The ones start again. By this time, they look a little discouraged. Rider most of all. He’s extra tentative now, and I take advantage. I flick at the ball once and get a piece. He scrambles to control near mid-court, but then he picks up his dribble. “Dead! Dead!” I yell, and my teammates clamp down behind me. Rider pass-fakes, pass-fakes, pass-fakes. Finally he extends the ball too far. I pop it loose, corral it, and this time I can’t help myself—I push it down the court with a couple power dribbles and tomahawk one home.
Murphy’s beside me in a heartbeat. He’s all smiles, acting like he’s amped that I’m bringing it so hard the first day of practice—but then he pulls me aside. He calls down to the other end to tell them to keep running drills, then loops an arm around my shoulder. He walks me toward the side basket. “Easy there, killer,” he says.
“What do you mean?” I ask. With the bleachers pushed back, I can see all the dust that collects on the floor—it’s a faint line about ten feet away from the court where the shine of the hardwood turns cloudy. Murphy keeps walking with me. We cross into that cloudy area.
“I mean, dial it back,” he says. He speaks in a hushed tone, like he’s breaking some tragic news to me. “You have to let some of these other guys get their confidence up.”
I stiffen my back. Murphy’s arm slides off my shoulder. “Since when does it help other players to take it easy on them?”
Murphy takes a step back. He cocks his head and widens his eyes, giving me a look that tells me to cool it. “It’s one thing to play hard,” he says, “but you’re trying to embarrass your teammates. Especially Rider. You think it makes you tough to overpower a freshman in his first practice? You ought to be helping him out whenever you can.”
I hang my head. My temple throbs with anger. This is bullshit. That’s what I want to say. At home, I’ve got letters from every major college you can name. No other player in my position would be paying this big a price because he swerved in his car at the wrong time. No way. I get bounced from the opener. I get bounced from the first team in practice. And now I’m supposed to, what, be a cheerleader for my replacement? But I take a deep breath and look back up at Murphy. “Okay, Coach,” I say.
“It’s about what’s best for the team every time,” he says.
“Okay,” I repeat.
Then we turn back toward practice, neither one of us believing things are okay.
He grabs me by the jersey. I turn back to him. “Besides, D-Bow,” he says. “Save up some of those plays for when we get our rematch against Kernantz and Evansville Harrison.”
It doesn’t exactly make me cool with how I’m being treated, but I can’t help but smile at the notion of some payback against the guys who bounced us from State.
I never really thought I’d be amped to go to a party at J. J. Fuller’s. I mean, “party” doesn’t mean the same thing at Fuller’s. It’s more like the kind of gathering that people used to have in middle school—some chips on the table, some cokes, some music on the stereo but not too loud. And his parents lurking upstairs.
But, hey, fine with me. I’m out of the house after some prolonged pleading with my parents. Who cares if this thing is so tame I could have brought Jayson along and nobody would have blinked? It’s not like I’m looking for trouble anyway. What I am looking for is across the room—Jasmine Winters. She’s shot me down so many times I should know better, but when I see her it’s all over.
When I first saw her she was a sophomore. Even then she was pretty spectacular. But now she’s over the top. And it’s not just how she looks. Sure, she’s put together. Beneath those tight curls, her face has features that make her seem refined. Even wearing something simple—a yellow t-shirt with the sleeves down to her elbows and some tight black pants—she stuns me. But it’s more the way she carries herself. Cool. Composed. A step ahead of anyone else. Or at least always a step ahead of me.
The vibe at Fuller’s place makes everyone act like they’re fourteen again, so the guys are all hanging over by the edge of the kitchen, while the girls hold it down in the living room. But I keep glancing over and catching Jasmine’s eye. Every time, she pauses for just a beat in her conversation and bats those eyelids at me. Then she turns back to the person next to her and smiles—but I can’t help thinking that smile’s for me.
“Anyway, so I’m trying to tell him that he should look for me on the back-cut, and he just keeps saying, ‘Coach said you’d flare.’” This is Fuller, griping to Jones about Rider at practice yesterday. Fuller’s just like he is on the court—full-steam ahead and not paying attention to the reactions around him. Jones looks around for an escape, his eyes wide like when he forgets the play Coach called.
As much as I love hoops, I didn’t come out on a Friday night to talk business with the boys. I walk across the room toward Jasmine. She sees me coming and tries to look busy, leaning in to whisper to one of her friends—a junior named Lia Stone, who’s got every guy in the city begging for her attentions. But I just buzz right up. I slide between a fence of females—smooth as weaving through defenders on the court—and come to a stop about two feet from Jasmine.
Everyone hushes. Jasmine keeps whispering to Lia for a few seconds, but her eyes drift toward me. Finally she stops and turns my way. Her lips are still pursed around the last word she said to Lia. She looks me up and down, judging. She cocks her head at me, giving a What-you-think-you-doing-all-up-on-me look.
I know she’s just messing, so I mess right back. I pivot and turn.
“’Sup, Lia,” I say.
“Nothing, Derrick,” she says. She gives me this smoking little smile. Everyone knows I’m really coming over to chat up Jasmine, but Lia looks like she might call my bluff. Her cocoa face is smooth, flawless. I don’t dare check the rest of her, or I’ll get caught staring like a creep. “You’re looking good tonight,” she adds. She smiles again, then looks away from me like there’s something more interesting on the wall across the room.
That throws me. I was trying to be all cool, but Lia Stone says that to you, and your heart leaps a little. I try to stop the thought, but there it is—if Jasmine keeps dragging on me, I might just jump to Lia for real. But like a chump, I mumble around. “Thanks,” I stammer. “I—” I look down at my clothing, like maybe there’s something I’m wearing she was talking about.
“Smooth,” Jasmine says. She puts her hands on her hips and shakes her head like she’s scolding me. “You know, for someone who thinks he’s a baller, you sure could use some better game.”
Now this—Jasmine cracking on me—I’m used to. I straighten up and smile. I nod at her, like Okay, you got me on this one. But I fight back too. “Hang with me tonight,” I say. “I’ll show you game.”
Jasmine tries to keep her face expressionless. She makes it for a second or two, but then a smile creeps up on her and turns into a laugh. Lia shakes her head at both of us and walks away. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t at least interested in Lia. The girl is next-level hot. But I don’t dare let my eyes follow her—not with Jasmine standing right in front me.
The two of us wander away from the crowd. We settle on a couch over by the window. Jasmine leans back and looks out, watching traffic pass. From my spot, I can see up the stairs. Every now and then I see two heavy black shoes thud down on the top step—Fuller’s dad eavesdropping on the happenings. Poor Fuller—the kid’s nice enough, but everyone in here knows this is about as dead as a party can be. Everyone’s trying to think of an excuse to bolt. Doesn’t matter to me right now—I got myself