The Freshman (Kingmakers)

by Sophie Lark

  Instead, I wait till Chris Pellie gets his hands on the ball and I hiss at him, “Forget what Coach said. You pass the ball to me.”

  Pellie’s eyes get big in his face, so he looks like a little kid.

  “W-what?” he stammers.

  “You heard me. Throw me that ball, or I’ll break every finger you’ve got.”

  Pellie gulps.

  He takes his position behind the line.

  Our point guard and shooting guard Barrett and Brown get ready for the play they think we’re about to run.

  They’re the two fastest guys on our team. Because the Wolverines are running a full-court press, they’ve got their point guard and shooting guard likewise waiting on our side of the court. That’s the two fastest dudes on their team. The only ones who could possibly stop me.

  Just like LeBron James, I’ve got the ball-handling skills to be a point guard, but I’m the biggest and the strongest, so I play power forward.

  And just like LeBron, I’m not some fucking decoy. I win championships, end of story.

  As the other players line up, I nod to Pellie.

  Everybody is set up, the ref still has the ball. I’m walking over all slow and casual, standing upright, like I’m barely gonna play.

  The whistle blows. Teeth bared and eyes terrified, Pellie chucks me the ball. The moment it touches my hands, I drop down into cheetah stance. Like a sprinter, I’ve got all my weight loaded on my back leg. I take off like a fucking rocket.

  If the opposing point guards were back on defense, maybe they could try to block me. They’ve got some decent speed. But they had no idea what was about to happen. I blow past them before they can even blink.

  The only people who could get in my way are a mile behind me now. The Wolverines have already lost, and they don’t even know it.

  Change of pace is a mindfuck in basketball.

  Change of strategy is even worse.

  Only three guys stand between me and the hoop. They’re stammering on their feet, trying to set up some kind of defense, but they can’t understand what I’m doing. They didn’t expect anything like this.

  Five seconds left. Four.

  I can hear the coach screaming and waving his arms on the sidelines, red with fury that I disobeyed him like that. It only makes me chuckle. That’s what he gets for trying to hold me back.

  I’m going coast to coast like Danny Ainge in his ‘81 game. I’m flying down the court in six strides with these long legs that were meant for nothing better than this.

  The Wolverines don’t know what to do. You’re not supposed to take the game into your own hands. Not with four seconds left. Not in the state championships. This is no two-second inbounds shot. We had time to set up a play. That’s what they expected, a hundred percent.

  This is reckless. Shocking. And fucking genius.

  Their small forward is waiting for me at center court. The center and Bell, the power forward, are flanking the hoop.

  I don’t slow down for a second—I can’t lose my momentum. I charge right at the small forward, and at the last second I juke around him.

  Now I’ve got a choice: left or right.

  I should go right. It’s my dominant hand, and that’s where the center is standing. He’s a big dumb oaf, the slowest dude on the team. I could beat him easily.

  But there’s Bell standing to the left of the hoop. The motherfucker who shoved me and slashed my arms to bits like a bitchy little kitten, and then took my legs out from under me.

  He’s gonna pay for that.

  I charge him like a bull.

  If he held his ground, I’d have to go around him. But he doesn’t plant his feet. He’s lost his nerve, he’s lost his focus. His feet stumble back.

  I bend my knees and spring upward into a Herculean jump higher than any I’ve taken before. Fueled by adrenaline and spite, I go right over that 6’7 mother fucker. I vault him like a hurdle, my legs going over his shoulders and my crotch right over his face. He falls backward onto his ass.

  You know what “posterized” means?

  Think of every poster you ever saw, featuring Jordan or Kobe making the most beautiful dunks of their life.

  For every epic, timeless poster, there’s some idiot trying to guard that all-time great, their hands up and their face scrunched with dismay while the god of basketball sails right over them.

  I posterize Johnson Bell with my balls in his face.

  It’s so beautiful I could cry.

  Roaring like a lion, I slam the ball down in the hoop in a loud, aggressive, spectacular dunk of death.

  Right as the ball bounces against the ground, the buzzer shrills.

  I can barely hear it beneath the collective scream of the crowd. Every person in the gym has leapt to their feet, pumping their fists and howling.

  My whole team swarms me, whooping and slapping me on the back. I look down at Bell sprawled out on the boards and I say, “When they give me the ring, I’ll carve your name inside it to remember the guy who licked my balls while I won the game-winner.”

  Bell leaps to his feet, flinging himself at me with both fists swinging. My teammates shove him back while I laugh in his face.

  I’m high on triumph. It’s running through my veins, more intoxicating than any drug.

  I look around, not for my parents because I already know they’re cheering for me, too. I want to see if Anna was watching.

  It’s impossible to find her—the fans are covering the court. It’s my dad who claps me on the shoulder and pulls me into a hug.

  “You know the Kentucky coach was here watching,” he says.

  I roll my eyes. “Yeah, Dad, I know.”

  My mom kisses me on the cheek, not caring how sweaty I am.

  “Well done,” she says in her understated way. You can still hear the hint of a Russian accent in her voice, and the full measure of Russian stoicism where you could win the goddamn Olympics and they’d give you a nod and a “Could be better,” as their compliment.

  I just grin, ‘cause I know my parents adore me. I’m their only child. The center of their world.

  “Not bad,” a low voice says behind me.

  I turn around.

  Anna is standing there, dressed in her torn-up jeans and leather jacket once more. She’s washed some of the makeup off her face, so she no longer looks like the Corpse Bride, but she still has plenty of black liner smeared around her pale blue eyes.

  “Hi, Uncle Seb. Hi, Aunt Yelena,” she says politely.

  “Did you choreograph that dance, Anna?” my dad asks her. “That was incredible!”

  “I did most of it,” Anna says. “I took a few of the eight-counts from Mom’s burlesque ballet. With a few modifications.”

  Aunt Nessa smiles. “I thought it looked familiar. I can’t believe you remembered that. That was forever ago—you couldn’t have been more than . . . six?”

  “Anna remembers everything,” Uncle Miko says. Then, frowning, he asks her, “Who was that boy?”

  “What boy?” Aunt Nessa asks.

  “Nobody,” Anna says, tossing her head disdainfully.

  “Next time, you break his wrist,” Uncle Miko says, his lips still pale and thin with anger.

  “Power is not only in what we do, but in what we don’t do,” Anna says calmly.

  “Don’t use my own words against me,” Uncle Miko says, but I can see the hint of a smile on his face.

  “Was there a problem?” my father asks, frowning.

  “No,” Anna assures him. “Unless you consider an overprotective father to be a problem.”

  My dad grins, saying to Uncle Miko, “You shouldn’t have married such a pretty wife if you didn’t want beautiful daughters.”

  “I know,” Uncle Miko says. “A serious strategic error.”

  “Don’t let Seb tease you,” my mom says. “He’d be even worse if we had girls.”

  She’s joking, but I can hear the sadness in her voice. My parents wanted more kids. They tried for years and d
id four rounds of IVF. In the end they were given the extremely helpful diagnosis of “unexplained infertility.”

  They had to be satisfied with me—the accidental pregnancy that was never followed by any other.

  “What should we do to celebrate?” my dad says, changing the subject swiftly and tactfully.

  “We should go for dinner!” Aunt Nessa says. “Someplace fancy, to celebrate you champions.”

  Anna and I exchange a quick glance.

  It’s not that we don’t want to go for dinner with our parents. But there’s gonna be ten different ragers to celebrate the championship and the end of the school year.

  Catching the look, my mom says, “Why don’t we all get ice cream, and then you guys can meet up with your friends?”

  “That sounds great,” Anna says. “Thanks, Aunt Yelena.”

  “Have you been to Pie Cone?” my mom says, linking arms with Aunt Nessa. “All the ice cream is pie-flavored. Key lime pie, pumpkin pie, blackberry crumble . . .”

  “Oh my god,” Nessa laughs. “You already sold me at ‘ice cream.’ ”

  2

  Dean

  The underground fight club of Moscow is literally underground, in what was once an abandoned metro station. Now it functions as a spot for raves, drug deals, and bare-knuckle boxing tournaments run by the Bratva.

  The shouts of the crowd echo down the tunnel where the train tracks are overgrown with weeds and clogged with discarded hypodermic needles. You can still see the remains of faded billboards plastered on the curved walls, advertising products that haven’t been sold since the fall of the Soviet Union. Over that, layer upon layer of graffiti in dripping spray paint.

  It’s chilly down here, at least ten degrees colder than at street level. I keep my hoodie on until the last moment, so my muscles stay warm.

  “Who are you fighting?” Armen asks me.

  He’s smoking a cigarette, even though he’s supposed to fight in a minute himself.

  “Chelovek,” I say.

  “He’s pretty big,” Armen says.

  “Pretty fuckin’ slow, too.”

  Armen takes a long drag, exhaling the blue smoke up to the vaulted ceilings, then crushes the butt under his heel.

  “I’ll bet on you,” he says, as if he’s doing me a favor.

  “I’m not betting on you,” I tell him.

  Armen laughs. “That’s why you’re rich and I’m broke.”

  “Dmitry!” Boris shouts. “You’re up.”

  I’m the first fight of the night. When I’m fighting, I use my Russian name. I use it for most everything when I’m in Moscow.

  I strip off my hoodie, baring my body to the cold. The chill feels like an electric current against my skin. I can smell the scent of Armen’s cheap cigarette and the damp mold of the subway tunnel. Also the sweat of the fifty or so men crowded on the platform, and the tang of alcohol from the flasks in their jackets.

  There’s no ring. We fight in a chalk circle. If we step outside the circle, the spectators will shove us back in again.

  Boris is the event organizer. He’s not Bratva himself, though he works for them. He’s skinny with a shaved head and spacers in both ears, wearing a long coat with a fur collar. His best attribute is his loud, raspy voice that cuts over the noise of the crowd, no microphone required.

  I step into the circle, bouncing lightly on my toes. I’m wearing only a pair of trunks now, and flat sneakers. My hands are taped.

  Chelovek strolls into the other side of the circle. I haven’t fought him before, but I know who he is. He’s got a thatch of ginger hair shaved into a Mohawk, and a tattoo of a snake-ridden skull sprawled across his chest. He goes by Ryzhiy Chelovek, which basically means Copper-Top.

  We’re about the same height, a little over 6’2. While I’m lean and wiry, he’s beefy to the point of softness. In real boxing he’d be way outside my weight class. In the underground fights, they just call this a “Thick and Thin.”

  We face off against each other. He raises his fists up under his chin, shoulders hunched. I stand exactly as I am, with my arms at my sides.

  I haven’t fought Chelovek before. I’ve seen how he moves, though. In fact, I can tell what sort of fighter he’ll be just by the way he walked into the ring: brash, swaggering, and overconfident.

  Sure enough, as soon as Boris blows his whistle Chelovek comes at me with both fists flying, thinking that if he can land a solid punch I’ll go down hard.

  I duck the blows easily. Left, right, left, left, right, right.

  Jesus, he’s so predictable. I can see each punch coming from a mile away.

  He’s already breathing hard. Either he smokes like Armen or he’s been neglecting his cardio. Probably the latter. That’s why he’s so soft around the middle.

  I duck down and give him a sharp punch to the gut, testing his muscle tone. He grunts and exhales hard. He’s neglected his crunches too, apparently.

  I can hear the spectators shouting their bets. Those who bet on Chelovek initially are now trying to hedge. But the numbers aren’t as much in his favor anymore.

  I can see my father’s friend Danyl standing at the edge of the ring. He’s got his hands tucked in his pockets, smiling toothily. I’m sure he knew better than to bet against me.

  Of course my father isn’t here himself to watch me win. He never comes to my fights. It takes a lot more than that to get him to leave the house.

  I block another haymaker from Chelovek, and he hits me in the side with a left hook. I feel an unpleasant bending of the ribs, and I hunch over enough that his next blow catches me in the ear, making my head ring.

  That pisses me off, but I don’t let my anger get the better of me. I shove it down, like coal in a furnace. I want the rage to fuel me, without letting the fire run wild.

  I watch for my opening.

  Left, right, left, left—

  This time I interrupt Chelovek’s sequence with an uppercut to the jaw. His teeth click together hard and his head snaps back. He stumbles back on his heels, dazed and pained.

  I pursue the advantage, hitting him twice in the body and again in the head. Now I know his ears are ringing, worse than mine.

  Chelovek spits a little blood onto the platform, raising his fists once more, steadying himself.

  He comes at me slower now, more carefully. He learned his lesson. Or at least, he thinks he did.

  I could wear him down like this. Let him tire himself out while I duck his blows. He doesn’t have the stamina to keep it up for long.

  But I made my own bet on the fight. I’ve got to knock him out in the first round.

  Only twenty-two seconds left, according to the count I’m keeping in my head.

  If I want the KO, I’ll have to set a trap.

  Chelovek is annoyed and embarrassed. He wants to hit me. If I offer a tempting bait, he’ll jump at it.

  I send a couple quick jabs at his face, popping him lightly on the nose to piss him off even more. Then I hold my fists high, exposing that same right side to his left hook.

  Sure enough, Chelovek swings hard for my ribs. He hits me in the same place as before, and this time I hear a pop and I feel the sickening hot burn of a rib cracking.

  It doesn’t matter. I’ve already sent a right cross rocketing down toward his jaw. I hit him in the exact spot where the jawbone meets the skull. I can feel the bone separating. I watch the whole bottom half of his face pop out of alignment.

  Chelovek doesn’t feel it. He’s already unconscious before he hits the ground. He goes down like a tree, straight and wooden, unable to even put his hands up.

  The winners shout in triumph, and even those who lost their bets can’t help howling.

  I stand tall in the ring, refusing to acknowledge the pain in my side.

  Boris grabs my fist and hoists it aloft.

  “Once again, Dmitry Yenin takes the win! That’s six matches now, still undefeated!”

  Boris stuffs a wad of bills in my hand, my winnings from the fight.r />
  I don’t care about forty thousand rubles. I won ten times that amount betting on myself. I’ll collect it from Danyl later.

  Still, I stuff the money in the pocket of my shorts.

  I wince a little as I bend down to pick my hoodie up off the concrete.

  Armen is smoking again, while bouncing lightly on his toes to warm up. He’s taken off his hoodie and sweatpants, revealing a truly stunning pair of silk shorts emblazoned with a gold tiger across the crotch.

  “Not bad,” he says to me. “Glad I put a whole two thousand on you.”

  “Bet Chelovek wishes he did, too.”

  “I think Chelovek wishes he never crawled out of his mother’s cunt,” Armen says, snorting with wheezy laughter.

  “Good luck,” I tell him.

  “You’re not staying to watch me fight?”

  “Nah. You got everything you need to win.”

  “Really?” Armen says.

  “Yeah. Except speed, stamina, and technique.”

  Armen stares at me for a second, then bursts out laughing again.

  “Get the fuck outta here,” he snorts.

  “You got those shorts at least,” I say.

  “That I do.” Armen grins.

  I head back down the tunnel, walking along the deserted tracks. I hear Boris’s whistle signaling the start of Armen’s match, and the shouts as his backers cheer him on. The noise fades away as I round a curve in the tunnel.

  I pass the staircase that would take me back up to street level. I prefer to walk down to the old Park Kul’tury station and go up from there. This is a more direct route, cutting under the Moskva River. Plus, I like it down in the tunnels. It’s dark and quiet. At some points you can hear the vibration and rushing sounds of the trains passing by on parallel tracks that are still operational. Other spots you can hear the river itself running overhead.

  I’ve got my phone out so the screen casts just enough light to see the tracks ahead of me. “Major Tom” plays quietly on my earbuds, my steps naturally falling in time to the beat.

  Major Tom — Shiny Toy Guns

  Spotify → geni.us/freshman-spotify