Читать книгу Next - Kevin Waltman - Страница 12

5.

I still bring it when I get the chance. Still get a rip on the perimeter and hammer one down on a breakaway. One-hand throwdowns. Tomahawks. Once, when Bolden had to go into the locker room to get his clipboard, I popped it off the backboard to myself before throwing it down. My teammates hollered loud enough to wake the dead over in Crown Hill Cemetery. All but Starks, who just took a long sip off his water bottle and then spit into a garbage can.

I know why Starks acts that way. It’s because, between dunks, I’m making the plays that Bolden wants. Our offense isn’t that complex, and it never takes me long to get impatient. I’ll see that baseline open up and it kills me to not just attack the rim, but instead I reverse it back up top and let the offense clip along. All that matters is earning Coach’s trust so when the games get here in a few more days, I’ll have plenty of chances to punish people who want to try and check me. I’m also finding a rhythm with Moose, who’s a legit beast on the blocks. I get him the ball where he wants it and there’s nothing the guy guarding him can do. If little guards bite down on him they bounce off like pinballs. No doubt, Moose has enjoyed my arrival.

Royce and Devin aren’t so quick to warm to my presence. I know it’s not because they worry I’ll take their minutes, but because they’re tight with Starks. They’ve been balling together since they were in middle school, and those bonds don’t break, I guess. Even when I drop a dime to one of those two for a wide-open shot I get nothing, but if Starks hits them for a shot they act like he’s the second coming of Chris Paul: Great look, Nick, they’ll say, Beautiful pass, man.

Now we’re running fives, prepping for the first game against Arlington tomorrow night. I’m splitting time with Starks with the 1s. Right now I’ve got the O’s engine humming. First time down Moose seals his man. I hit him with a perfectly timed lob for a deuce. Then Royce deflects a pass on the defensive end and I push it ahead for an easy two-on-one break, Devin finishing at the end. Next time I rip the board and can’t help myself—I just motor past everyone and finish strong in the lane, getting the hoop and harm. One more time down and the 2s finally get a bucket—Devin falling asleep on a backdoor, and getting an earful from Coach Bolden—so they’re set again when we come down. I drive right, then kick to Royce in the corner. I cut on through to clear the lane for Moose, but when nobody can get him the ball down low, it gets reversed to me on the left side. Shot fake. Drive to the elbow. Shot fake again. And before the defense knows what hit him, I’ve slipped a little left-handed pass into Moose’s mitts. Bucket again.

After that, Coach subs me back out for Starks and I get a round of fives from my teammates, even Devin and Royce. I catch my breath while Starks runs the point for a few possessions. I stifle a grin when he bounces a pass at Moose’s ankles. Don’t get me wrong—I don’t want the team to fail. But if I raise the bar and Starks can’t jump over it, fine by me.

They go up and down a few times, with nothing special happening except Tyler Stanford getting flipped from first to second team at the four spot for Chris Jones. They’re both sophomores, and neither one does much more than take up space at that power forward position. There are times you can almost see Bolden’s patience stretching thin with them. Some days he’ll alternate them back and forth possession after possession, the vein in his neck bulging. Finally, Coach Murphy walks over and whispers something to Bolden. I know what’s coming.

“Bowen, in with the twos,” Bolden says. I flip my practice jersey inside-out, going from red to green, and jump back on the hardwood. Every day, they do this at least once—match me up against Starks. I always have to run with the 2s, but I don’t mind. It just makes it that much more impressive when I turn him inside out as quick as I do my jersey. Any day now, it’ll be Starks with the 2s. I can feel it.

I take a look at my squad—bump fists with a few of them. “Let’s run these guys off,” I say. The rest of the back-ups love it when I’m in their five, because all of a sudden things even up and they’ve got a fighting chance.

“Quit yappin’.” This is Starks, who’s waiting between mid-court and the top of the key, basketball nestled in the crook of his elbow. He won’t even make eye contact with me, but says, “Less talk, more play, Bowen. This ain’t middle school.”

That draws a little laugh from Devin, but when I give him a look he shuts up quick. I go out to check Starks. Up until now we’ve gone at each other pretty good, but he’s ignored me as much as he can. The fact that he had to say that to me lets me know I’m in his head.

He checks it and I get into him. I know where he wants to go, so every cut he makes is met with a little bump from me. Nothing that catches the coaches’ attention, but enough to bounce him off course. After a few passes, Devin gets impatient and flings up a weak fadeaway that skips off the iron and into Tyler Stanford’s hands. He outlets to me up at the hash and I push it into the front-court. Starks is back quickly, and if there’s one thing I’ve learned against him it’s that you shouldn’t underestimate how crafty he is on the defensive end. He’ll make it seem like you’ve got a good look at the rim, only to cut you off or poke the ball away. So I ease up on the throttle and settle us into our offense. It’s clear pretty fast, though, that nobody else with the 2s has a prayer of making something happen, so when I swing back to the top of the key I catch a pass on the move and lower my shoulder, get myself to the elbow and rise up over Nick’s outstretched hand. Bucket.

When they inbound it, I jump right on Starks. It’s hard to turn him over, but the more I get into him the more frustrated he’ll get. Sure enough, as he crosses mid-court, I flick at the ball and get a fingernail on it—not enough to steal it, but it slows him down again. Starks flashes a look at Coach Murphy, all but begging for a foul, but when Murphy just stares back, Starks gives the ball up and barks at me: “Don’t reach, man. That’s a foul.”

“Less talk, more play,” I say. That comment receives a subtle elbow from Starks as he tries to free himself on the wing. Sure enough, Royce feeds him the ball and Starks darts back baseline, but when he floats up his little runner, I get part of it. “Piece!” I yell, and Stanford yanks down another board and we’re off.

At the other end I drive and kick to the wing. No shot. I pop back out to the perimeter for the rock and feed Stanford low, but he just gets off balance, so I swing baseline and get it again. Reverse it back to the top. Wait a beat and then cut across the lane. Starks is trailing me, so I stop in the paint and just open up. It takes the three-man a second to realize it—he’s not used to a point guard who can post up near the basket—but he finally gets me the ball and Starks is still buried behind me. He tries to reach, but I keep the ball high and rise for an easy turnaround, only to see Moose flashing over. I know I can still score, even with Moose running at me. But I drop to it to Stanford who’s all alone for a layup.

“Good look, Derrick!” Coach Bolden shouts. Then he jumps on the first team. “You guys are getting it taken to you by the second team! How are you gonna handle Arlington? How you gonna handle Cathedral? How you gonna handle Lawrence North?”

“Come on!” Starks yells at his teammates, trying to rally them.

I don’t let up. As soon as he gets the in-bounds pass I’m on him again. I flick my hand in again near mid-court, and he seethes at me: “Don’t reach!”

So next chance I get, I reach again. This time I pick him clean. And here’s the thing: Nobody picks Nick Starks. So as I scoop the rock and push down the floor, I can hear a few people behind me—Ooooh.

Two dribbles. I’m in the paint. I rise. Then, just as I’m about to finish, my feet go out from under me. For a second I’m weightless in mid-air, my back parallel with the floor. Then down. Hard.

My shoulder gets the brunt of the fall, but my body twists, pushing weight up through my back and into my neck. Multiple whistles blow. As I lie on the floor I can hear the rumble of everyone’s feet as they sprint down to my spot.

I leap to my feet and step to Starks: “What the hell was that?” I yell. “You trying to get someone killed?”

“It’s a clean play! I was going for the ball.” Even as he protests, though, he’s backing up, looking out of the corner of his eyes for his boys Royce and Devin, who hustle over to get between us.

“It was a dirty play and you know it,” I yell, but as I step forward, two things happen. First, Coach Bolden’s hand grabs my jersey. You wouldn’t think to look at the old man, but when he gets a hold of you, you’re going nowhere. Second, I get dizzy. My legs wobble and I just have to stand there for a second trying to gather myself.

I worry that maybe something’s really wrong, but my hesitation gives Starks confidence. He steps my way. “You want to accuse me of playing dirty? You wanna go, we can go!”

“That’s enough!” Bolden screams. The gym goes quiet, except I still feel a little buzzing in my neck and head. “You’re supposed to be getting ready for Arlington. For the goddamn basketball season. Instead you’re trying to fight each other like a bunch of ten-year-olds.”

With that, the buzzing and numbness in my neck turns to heat. I can’t believe Bolden’s jumping my case too, when it was Starks who undercut me. I know to bite my tongue, but all it does is make me want even more to put Starks on his ass.

“I ought to put both of you on the damn bench,” Bolden yells.

I see Coach Murphy’s eyes widen a little when he hears that. I guess Bolden’s enough of a hard-ass to actually do something that crazy, so Murphy pipes up. “Okay, okay,” he says, “we got that out of our system. Now let’s put that energy in the right direction and have a good rest of practice.”

Coach Bolden looks at Murphy. He doesn’t like getting interrupted, even by another coach. But I guess Bolden decides not to make a bad day worse, so he sends us all off to shoot free throws and calm down.

For the remainder of practice, I kept my cool. The coaches don’t match me back up against Starks all day, and there are no more fireworks.

In the locker room, with Bolden and Murphy keeping an eye on us, Starks came over and gave me a little fist bump.

“We cool?” he asked.

“Sure,” I said. But we’re not cool. Both of us know it.

During practice, it didn’t take long for my numbness to fade. I most definitely didn’t want to let the coaches think I was hurt the day before our first game, but now that practice is over I play it up. I keep stretching my neck and rubbing it, even ask our trainer—some pint-sized but solid guy named Darius—to get me a bag of ice.

So out of the gym I stroll, ice pack held to my neck even in 30 degree weather. The gym doors open up onto Fairfield, right where it meets Central, and the traffic is creeping in the early evening, a few flurries sparkling in the lights. I know my Mom’s got dinner waiting for me, but I like nights like this. Cold and crisp, all the city lights coming on as the sky gets dark, so I zip my coat up, pull off that ice pack, and decide to head up to 38th and College for a couple cheeseburgers before heading home.

I text Wes and tell him to meet me there when I see Jasmine Winters. She’s leaning against a car in the corner of the gym lot, waiting on Nick, I guess. As always, she looks fine. She’s got on this big red coat that kind of stands out, this one flash of lively color in the black and gray of the city. She’s got her hands shoved in her pockets and she’s shivering, but she must sense me looking at her because she looks up and smiles, gives a quick wave.

I head on up Central, trying to be cool, but I wave back and call Hey to her.

“What happened?” she asks. I don’t know what she means, and she points to the doors. “I saw you had ice on when you came out.”

“Nothing,” I say. “I got undercut and landed on my neck, but I’m straight.”

She takes a couple strides toward me. “Let me see,” she says, sounding seriously concerned.

I should know better. I really should. But here’s Jasmine taking an interest in me, so I walk into the parking lot, and when I get close I have to bend down a little and tilt my head so she can take a look. Her fingers are cold as little icicles against my skin, but I can feel her breath warm against my neck. I peek over at her, see the smooth caramel of her skin, see her simple silver necklace glimmering in the night. “I don’t see any swelling,” she says.

I smile at her. “See,” I say. “No big deal.”

She folds her arms across her chest, almost like she’s embarrassed for having tried to nurse me a bit. Then she pulls out her phone and looks at it, but she’s just checking the time, growing impatient for Nick to make his exit. “Who undercut you?”

I consider lying, but then I figure why lie to protect Nick? “Your boy,” I say.

“Nick did that to you?” She sounds alarmed again, almost angry.

“It happens,” I say. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a couple of the other players leaving and I don’t want to be caught talking to her.

“Gotta bolt,” I say. “Peace.”

“Take care,” she says. “Don’t go getting yourself hurt.”

I swear she’s flirting as she says it. As I walk away, I think I see her wink, but the flurries are turning a little heavier now so I can’t be sure.

I head up Central and I’m just about to 36th when I hear someone call out my name. I turn and see Moose, so I wait for him at the intersection.

“Good practice,” he tells me when he arrives. “We gonna beat the hell out of Arlington.”

“We better,” I say. “I’m so amped I can barely stand it.”

We cut over toward College, our heads bent into the wind.

“One thing, though,” Moose says.

“What?”

“You’re already about to take Nick’s starting spot. Don’t screw it up by trying to take his girl.”

I play ignorant. “I’m not doing anything like that.”

“I saw you,” Moose says. “Running game with her in the damn parking lot. I mean, come on, man.”

I try to laugh it off. “Shit. I wish I had game to run. I was just talking.”

Moose stops then, right there in the middle of the lane on 38th. “I know game when I see it,” he says. “Just stay clear of Jasmine.” We head on across the street. I tell him I’m meeting Wes for some eats so he decides to join us. Then, even though he was dead serious for me to stay away from Nick’s girlfriend, he pushes me on the back, messing around. “A freshman trying to get down with Jasmine Winters in the parking lot,” he says. “You a dawg, D-Bow.” We laugh then, and duck into the warmth of the burger joint, leaving Indy’s bluster outside.