Somehow, there’s still school today. There might as well be fog swirling down the hallways for as much as I can focus. I drift from period to period. All I can think about is Mom’s long labor last night. Of little Gracie—already, she’s Gracie, courtesy of her Uncle Kid.
Outside of the American History classroom, I’m still sleepwalking. Then I feel something along the small of my back, trailing down toward the top of my jeans. I practically leap out of my shoes. Hell, if I could get that kind of vertical on the court, I’d be rolling.
“Lord, D. It’s me,” Lia says. “Where’s your head?”
I explain to her. As I start telling her about my little sister, somehow it makes it all more real—like as long as the news was just within the family, it was like a dream, but now it’s a true thing out in the world. I smile as I talk, but Lia doesn’t. When I finish, rather than saying congratulations or anything like that, she looks pained and shakes her head. “What?” I say.
“Derrick, were you even going to tell me?” she says, her voice rising into a half-scream at the end. “I’m your girlfriend and you couldn’t even text me last night?”
Before I know it, I’m rolling my eyes. That sets Lia off even more. She gets ready to shout at me, but then she just crosses her arms across her chest, pinches her mouth shut, and looks away.
When she gets this way, I get all twisted up too. I’m torn between wanting to get down to beg forgiveness—tell her she’s the best thing I’ve got going and that I can’t imagine my world without her—and just turning away and leaving her there cold. Neither reaction would really seem like a lie. But I try for middle ground. I take a deep breath and try to explain. “It was super late, Lia,” I start. “At first I didn’t call you because everyone was rushing around like the baby was coming any second. And then it took forever, and I kept thinking I’d text you once I knew everything was okay, and then it took even longer, and…” I trail off. She’s not having it. Suddenly the notion dawns on me—maybe I won’t be the one to end it. Maybe she’s through with me. “I’m sorry,” I say. It sounds tired—probably because we say that to each other as much as anything else.
“Whatever,” she says. We look at each other for a few seconds. We’re only a couple feet apart, but we might as well be on opposite sides of the Grand Canyon. “Am I just wasting my time, Derrick?”
“What do you mean? We’re just, like, in a weird place, but it always gets better.”
She looks away again. “It’s not that. God, it’s not even about last night.” The bell rings for us to get to class, but neither one of us flinches. Lia thinks for a second, trying to find the right words. “I just feel like a big part of you is already gone. And I’m not invited.”
Maybe she’s right. Maybe the reason I can’t figure out how to respond to Lia is that in the back of my mind I keep seeing myself next year. I’ll be on some campus with the swirl of college around me. And when I picture that, Lia’s not there. Maybe that’s what’s wrong with our team too—I’ve got one foot out the door. But I can worry about that later. Right now, Lia.
“You’ve got nothing?” she huffs at me, angry at my silence. She shakes her head and starts to storm down the hall.
“Lia, wait,” I call. She stops, but she only turns around halfway. Her arms are still folded across her chest. “I go down to Bloomington for my official visit this weekend. My family’s gonna be all baby all the time, so why don’t you come with me instead?”
Lia lights up. It starts in her face with a smile. Then her arms unclench and she practically bounces to me. She hugs me tight, and I can feel all her curves pressing against me. Just like that, it’s all back—that heat between us, that breathlessness. She feels it too, because she whispers in my ear, “I will make you real happy you just said that.” She squeezes a finger into one of my belt loops and gives a little tug as she says it, just in case I’m not sure what she means.
Damn. When she gets like this, my heart starts racing so fast. I feel like ditching the rest of the day to take her up on her offer right now. And that gleam in her eye tells me she’d probably be down if I suggested it.
That’s all good. I’ve been through enough things with girls to know sex doesn’t cure problems, but it’s good to know we can still get to each other that way. So, riding that high, I head into next period. I’m late, get a leer from Mr. Hasbrough, but I don’t care. I got scholarship offers. I got Lia Stone. And as I sit, I try to color in those images I have of my future. I imagine the two of us exploring a college town together—walking to classes, hanging at parties, having all the private time in the world in athlete dorms. I imagine texting her as I’m on my way home from a road trip. Instead of waiting until the next morning to see her at school, she could just come to my place right then. Let herself in with her key. It could work.
There’s just one problem. That thing I just suggested, her coming with me on a visit? I was like a guy who panics in a half-court trap and flings the ball up for grabs. It’s about the worst idea anyone’s ever had.
If some high majors backed off because of my knee, it’s not stopping other schools. The offers keep coming. I’m not just talking scholarships. Mostly it’s cold hard cash. But these schools know what’s up—Kid sits me down and tells me he got offered a place. A much needed one since he’s relegated to the couch now that Gracie’s here.
“It’s not like they were dangling some mansion in Meridian Hills out to me,” he says. “Just some two-bedroom place on College. But,”—he looks out our window as if verifying something—“a hell of a lot nicer than any place around here.”
I shake my head in disbelief. “Who offered?” I ask.
“Does it matter?”
Jayson practically springs off the couch. “Hell, yes, it matters,” he says. His volume stirs Grace in her swing—it’s a rickety old thing Mom’s co-worker gave her, so squeaky I’m surprised Grace can stand it. But it’s the only thing that keeps her calm. She’s such a crier that even Kid’s had trouble soothing her since she’s been home. Jayson shifts quietly, then leans forward and whispers. “What if it’s a place that balls out? What if it’s better than some of the places D’s looking?”
“That’s not the way we’re playing it,” I tell Jayson. I’m standing, too nervous before a Friday game to sit.
Now Jayson flops back on the couch, exasperated. He keeps his voice low, but points back toward Mom and Dad’s room where they’re getting some shut-eye. “According to them,” he seethes. “But, man, you know they live in some old-fashioned world. Look around us. We need some green. And all these schools are holding it in their hands.”
Kid nods. If anyone understands the need for some hand-outs, it’s Kid. He’s sitting in Dad’s chair though, and it’s like he takes on that role for a minute. He rubs his chin thoughtfully, offers Jayson a patient smile. “Look, Jayson,” he starts. “Look at me. You want to see where short-cuts get you? I’m a grown man who sleeps on a couch.” Amazing. When I was a freshman, Kid was the one trying to work a deal for me to transfer to Hamilton Academy. Now he’s the one lecturing Jayson.
Jayson sneers. “It’s not about you, Kid,” he says.
Kid pounces on that. He leans forward. “Exactly.” He points to me. “It’s about Derrick. This is his call, nobody else’s. And if he’s on board with playing things straight, then that’s how we’re gonna do it.”
Jayson huffs and looks away. He’s cooled it on the attitude lately. Probably because when Mom was pregnant, he knew better than to mess. But he still gets this way now and then. Last year he got himself all turned around because nobody was giving him attention. Even now he’ll hint pretty hard that people ought to come out and see him perform on stage the way they come see me between the lines. This is more than that though. He really thinks it’s ridiculous that all I’m getting out of this deal is a scholarship. Across the country guys with half my skills are getting cars, stacks of cash, whatever they want. And there it is again—that nagging feeling that maybe Jayson’s right. I think back about what Moose told me when he visited practice. Part of me wants to turn to Kid and, like Jayson, demand to know what school was dangling the goods. Couldn’t hurt to know. But I don’t.
Instead, I turn to Jayson. “I get it,” I say. “Probably when I was your age, I figured the pay day was the thing.” I’m about to explain to him that it gets complicated fast. That even as a freshman I turned down that transfer to Hamilton Academy. And I’ve learned the easiest path isn’t the best. But Jayson’s not having it.
“Oh, save it, D,” he snaps. “You want to yap about how you know hoops better, fine. But don’t give me that when I was your age shit.”
The first cry sounds like a slap of a hand on a table, short and sharp. We think for a second maybe that’s it. But then the second one comes, lower pitched but more pained. And then the floodgates open. Grace wails. Her arms and legs flail in the swing as if she’s in terrible physical pain.
Kid’s off the chair and over to where Grace is stationed by the kitchen table. “Shhhhh,” he keeps saying. He stops the swing, but can’t get her unbuckled. All the time, Grace keeps crying.
Mom emerges. I hear her stomping down the hallway. She turns the corner and heads for Grace. She taps Kid on the shoulder and he backs away from the swing. Then she smoothly dips down, unbuckles Grace, lifts her shirt and lets Grace nurse. She does this all in a moment, deft as a point guard shaking three defenders and then dropping a dime.
Grace stops nursing every second or two to let out another cry. Mom glares at us. Maybe she heard Jayson too. He rises from the couch and shrugs, refusing the blame. He heads back to our room and closes the door hard—not so hard that it’s an obvious slam, but there’s just enough force behind it to make a nice thud.
That sets Grace off again. Mom’s face pinches down in sleeplessness and anger. It’s all she can do not to scream too.
We tip against Ft. Wayne Snider in an hour and a half. In the morning I’m heading to Bloomington for an official visit, but I’ve got to take my girlfriend with me. Grace’s cries rise in volume, and I feel the tension rise right up into my shoulders and neck. It’s like everything’s about to crack into pieces.
Right out of the gate, we’re down a half dozen. Some of it’s because Xavier picks up two quick fouls, and Murphy has to pull him. But mostly it’s because we’re all playing like a bunch of strangers.
Jones tries to play hero, firing a few up from out of his range. Both scrape iron harmlessly. Reynolds lets his attention drift. He runs the wrong sets on offense time and again. He gets in the way of a post feed, then bumps into Fuller, who would have been open on a back-cut. Fuller huffs at that, then proceeds to take out his frustration by jamming an elbow in his man’s chest—a quick offensive foul and another turnover.
When I glance over at the bench, I see Murphy rise and walk toward Gibson. I know what’s coming next, so I decide to do what I can before Gibson checks in. I pick my man up full court, dogging him all the way up. He handles the pressure, but I hope my jump in intensity feeds my teammates. It seems to at first. Fuller and Reynolds get out into passing lanes. Our bigs keep their feet quick and cut off post entries. But it doesn’t last. I stay after it, but after a few ball rotations our pressure wanes. It’s like we’re out of shape or something, unable to stay at full tilt for more than fifteen or twenty seconds. I pressure my man into a bad dribble pick-up in the corner, but instead of clamping down, Reynolds lets his man drift free for a look from range. He buries it, of course.
Our crowd moans and settles back in their seats, while the Ft. Wayne Snider faithful roar. I clap twice for Fuller to give me the inbounds pass. When he does, I race it up. Murphy’s almost on the floor telling me to call time-out. Instead, I power past him and into the front-court. The defense is back, but in my heart I know we need something—a quick three, a run at the rim, a hoop-and-harm. I get to the hash mark and cross over, turning my man. Then I rip the rock behind my back to turn him again—a move he flat can’t handle. I’m past him and headed toward the lane, all the big men converging. And that’s when I know it—I can’t do it. I mean, maybe I could get a leaner around them, but the days of me rising over guys for a dunk are gone. I zag back baseline and keep my dribble alive. I spy Jones trailing, but he’s just running into the teeth of the defense. And then my man clamps back down on me. Then a double comes, and I’m trapped in the corner.
I spin toward the ref and call time-out. Surrender.
At the bench, Murphy gives me a long look. “You saw me, right?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I huff. “I thought I had something.”
Murphy takes a long look back at the court, like he’s wondering what I saw that nobody else in the gym could see. “Well, catch some air,” he says. It’s cheerful, like he’s telling me to help myself to some lemonade. Then he points at Gibson. “In for Bowen.”
“Absolutely, Coach,” Gibson says. It comes out all military precision, like he’s the most obedient player ever to suit up.
A twenty-five point whipping. It was sixteen by half and never got closer. Brutal.
I know what to do afterward. Shower it off.
And then I hit it. No hash-it-out session with Fuller, no big heart-to-heart with Murphy, and certainly no we’ll-get-‘em-next-time chat with Gibson. I towel off, put on my clothes and coat, and I’m a ghost.
What matters to me is all out ahead. We’ve got a Saturday night off, so I’m off to Bloomington for my official visit. I’ll go early, check out the town. Make myself at home. Think about what it will be like next year when I’m suiting up for a Big Ten power and my old teammates are still getting run by second-rate schools from Ft. Wayne. To hell with them, I think. They can’t even show up and get after it? Then I’m already gone.
Outside, the cold air fills my lungs, gives them a quick burn. Most of the cars have already emptied the parking lot—just some leftover fast food bags drifting around in the wind—but the Friday night traffic is ripping by. I look around and suddenly realize I was in such a hurry to get out the door I don’t know where I’m headed. I don’t want to go home—listening to Grace howl isn’t exactly going to soothe me from this loss. I can’t go to Wes’ house anymore—besides, he’s probably out peddling weed for some crew again. I absolutely do not want to hit up a party or burger joint with any of my teammates.
But I know what I have to do. Talk to Lia. I pull out my phone to text her. When I look though, there’s a message from Jasmine. It’s long—a novel by text standards—and it’s an apology for how things went down last time. All she wants is to see me again when she’s in town next weekend.
I want to believe her. Then again, I wanted to believe this senior season would be a magical run. I delete her text and mash one out to Lia. Let the past go, I figure. Just move forward.
“D!” I hear. “D, wait up.”
I want no part of waiting up, not for anyone. But I know the voice. It’s Kid. I could leave a coach hanging, but not my uncle. I watch the traffic rumble past as I wait for Kid. So many times I’ve come out of that gym into the Indianapolis night—usually after wins, but after my share of losses too. Every time I’ve been thinking only about my next game here. Nothing ever felt like the end. Even the last games of seasons just felt like a pause since I knew ball was kicking in again soon enough. But now? I look back at Marion East looming behind Uncle Kid as he comes my way. It feels like it’s all about to disappear for good.
“D, you gotta get it together,” Kid says. He’s half out of breath from hustling after me. A far cry from playing shape.
“Me?” I say. “I put up eighteen and eight boards. Don’t know how much more I can do for those guys.”
Kid looks up at the sky and shakes his head. “Come on, Derrick,” he says. “You been around the game long enough to know stats don’t tell a thing. Man, you got to be a teammate to those guys. You got to be the senior leader. You got—”
“What the hell do you think I’m trying to do?” I shout. Anger flashes across Kid’s face. He knows I’d never talk to another coach like that, not even Murphy. Right now I don’t really care. I just keep on, same volume. “I can’t guard Xavier’s man for him. I can’t remind Reynolds of the offense every damn possession. I can’t give Fuller skills he’ll never have. And, hell, Jones is a senior too. Why can’t he step up and lead?”
Kid stares at me. The white puffs that formed between us as my breath hit the cold drift away on the wind. “You done?” he asks. I don’t even respond. “Jones? You want him to step up and lead? Is he the one getting high major offers? He been a four-year starter? It’s your job to keep this team together and you know it.”
“Well, if it’s my team then how come I’m getting run to the bench at the first sign of trouble every night?” I shout. And there it is. The real source of the tension. Kid knew it already. But now it’s out there for real. Every time I see Gibson at that scorer’s table, it makes me want to burn my uniform.
“That’s how you feel about it?” Kid asks. Again, I don’t respond. He knows my answer. Behind me, a car lays on its horn and some drunk passenger hollers at us as he passes. Just more noise. Kid gives them the finger—but he waits until they’re well clear, too far past us to see and start up real static. Then he turns back to me. “You ever think that Gibson has something to add to this time? Or that—”
“He can add something more than I can?” I shout, interrupting him again.
This time Kid’s had it. “Hey, just slow your roll, Derrick! I’m trying to talk to you.”
“As my coach or my uncle?”
“As your coach,” he seethes. “Because right now if I was just your uncle I’d whip your ass.” He and I both know his days of being able to whip me are long gone, but he’s plenty heated up. So I don’t press that one. “Now listen. You go on down to Bloomington tomorrow. But while you’re there think about how long they’d stand for a guy who bolted on his teammates after a loss. And think about how maybe Murphy’s giving you some extra minutes of rest so your knee doesn’t blow again. And think about how many offers you’d have left if it did.”
We stare each other down for a few seconds. To people passing, it probably looks like two guys about to pull on each other. I’ve seen standoffs like this. In this city, both guys are usually strapped. But for us it’s just a family squabble. Or a coach-player disagreement. Both, I guess.
My phone goes off. The sound breaks the spell. I gesture like I’m about to get it, but look at Kid for permission. He nods, a way to say go on. As I fish it from my pocket though, I’m suddenly aware that we’re not alone in the parking lot anymore. Up by the door, more guys are filing out—Gibson, Fuller, Reynolds. I wonder how long they’ve been lingering there.
But I don’t wonder long. The text is from Lia, telling me to get over there in a hurry. She probably thinks this is going to be a good thing.
So I bolt. Kid can yap all he wants. Truth is I’m going places those other guys can never go.
The game went poorly, but it’s got nothing on this showdown with Lia. She got right up on me when I walked in the door, but that cooled. Real fast.
“You have got to be kidding me, Derrick,” she snaps. “You spring this on me the night before?”
“It’s just a terrible idea,” I say. I start to run down all the reasons again—we won’t have any time together, I’ll be caught up in basketball stuff, her father will find out she’s spending the night with me and lose his shit. But Lia’s not about to hear it all again.
“Go to hell, Derrick,” she says. “You just want to be free of me so you can go down there and hook up with some college skank.”
“Lia, you know that’s not true,” I say. “Look,” I start, but there’s nothing left. I’ve explained all I can. I knew it would go over this way. I knew it was a chump move waiting until the last minute to tell her she couldn’t come with me to Bloomington. But I also know it’s the only way. “We’re gonna be okay,” I say. I step toward her.
“Step the fuck back,” she snaps. But she’s the one who retreats. She bumps into the coffee table by the couch and the old lamp in it trembles, throwing crazy shadows around the room. Lia holds one hand out in front of her, fingers splayed, as if she’s fending off an attack. The other trembles by her temple. “Do not try to touch me right now.”
We stand in silence. The heater kicks on, rattling the walls with its effort. Like every other place around here, Lia’s house feels like it’s one piece of bad luck from falling apart.
“Go,” she says. “I know you want to. So just go.”