31

AFTER PRACTICE, I SAT in the hallway across from the guys’ locker room and waited for Dad to emerge. The glass doors leading in and out of the building were to my right. I watched the snow and ice dripping outside—off of cars and the building, onto the parking lot and the sidewalk.  

It was the first non-freezing day in months.

The kind of day that was perfect for driveway basketball. For shooting outside without your hands freezing. For taking a missed shot out of the snowbank, dropping the snow-covered ball on the driveway, and watching it detonate against the asphalt, the snow melting almost as soon as it splattered.

Maybe when Dad came out I would challenge him to a quick game of one-on-one. We hadn’t played since the last day of ninth grade. It was a tradition. He and I would play late into the night because we could: we didn’t have school the next day. Mom would complain about not being able to sleep because of all the ball bouncing, but we knew she didn’t mind. It may have been more sports, but it was also clearly father-son bonding time. Mom was the one who flipped on the floodlights.

Just like that, I was thinking about Mom again, and my brain scrambled to think of something else, to hold onto the good feeling of the sun shining through the glass.

“Hi, Mike.”

I knew that voice. I turned my head back to the doors and there she was—or there her shadow was. I had to shield my eyes with my hand to make out her face.

“Hey, Kirsten.”

And maybe it was the warm day, or the dripping snow, or the relief of getting to look at Kirsten instead of thinking of my mother, or the surprise of finally seeing Kirsten not just on TV but in real life—whatever the reason, after days of imagining getting to talk to her, of being angry at her for not texting or calling, of being angry at myself for being angry at her, of dreading that it would be different if we ever did talk again, of worrying that it would be tense, or awkward, or weird . . . after all that, here she was, right in front of me, and for some reason, none of that other stuff mattered. I felt totally calm.

Relaxed.

Even a little goofy.

I can’t explain it, except to say I was too tired to think about reality.

“Is it really you?” I said. “The girl I spent all winter schooling in multiple sports?”

I think Kirsten was as surprised by my mood as I was. But she recovered quickly.

“Ummm. Sorry. Talk about awkward. You must have me confused with someone else. I’m the one who schooled you….”

“No, I’m the one who’s sorry,” I said. “I didn’t realize—is today opposite day?”

“Let me check my calendar,” she said, going to the wall and pretending to find the right date on an invisible calendar with her finger. “Nope.”

“Which means it is,” I said.

It was a lame joke, I knew—this whole conversation was completely stupid—but I didn’t care. It had been a long time since I joked around with anyone, and it felt good.

“I’ll kick your butt on opposite day, not-opposite day, or any other day,” she said. She lightly kicked me on the side of my butt to demonstrate.

“Not in those shoes you won’t,” I said.

She was wearing brown leather shoes with a little bit of heel—not to mention snugly-fitting jeans.

“My mom got them for me,” she said. “I almost asked her how she expected me to make a jump stop in these without traveling, but after everything . . .” I could almost see her swallow the rest of the sentence. She didn’t want this moment to end any more than I did. “I’m sorry I haven’t called or texted, or . . . I just didn’t . . .”

She trailed off again.

“I get it,” I said, trying to save the moment. “You were afraid I’d start beating you every time we played instead of just most of the time. Now that I’m healthy again, I mean. I don’t blame you.” She smiled, so I kept going. “I’ll take you on right now, Howard. No more excuses.”

That’s when the locker room door started to open and Kirsten’s smile disappeared: “I have to go.”

The door closed and then began to open again.

“Mike—I’m sorry,” Kirsten said. She had already backed her way partially out the door to the parking lot. “I’m not supposed to be alone with...” We both knew who she meant: she wasn’t supposed to be alone with my dad—the man who was probably on the other side of the door. “I mean, my parents are probably here to pick me up. I should go. I’m sorry.”

She pushed open the doors and hurried into the parking lot. Once again, Kirsten Howard had apologized to me while running away as fast as possible.

By then the locker room door was all the way open—and it wasn’t Dad standing in the doorframe. It was Coach Wight. Or the back of him. He shuffled backward, dragging a full water cooler across the ground.

“Mr. Duncan,” Coach said, looking over his shoulder, “is that you back there? Don’t sweat it, Duncan: I don’t need any help with this cooler. Thanks for asking, though.”

I told him sorry and asked if he wanted me to bring the cooler somewhere.

“No problem,” he said. “Like I said, I’ve got it. You looking for your dad?”

“Yes, sir.”

He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “He’s still in the coaches’ locker room. Go ahead and walk on back if you want. You might have to give him a good shake. He’s pretty engrossed in there.”

Coach held the door open for me. After the door had shut behind me, I tried to think through what had just happened. What was Kirsten talking about?

I’m not supposed to be alone with him.

If Dad was back to coaching, and she was back to playing, why couldn’t she “be alone” with him? I don’t mean alone alone—obviously, that would be a bad idea. But what about with me? Did what happened with Dad mean she could never hang out with me again? I remembered her text that night. (I’d only looked at it about a zillion times by now.)  

Don’t think I’ll be going to your house anymore.

Dad was in the coaches’ locker room, watching film.

“Dad?”

“Oh, hey Mike.” His head went back to the screen, then to a notepad on his lap. He jotted something down.

“You almost ready to go home?” I asked.

He kept writing in his notepad. “All of that nonsense started because I didn’t realize it was dangerous to watch game film in my own home,” he said. “I figure I might as well do it in public. If the athletic director or anyone else wants to put in the hours I do, they’re welcome to watch with me.”

I considered asking him about Kirsten or at least clarifying what he’d just said. Obviously, the problem hadn’t been him watching film; it had been him watching film with Kirsten. But his voice sounded so bitter that I decided against pointing this out. More opinions about the Kirsten situation were the last thing he needed right now.  

“I’m going to be a while,” Dad said. “Do you mind taking the bus?”

“Sure,” I said. “Hey, I was thinking, later tonight, maybe we could play one-on-one.”

“Right now isn’t a great time, Mike.” His eyes were still glued to the TV. “These next few weeks are the most important of my career. If I ever want people to forget about . . . if I’m ever going to rehabilitate my image, I have to keep winning basketball games.”

For the first time in a long time, Dad sounded certain of himself. Determined. He sounded like he had a plan. Okay, so it wasn’t exactly a complicated plan. Everyone wants to win. But what everyone didn’t know was how. I bet my dad already had tons of theories for, as he put it, “rehabilitating his image.” And I was ready to help in any way I could.

“Want me to keep a shot chart or anything?” I asked him.

Dad didn’t take his eyes off the screen. “Thanks, Mike. But I don’t want you getting dragged into this.”

I wanted to tell him that it was too late—I was dragged into this a long time ago. But if I said that it would sound like I was trying to guilt-trip him and he would be even less likely to tell me anything other than how sorry he was. So instead I just said, “Don’t stay here too long, Dad. I mean, Kirsten already said you didn’t do anything, so—”

He snorted. “Tell that to the people at the last game.”

“Why? Did something happen?”

Dad paused the film and looked at me. He opened his mouth, then hesitated. “No,” he finally said. “Not anything that you need to worry about.”

Of all the reasons people had for refusing to talk to me last winter and spring, not wanting to worry me was the worst. It was like telling someone, “Don’t look down.” Of course, that person’s going to look down. Of course I was going to worry.

“Tell you what,” Dad said. “How about we play a game of catch this weekend.”

“Inside?” I said, even though I could tell by his smile that that’s exactly what he meant. By inside, I meant inside our house. It had always been our favorite place to play catch, despite my mother’s objections.

“Where else?” he said.

A game of indoor catch sounded great. In fact, it sounded perfect. Better than playing one-on-one, even. “I have baseball tryouts Saturday afternoon. Maybe we can play before that? That way I can get my arm warmed up.”

“Deal,” he said.

Dad gave me another smile, then turned back to the film. “Okay, Mike. I better get back to this,” he said. “If there’s one thing that will make the last few weeks go away, trust me—it’s winning basketball games.”