum makes his hand flail about an inch from my chin.
“Watch yourself!” I say.
Xavier puffs out his chest and gets in my grill. “That’s on you!” he yells.
I try to bring it back to hoops. “Yeah, but me getting cracked on that screen is on you. You’ve got to talk.”
“Yeah, well you do enough yappin’ for everybody,” Xavier says. A lie. I’ve done my trash-talking in the past, but I haven’t said word one today. “And you sure as hell take enough shots for everybody. Same as always. Just like my brother said.”
Now that’s enough. Griping about me hoisting shots is one thing—every second-tier player has always felt that way about the leading scorer. But dragging in his brother Moose? Not cool.
“You’re so full of shit,” I tell him. Up until now, guys have been content to let us hash it out on our own near the sideline. But this draws people over, hands extended to grab us before things get real, everyone saying Take it easy or Let’s cool it.
Xavier’s not having it. “You telling me I don’t know my own brother?! Moose said if Coach Bolden didn’t rein you in, you’d have jacked twenty shots a game.” He looks around, arms extended. “And wouldn’t you know it. No Bolden and it’s D-Bow taking every damn shot.”
I can’t contain myself. Even with Fuller pulling me back from my right side, I reach out and push Xavier with my left. Hard. I catch his shoulder, but it’s enough to pop him back a step.
Xavier rears back like a wild animal. He tears free from Murphy and Kid, who’ve stepped in way too late. Xavier raises his right hand and it hovers in the air for a second like a sledgehammer about to fall. That pause gives me just enough time to dodge when that fist flies.
Fuller’s not so lucky. Xavier swings right past my chin and catches Fuller in the nose. Fuller crumples on the sideline, hands held to his nose.
The gym, which was reverberating with shouts two seconds ago, falls silent. We all huddle around Fuller, staring but paralyzed. Finally, he makes a sound. Just a long, low, moan. Then I see a thin trickle of blood ooze between his fingers. At that sight, Murphy finally springs into action. He snaps his finger at Kid and sends him off for a bag of ice. Then he kneels by Fuller and talks to him a little. He leans down so he’s just a few inches from Fuller’s ear.
“You gonna be okay, man,” he says. It’s almost a whisper, maybe a prayer. Murphy has to know he’s lost control of this team now—if he ever had it to begin with. “You gonna be okay,” he repeats. “Let’s just take a quick look.” He puts his hand over Fuller’s and gingerly inches it away. When we get a look, everyone recoils. Fuller’s nose is mashed and bent, an arc across his face where there used to be a straight line. It’s cut where Xavier’s fist landed, but blood also seeps out of his nostrils. It pools on his mouth and chin.
“Awwww, damn,” Reynolds says, pretty well summing up what we all feel.
“That bad?” Fuller wheezes.
Nobody responds, which is answer enough.
I’m fuming. At Xavier. At Murphy. But mostly at myself. I feel almost ill, a burning in my stomach. Anyone but Fuller, I think. The one guy who never tried to do anything but be a good teammate. And here he is writhing in pain on the floor.
“Happy now, D-Bow?” Xavier asks.
It’s a cheap shot. Cheaper than the swing he took at me. I just walk away. Straight to the locker room. Forget Xavier. Forget all of this.
I think about those stupid slogans the school posts on the walls. Strength in the hive? In this place, you better just look out for yourself.
He appears like a ghost. I’m about a block from the house and he materializes out of the steam rising from a grate. I don’t even see him until he’s just feet away from me. When I do, I leap back. Around here, there’s no telling when someone wants to punch your ticket.
“Just me, D-Bow,” he says.
He flips back his hood and smiles. Still I have to squint to believe what I’m seeing. “Nick?” I say.
“You damn straight.” He extends a fist. I meet his with mine. Then we stand there, not knowing what to say. Nick Starks! It would be less shocking to see Paul George step up at this point. My freshman year, Nick and I went at each other pretty good. He was the senior point guard, and I was the freshman who wanted to change that. Never mind the whole Jasmine thing. That season started with her cozied up to him, but it ended with the two of us setting off sparks. So it wasn’t a big secret that Nick Starks and I were not exactly fans of each other. I didn’t buy him any graduation presents, and he hasn’t been sending me any long letters home from college. Now here he is, hanging on Patton.
“What the hell you doing here?” I ask flat out.
He grins. I used to hate that cocky smile of his, but now, after three years, it’s a nice blast from the past. He points south for a second. “I was down at Jasmine’s house, trying to check on her. Thought I’d walk up here and see what the word was with you.” I squinch up my face. Jasmine’s not mine to be jealous about, but still. Nick notices. “Aw, drop it, D. I ain’t trying to get with her. You know as well as I do ain’t nobody gonna get Jasmine settled down for a long time.”
I laugh a little at that. Then suddenly I realize something. Whatever noise Nick and I had between us, it’s all gone. We’re not two dogs fighting over the same bone anymore. We’re just two vets of the same basketball team kicking it on a cold evening in the old neighborhood.
I unclench my hands. Take a deep breath. I realize half my tension isn’t even about Nick. It’s still that I’m worked up over the fight with Xavier at practice.
“Well, you want to get out of this cold?” I ask him. He nods, and we step toward my house. Then I remember that when I open that door, Grace will probably be crying too loud for anyone to think, let alone catch up on old times. So I slap a spin move on the pavement. “You up for hitting Sure Burger?” I ask him.
“Cool with me,” Nick says.
A few brisk blocks later and we’re in the warmth of Sure Burger, the smell of sizzling burgers and piping hot fries thick in the air. The early dinner crowd squeezing in, everyone stomping slush from their feet. Nick squeezes into a table by the window, both our chairs rocking unevenly. We start into our food right away, like now that we’re settled in we have no idea what to talk about. But that doesn’t last long—we’ve got that one pure thing in common: hoops.
“You check the Indiana game last night?” Nick asks.
“Oh, yeah,” I say. “They got after it again. I’m telling you, they got a chance to win the Big Ten.”
Nick talks over a mouthful of cheese fries. “Always gotta watch out for Sparty.” I nod, like Nick’s just dropped Gospel on the room. We go on like that for a few minutes—scarfing down grub, talking about this team out west or that highlight reel jam from the other night.
Then, all of a sudden, Nick places both hands palms-down on the table and leans toward me a couple inches. “Time to get down to it,” he says. “I didn’t come see you to yap about college hoops.” I lean back, trying to re-establish the space between us. I knew I shouldn’t have trusted Nick. But he just plunges ahead. “Man, I stopped caring about college hoops the day my scholly got yanked at Ball State.”
“They pulled your scholarship?” I say. “I didn’t know that.” I hang my head for a second. It’s like there’s some huge gravitational pull in our neighborhood. Nobody can get free. My parents could have, but Mom got pregnant with me. Kid could have, but he got himself dragged down by nonsense. Jasmine should have—maybe she still can—but college is knocking the wind out of her. Moose is back. Now Nick. He had a chance to ball at the college level. Get a free education. And now what? A job back home. Even that’s a false promise. Guys who get jobs here can’t make ends meet, end up tangled in some game. Then it’s prison or grave.
Nick balls up a napkin and throws it on his tray, like he’s trying to dismiss the topic. “Started having problems with my feet. Broken bones, some messed up stuff. I let it out that they’d been hurting me in high school and all of a sudden they started talking some pre-existing condition crap. Pulled the scholly like that.” He snaps his fingers. “It’s a dirty business, man. Ain’t no way I’m getting back into school without a scholarship, you know. So there goes my ticket.” Then he shakes his head, disappointed, maybe, that he even got into all that. “But like I said, I don’t care about college hoops. Only school I care about is Marion East. That’s why I’m here.”
He looks at me, eyes wide, like now I’m supposed to say something. All I can think of is that here he is—three years out of high school—still sweating Marion East, and I’m still on the roster and I barely give a shit. I can’t say that though.
So, in my silence, Nick takes a breath to continue. I think for a second that he’s about to drop the same line on me that Moose did. Here’s one more Marion East grad flamed out, one more voice to tell me I better get mine while I can. Instead, he says, “You got to get that team going, man. I been coming to the games. You got the talent, but you’re all pulling in different directions.”
I laugh at that. “Nick, you don’t even know.”
Something in the way I say it tips him off. “What happened?”
There’s no point in trying to hide it. If he’s hanging around these blocks again, he’ll know soon enough. So I launch into it. The long drama of Murphy losing control of the team. The static between me and everyone else. The daily grind of having to fight Gibson for alpha dog on the squad. His freezing me out. Xavier losing his cool. And then Fuller crumpled on the floor, blood dripping from his nose.
Nick hangs his head, then shakes it back and forth. He looks so mournful it’s like I told him he just lost his grandpa. “No no no no no,” he mutters. Then he looks back up at me and jabs his index finger in accusation. “Man, this is your senior year.”
“Yeah, well,” I say. “Get rolling for the playoffs, I guess.”
Nick shakes his head again. “You know better than that too.”
“Worked for us when you were a senior,” I say. “We didn’t get things figured out for a looong time. Then we made our run.”
That draws a smile from Nick. I can see it all flicker across his face—our late-season tear, ending with Marion East’s first Sectional championship in forever. Then coming within a heartbeat of going to State. “Yeah,” he says. “We sure ‘nough got after it.” Then he stabs a fry into some ketchup, eats it while he reminisces about our glory days. It’s cool, but I realize that’s not who I want to be in three years. Not here, looking back to when things were good. These Marion East years are always going to be special to me, but I don’t ever want them to be the best years of my life. Even if I don’t end up balling out in The League, I want to get clear of this place. I want to make it.
Nick looks up at me again. There’s still a grin on his face, but it fades slowly while he stares. “Once we got it figured out, we had a helluva team,” he says. “But you know the only regret I have from high school?”
I just shrug.
Nick taps his chest. “Me,” he says at last. “I regret how I acted around you, trying to keep you down instead of being your teammate. Look, D—” he relaxes his shoulders, trying to empty out all that tension young guys have to carry around with them. “You’re right that we got after it in the end, but I keep wondering if it couldn’t have been even better. What if you and I had got on the same page from the jump? What it we even just squashed things between us by Christmas? Maybe instead of looking back at a Sectional title, we’re walking around as State champ
s instead?”
“I feel you,” I say.
“No,” Nick counters. “I don’t think you do. Man, you got all this ball out in front of you. But someday—maybe four years from now, maybe fourteen years from now—ball’s gonna end. And believe me you don’t want to be sitting around thinking you could have had a better career if you didn’t get yourself all tweaked over some bullshit noise with a teammate.” His voice rises toward the end, and out of my peripheral vision I see the two guys at the next table pausing to listen. But Nick’s not done. “Besides, no matter what you think of guys like Xavier and Gibson, in their hearts I bet they want to win every bit as much as you do. I mean, that’s what I found out about you when I was a senior.”
I take a long drink of my Coke. Then I swirl the ice around in the cup. Set it back on the table. All that stuff Nick just put on me makes plenty of sense, but am I gonna let him have the satisfaction of knowing it? “You done with the lecture?” I ask.
He rolls his eyes. “Come on, Derrick. I’m trying to help you out, brother.”
Now I lean forward, jabbing my index finger at him this time. “You ain’t my brother,” I say. “You’re just the guy who was in my way when I was a freshman. And now you’re just clinging to glory days.”
Nick’s jaw drops. He looks about like a girl who’s just been dumped. But then the anger comes. He slams his hand on the table, jostling Coke from his cup. “You as stupid now as you were then,” he says. Now it’s not just the guys next to us staring. The whole restaurant cranes necks to check the action at our table—some of them worried that some violence will erupt, some of them probably hoping for it.
“Nick, man, I’m clowning,” I say. He stops where he is, not trusting me. “I thought you said you shouldn’t get all worked up over what some noise with an old teammate.”
He’s still fuming, I can tell. That chest is rising up and down in anger, and his whole body seems tensed as a dog about to attack. But he sits. Shakes his head again. Mutters a few obscenities at me to get it out of his system. “You always gotta make things difficult, don’t you,” he says.
Quicks Page 14
