The Sixth Man

by John Feinstein

  A moment later they were there, and after a cautious hug from his mom and introductions all around, they turned to the X-rays.

  “Perfect timing, Mrs. Myers,” Dr. Taylor said. “I was just about to explain to Alex what’s going on.”

  “Is it very serious?” Alex’s mom asked—the question Alex had been wanting to ask all along.

  “Not very, no—it could have been much worse,” the doctor said. “Here, let me show you.

  “See the white spot right here?” he added, pointing to one of the pictures. “That’s a tear—J. J. was right. When he touched you on that spot, it hurt because that’s where the bad tear is.”

  “The bad tear?” Coach Archer said.

  Dr. Taylor nodded. “Look at this other X-ray,” he said. “See that small white spot and that other one up in the corner? Those are small tears. Alex tore the tendon in three places, but only the big one right near his hand is significant.”

  “How significant?” Alex, his mom, and Coach Archer asked together.

  “Well, I’m going to put you in a soft cast,” Dr. Taylor said. “Two weeks from today, you’ll come back and we’ll take another look. But I think you’ll need more like three weeks for it to heal completely.”

  “And basketball?” Alex asked.

  “We’ll see once the cast is off,” Dr. Taylor said. “Your arm is going to atrophy some while it’s in the cast, so you’ll need time to get your strength back. I think we can have you back on the court in about four weeks. Maybe a little less.”

  “We start conference play January ninth,” Coach Archer said.

  “What is it now? The fifteenth? That’ll be tight,” Dr. Taylor said. “He should be healed by then, but I don’t know what kind of basketball shape he’ll be in. That’ll be your call.”

  Alex’s mom had been listening intently. Now she looked at Coach Archer. “I’m sure you want him back as soon as possible, Coach Archer,” she said.

  “Evan,” he said.

  She smiled. “Evan. But I don’t want to rush him back if there’s a chance he’ll reinjure his wrist.”

  Dr. Taylor smiled. “That’s a very understandable fear. But I’m not going to okay him to play until he’s fully healed. As I’m sure Coach Archer would agree.”

  “You’ve got my word, Mrs. Myers,” Coach Archer said.

  “Linda,” she said.

  Dr. Taylor put Alex in a soft cast, which was a relief. He had broken an ankle in the fourth grade, and the hard cast he’d been in for a month had made him miserable.

  With the soft cast, he could still use his hand, which meant that he could write and use a computer—albeit clumsily. He could also shower, which had been impossible in the hard cast.

  Coach Archer stayed with them until they were ready to go, and he insisted on transferring Alex’s bike from his car to the Myerses’ car himself.

  “Thanks for bringing him to the hospital,” Alex’s mom said.

  “Not a problem,” Coach Archer said. “I’m really sorry this happened. One of the other guys on the team isn’t handling the fact that your son is a better player than he is very well. I’ll deal with him tomorrow. The good news is kids heal quickly, and I have a feeling Alex will be an even quicker healer than most.”

  “What makes you say that?” Alex’s mom said skeptically.

  “Just knowing him for a couple of weeks now,” Coach Archer said with a smile.

  For a moment, there was an awkward silence. Alex was starting to shiver.

  “Listen,” Coach Archer said, now holding the door open for Alex’s mom to get into the car. “Alex isn’t going to be able to ride his bike to school very comfortably while he’s got that cast on. I could pick him up in the mornings the rest of the week. That way you’d only have to pick him up after school.”

  “Oh, you don’t have to do that…,” his mom said.

  “But I’d like to do it,” Coach Archer said. “And it’s really not a problem. I can’t do it tomorrow because young Mr. Wakefield is going to be running at 6:00 a.m. But after that, I’m happy to do it.”

  Alex’s mom looked at Alex. A week ago, the thought of riding to school every morning with Coach Archer would have been somewhat sickening. Now Alex thought it’d be okay. He nodded slightly to let his mom know.

  “If you really think it isn’t too inconvenient, that would be terrific,” she said. “It should only be this week, with the holidays coming up.”

  “Exactly,” Coach Archer said.

  Alex was already in the car and digging into the McDonald’s bag he’d found on the passenger seat. The French fries were cold, but he didn’t care. He was starving. “I’m sorry about the circumstances,” Alex’s mom said as Coach Archer was—finally—closing the driver’s-side door. “But it’s nice to meet you.”

  “You too.” Coach Archer leaned down and gave Alex a wave. “Come see me during lunch tomorrow, Alex,” he said. “We’ll work out a schedule.”

  He stuck his hands into his coat pockets and headed back to his car.

  Alex’s mom pulled out of the parking space and glanced at him. “Food cold?” she asked.

  “Yes, but it’s fine,” he answered.

  “So, didn’t you tell me Coach Archer was kind of a jerk?” his mom asked as he dug into the bag for a second hamburger. His mom always got him two.

  “Starting out, he was a jerk,” Alex said. “He’s gotten better. Tonight, he was really nice.”

  He saw her smile in the darkness. “You also didn’t tell me he was so good-looking.”

  Alex groaned. First Christine, now his mom? Seriously, his mom?

  “Very handsome,” Molly piped up from the backseat. It was the first thing she’d said all night.

  Alex decided to keep his mouth shut—except to put food in it.

  As soon as he walked in his house, it occurred to Alex that he hadn’t looked at his phone—which had been buzzing repeatedly in his pocket—in a long time.

  Sure enough, there were texts from teammates, both football and basketball, asking him what had happened at the hospital. Jonas had texted six times, the last one saying, Unless you died in that hospital you better have a good explanation why you aren’t answering me!

  Christine, he noticed, had sent just one text, saying, simply, Call when you can.

  Clearly, she was in an absolute panic about his injury.

  Alex called Jonas first—since he seemed more concerned, and he figured it couldn’t hurt to make Christine wait.

  “Coach sent us all a text,” Jonas said. “He said you’re probably out for about a month.”

  “Yeah, sounds like it,” Alex said, feeling a surge of anger directed at Zane Wakefield. “It better not be any longer than that, or I may kill Wakefield. Come to think of it, I may kill him anyway.”

  Jonas laughed. “Coach Archer may beat you to it. You probably didn’t see the look he gave him while J. J. was checking you out.”

  “Well, I guess I’ll have more time to study before finals,” he said. It had just occurred to him that he would be going home right after classes on Tuesday, something he hadn’t done since the start of school.

  “You could always come and watch practice.”

  “Oh sure, that’d be great. Sit there and watch Wakefield play while I can’t.”

  “Yeah, I hear you. But I’ll miss you at practice. No one else talks to me.”

  “Wanna trade places?”

  “Yeah—no, good point,” Jonas said. “See you at school tomorrow, and we’ll figure out how to deal with Wakefield.”

  Alex called Christine next.

  “I hear you’re out for a month,” she said. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Thanks,” he said.

  “How did it happen?” she said.

  It suddenly occurred to Alex that she might not be calling as a friend but as a reporter for the Weekly Roar.

  “Is this on the record?” he asked, having learned newspaper talk from her during the football season.

  “Is
there any reason for it not to be on the record?” she said.

  Alex thought about that for a moment. Heck with it, he decided; if Zane Wakefield didn’t like what he had to say, what did he care?

  So he told her.

  “And Wakefield’s going to be running at 6:00 a.m. tomorrow?” she said.

  “That’s what Coach Archer said. You going to get up and check it out?”

  “Well, I can’t make deadline for this week. And finals start on Wednesday. But it might be worth it just to see how much he actually makes Zane run.”

  She said Zane in a way that made Alex ask, “Do you know Wakefield? I mean, other than him being on the basketball team?”

  “He asked me out once,” she said matter-of-factly.

  Now Alex really wanted to kill Wakefield.

  “What did you say?” He was almost afraid to hear the answer.

  “I said no,” she replied, sounding insulted. “Please.”

  It occurred to Alex that Christine probably got asked out a lot. And then he wondered just how often “a lot” was….

  “Right, sorry,” he said. “Are we still going to a movie on Saturday?”

  “If you stop asking dumb questions, we are,” she said. He could hear the smile in her voice as she said it.

  “Okay, okay,” he said. “If you do go watch Wakefield run tomorrow, I want to hear all about it.”

  “You don’t want to meet me there?”

  “At 6:00 a.m.? No thanks. Been there, done that.”

  “How’s your wrist?” she asked. “Does it hurt a lot?”

  “It’s not awful if I don’t move it,” he said. “The doctor gave me something in case it gets bad during the night.”

  “You just seem to find trouble one way or the other, don’t you?” she said.

  “Actually, I don’t,” Alex said. “But it does seem to find me.”

  On Tuesday, Alex was just sitting down to eat a quick lunch before going to see Coach Archer, juggling his tray since he only had partial use of his right hand, when he saw Zane Wakefield walking toward their table. He steeled himself for trouble.

  “How’s the wrist?” Wakefield asked, not bothering to say hello but managing not to sound quite as hostile as he normally did.

  “Hurt,” Alex said. “Thanks to you.”

  He had absolutely no desire to make nice on any level with Wakefield.

  “I know,” Zane said. “It was my fault. I’m sorry.”

  Wakefield didn’t put out a hand—perhaps because he knew a handshake wasn’t a good idea for Alex at that moment.

  Alex stared at him for a second.

  “Apology accepted,” he said finally, hearing Jonas making a choking sound behind him. “But do me a favor.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t ever speak to me again.”

  “I thought you said you accepted my apology?”

  “I do. But I still think you’re a jerk.”

  Christine had just walked up to the table, tray in hand.

  Wakefield turned and pointed at her. “You’re a witness; I did what I was told.”

  He stalked away.

  “What was that about?” Alex said as Christine sat down.

  “Coach Archer told him if he didn’t apologize to you he wouldn’t play again until you could,” she said. “Either way, he has to run at six for the rest of the week.”

  “So it wasn’t a real apology, then,” Jonas said.

  “It was real,” Alex said. “He did say I’m sorry. He just didn’t mean it.”

  “He’s sorry he got in trouble,” Christine said. “You should have come this morning, Alex. You would have enjoyed it. I honestly thought Zane was going to pass out.”

  “So you went?” Alex said. “You really are a good reporter. Seriously. The day before exams start and you got up for that? How many times did he run the steps?”

  “I think it was ten, but that wasn’t what was so hard. Coach Archer ran with him, and he told him if he fell more than five steps behind him on any trip up and down, it didn’t count. Zane was running so hard to keep up he actually got sick at one point. Coach Archer is in shape.”

  Alex didn’t really want to hear anything about Coach Archer being in shape—especially after his mother’s comment from the previous night. But he had to admit the vision of Wakefield bent over getting sick didn’t bother him in the least. He wondered if that made him a bad guy. Jonas cleared that up for him quickly.

  “Too bad he didn’t throw up twice,” he said.

  Alex finished eating and excused himself to go see Coach Archer. He found him in his office watching what looked like a recording of the Mercer game on a small TV set up in the corner.

  “This is my version of running at 6:00 a.m.,” he said, freezing the on-screen image. “I coached badly that night, so I’m making myself watch the tape again.”

  He gestured to Alex to take a seat. “How’s the wrist feel?” he asked.

  “Got through the night without the painkillers,” Alex said. “It hurts now, though.”

  “What about taking finals?” Coach Archer asked. “We could probably get you excused until you’re out of the soft cast.”

  Alex had actually discussed that with his mother on the way to school. “I’d like to at least try to get through them,” he said. “To be honest, I’d rather get them over with.”

  Coach Archer nodded. Then, to Alex’s surprise, he changed the subject completely. “How long have your parents been divorced?” he asked.

  “They’re not divorced,” he said, caught a little off guard. “They separated this summer. My dad is still in Boston.”

  “And you guys came here?”

  “Yeah, my mom has family here.”

  “So the new kid in town had to compete with the coach’s son for playing time in football.”

  Alex smiled. “Actually, there wasn’t any competition,” he said. “Matt was the quarterback and I was third string until he got hurt.”

  “And started taking steroids.”

  Alex grimaced a little. “That came later.”

  Coach Archer leaned back in his chair. “So let me see if I’ve got the story straight: your parents split in the summer, you move, come to a new school with no friends, you get your head bashed in the opening game because the coach is running up the score, you’re wrongly accused of taking steroids, clear your name in time to play in the state championship, lose by a whisker, and then the basketball coach decides to give you a hard time the minute you walk in the door.”

  Alex held up his arm. “You forgot this,” he said.

  Coach Archer smiled. “You’re a tough kid, Alex. Tell your mom she should be proud of you.”

  Alex didn’t know what to do with himself when he got home that afternoon. The smart thing to do was start studying for his first final—math, which was the next day. English and history would come Thursday and then earth science and the one he really needed to study for—French—on Friday.

  But he couldn’t get started. First he had a snack. Then he texted with a few people—starting out answering people who had inquired about his wrist, then getting into a couple of back-and-forths with friends. Then he went on the Internet and got caught up on the sports websites. He watched an episode of Monk, the show he and his dad had watched together all the time.

  His mom came into the room and found him sitting on the bed.

  “How’s the studying going?” she asked, sitting on the edge of the bed.

  He smiled. He never bothered to try lying to his mother. She said he had a “tell” when he was lying—that his mouth twitched just a little.

  “It’s not,” he answered. “I got distracted by some stuff. I’ll start right after dinner like I usually do.”

  She nodded. “That’s fine. You’re entitled to some downtime. And I’m guessing you’re ready for your tests…?” She paused and smiled. “Except maybe French, right? Three more days and then it’ll be Christmas break, and by the time it’s over, you’ll ha
ve the cast off.”

  “You think so?”

  “I do. Doctors tend to give patients the worst-case scenario so they don’t get upset. I think you’ll have the cast off by New Year’s.”

  She nodded in the direction of his computer. “What’re you watching?”

  “Monk.”

  She smiled. “Makes you think about your dad, doesn’t it?” she said. “Did you talk to him last night?”

  He shook his head. “I left him a message. Then he sent a text this morning, saying he was catching an early flight to LA but would try to call tonight.”

  “He did have an early flight,” she said.

  “Mom, you don’t have to make excuses for him.”

  “I’m not,” she said. “I’ve told him he needs to work harder on making time for you and Molly. He gets it…I think.”

  “Well, he did make the state championship game, at least. I guess that was progress.”

  She nodded. “Different subject. I have a question to ask you.”

  “Yeah?”

  She paused for a moment, which made him nervous.

  “Okay,” she said finally. “Let me put it this way. How would you feel if I went on a date?”

  Alex involuntarily shivered. He had known this moment was going to come at some point. He knew his dad was seeing someone in Boston, and that bugged him—if he was being honest. But the thought of his mom on a “date” was somehow worse. He wanted her to be happy, but this was all moving so fast.

  She and his dad had talked about their separation as an “experiment” in the summer. But they had already filed divorce papers, and now it was just a matter of time before it was final.

  He realized he had spaced out when he heard his mom say, “Alex, are you okay?”

  “Sure, Mom, sorry,” he said, snapping back to reality. “Of course you should go on a date. Dad’s doing it; why shouldn’t you?”

  She smiled. “I didn’t know you knew about your dad seeing someone. Did he tell you?”

  Alex nodded. It was one of the few conversations he’d had with his dad that had lasted more than two minutes.

  “Good, then,” his mom said. “Let me ask you another question. How would you feel if I went on a date with Evan Archer?”