“I can hardly stand how exciting this is,” Lori said, literally on the edge of her seat.
Westlake successfully inbounded the ball to its point guard, who dribbled up the court. From two seats away, Carolyn yelled, “Steal the ball.”
When the opposing point guard attempted to get the ball to a teammate, Bryan did exactly that, swooping into a passing lane out of seemingly nowhere to grab the ball out of the air. He raced down court, with two Westlake players hounding his every stride. The crowd roared as the clock ticked down to ten seconds.
Instead of forcing a shot when he was well defended, Bryan alertly passed to a teammate open under the basket. Joey Jividen. One of the younger boys on the varsity, Joey had entered the game when another player fouled out.
With nobody guarding him, Joey had an easy two points. The ball left his hand with plenty of time to spare. It banked off the glass, rattled around the hoop and rimmed out.
One of the opposing players grabbed the rebound but lost his footing and stepped on the end line. The referee blew the whistle, signaling possession would go to Springhill. The clock showed five seconds left to play.
“Time-out,” Grady yelled, forming his hands into a T.
The Springhill side of the crowd was silent, seemingly in shock. “How could you miss that gimme, Jividen?” A guy with a booming voice yelled from somewhere behind Keri.
“I’ll tell you how,” Carolyn Brown muttered. “Joey’s not very good. He shouldn’t even be on the court.”
“I think Joey does fine,” Keri said.
Carolyn harrumphed.
The Springhill players walked back to the huddle, with Joey at the rear, hanging his head.
Keri expected the hard-nosed Grady to go ballistic. He ignored Bryan and the other three players who’d been on the floor, walking past them to meet Joey.
Leaning his head close to the boy, he put his arm around him and said something meant for Joey’s ears alone. Keri got a glimpse of Grady’s face when he let Joey go and saw not anger, but determination.
He directed the five players who’d play the last five seconds to sit down so they could go over the strategy for the last play. Joey Jividen was one of the five.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” the man behind her groused loudly, while on the sidelines Grady pointed to his clipboard. Murmurs went up from the rest of the crowd.
“He needs to bench Joey,” Carolyn said. “That boy’s gonna lose us the game.”
That boy, Keri thought, had just gotten a much-needed boost of confidence from his coach.
“I think Coach Quinlan’s doing the right thing,” Keri said.
“Bryan will take the last shot,” Lori predicted. “The best player always does.”
Everybody in the gym, including the opposing team, seemed to arrive at the same conclusion. Two Westlake defenders shadowed Bryan, clearly having been directed not to let him catch the pass.
Joey Jividen was the inbounder. He threw the ball not to Bryan, but to Lori’s son Garrett. Because the defender who should have been assigned to Joey was double-teaming Bryan, Joey had an unimpeded lane to the basket.
Garrett passed Joey the basketball at the same spot where Joey had just missed the shot. Joey caught it, arching the ball toward the basket and victory before time expired.
This time there was no doubt. The ball banked off the backboard and dropped straight through the hoop.
The crowd went wild, the Springhill players mobbing the boy who had gone from goat to hero in a matter of seconds. Keri joined in the cheers. Grady walked onto the court to where his joyous players congregated, but not to partake in the celebration. In an eye blink, he had the Springhill team lined up single file to shake the opponents’ hands.
It was only when the winning Springhill players were leaving the floor that Keri saw Grady pat young Joey Jividen on the back.
CHAPTER FOUR
W ITH A SIGH OF RESIGNATION , Grady snagged a couple of pepperoni pizzas from the freezer section of the Food Mart and added them to a grocery cart that already contained the half-dozen frozen dinners that looked most edible.
He didn’t have the healthiest diet around, but considering his grab-and-go style it was a step up from eating at a fast-food restaurant.
Grady had come to the grocery store straight from Wednesday’s basketball practice, which had begun directly after school. Later, at home, he’d heat one of the dinners while watching game film of Springhill’s next opponent.
He was busier on game days, and he preferred it that way. The whole coaching life suited him. It always had, which was why it had hurt so much to leave Carolina State. Leave? That was a mild word for it. He’d practically been chased out of town.
Shoving the thought from his mind, he steered his cart around the heavy freezers that showcased bags of mixed vegetables and packaged breakfast foods, then turned the corner. The same tall, thin girl he’d seen a few nights ago with Keri Cassidy stood in front of the ice cream, her slender index finger tapping her chin.
“Get the double chocolate fudge,” Grady said.
She took a step backward, a guarded expression on a young face that reminded him of Bryan’s. Same general shape, same big dark eyes, same olive complexion. Her hair was brown, too, but a few shades lighter than her brother’s.
“You’re Bryan Charleton’s sister, right?”
She nodded. Her shoulders were slightly stooped, her posture a far cry from the way her self-assured brother carried himself. Bryan always looked him straight in the eye; his sister didn’t lift her chin.
“I’m Coach Quinlan, Bryan’s basketball coach,” he said.
A hint of recognition crossed her face, followed by more silence.
“What’s your name?” he prompted.
“Rose,” she replied, the name barely audible.
He smiled, hoping to put her at ease. “So you gonna get the double chocolate fudge? It’s my favorite.”
She mumbled something unintelligible, opened the freezer door, snatched a carton of French vanilla ice cream and hurried away. He could have chalked her up as another in the growing line of Springhill citizens who disapproved of his coaching methods, but he didn’t think that was it.
Rose Charleton’s behavior seemed to have more to do with her own demons than with his.
He continued shopping, searching for Keri down every long, well-lit aisle. Rose wasn’t old enough to drive, and he seriously doubted Bryan would hang around with his younger sister.
“You’re Coach Quinlan, aren’t you?”
The middle-aged lady in the long black coat asking the question had dark circles under her eyes and deep lines bracketing her mouth. She looked sad—and unfamiliar.
“That’s right,” Grady said.
“I’m Ruth Cartwright, Fuzz’s wife.”
He called up an image of her husband from the photographs hanging in his office. A broad-shouldered dynamo of a man with white hair short enough to earn him his nickname. Fuzz had been synonymous with Springhill basketball for as long as most people could remember. Grady would have shaken his wife’s hand, but she kept a firm grip on the shopping cart handle.
“How is Mr. Cartwright?” Grady asked. The last he’d heard, Fuzz