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15.

For Christmas I get a bag of ice. Well, not really. I get hooked up with some new jeans and some shirts from my folks. Standard stuff. But Kid blows the doors off. He drops a pair of Pacers tickets on me—fifth row for their next game with LeBron and the Cavs. How he collared these things, I don't know. My Dad audibly gasps when he sees them. I can feel him wondering what Kid's got himself mixed up with. But I don't care. I keep rubbing those glossy babies between my thumb and fingers like they're gold.

After that though, it's the ice. I'm kicked back on the couch, leg elevated. Twenty minutes on the ice, then twenty off. Over and over. I haven't done a great job of it up until now, so I figure with Christmas break I've got a chance to really get this thing healed. In a way, it's kind of nice. I can sit back and just take it all in, like instead of a teenager I'm the grandpa who gets to chill and observe.

Mom and Dad are as bleary on Christmas morning as they are any other day. They're run ragged from raising me and Jayson and from
trying to make ends meet. But they open each other's gifts and they light up. Ten years younger on the spot. And I can see those looks they give to each other—knowing expressions with almost two decades of marriage behind them. But at the same time they're still flirting, like what they really want for Christmas is for this house to empty out for an hour so they can be alone.

There's Kid, all up on himself because he can throw around his new-found coin. Most Christmases he'd have scrounged up some cheap things for everyone, so this makes him feel good. He's not half knocked out from drinking too much the night before either. In fact, he's looking sharp, which means he's got the hook up later with April.

And then Jayson. He's over at the kitchen table, organizing some Christmas money he got from relatives. But he's quiet. Usually by now he'd have torn down the hall with NBA2K16 and have that X-Box blasting. Not this year. He gave Mom and Dad a pretty cordial
Thanks
and then set it on the kitchen table for later. When he got an authentic Russell Westbrook jersey from Kid, his face brightened, but just for a second. He gave another
Thanks
, only slightly more enthusiastic than the one he gave Mom and Dad, then he folded the jersey back up and set it in its box. Normally Mom and Dad would have jumped him for his lousy manners, but it's Christmas and nobody wants drama.

But when Kid fires up ESPN for the pre-game show and Jayson still doesn't budge, Kid calls out to him. “Jayson, what's up? It's Christmas and you're sitting there like the Grinch.”

Jayson turns to Kid and gives him a withering look. “The Grinch?” he asks. “What, you think I'm ten?”

Kid just laughs. “You getting all big on us, huh?”

Jayson squints at Kid like he'd just as soon throw a knife across the room as say word one. Mom and Dad look at each other, the fatigue of two teenage boys taking over from those flirtatious glances of earlier. Dad nods, almost imperceptibly, but it seems to tell Mom that he'll talk to Jayson this time. Mom stands and says she has to make Christmas lunch. It's no big spread anymore. She said years ago that she was through making turkey for four men who were just going to shovel it in their mouths while they grunted at the T.V. But it's an excuse for her to not deal with Jayson.

In fact, when she heads to the kitchen, Jayson makes his exit. He gathers up all his stuff into one box and shuffles through the living room. He refuses to make eye contact with anyone.

“Jayson, come on,” Kid says. “The game's coming on.”

That tears it for Jayson. He drops the box, creating a small explosion of gifts and wrapping paper at his feet. “So what?” he shouts. “I don't even
care
about that game. There's more to life than
basketball
. Not that anyone in this house knows it.”

On that last line he gestures toward me. Jayson's talking crazy. If he thinks
our
family only cares about hoops then he should check out another family—
any family
—with a son who's getting attention from the likes of Michigan State. If anything, Mom and Dad downplay hoops because they want things to stay as normal as they can. But whatever. This is just Jayson being Jayson.

Dad follows Jayson down the hall, calling after him in the most patient voice he can muster. That leaves me and Kid in the living room, kicking it with a game on like old times.

“Thanks for the tickets,” I tell him again.

“Nothin',” he says. “Thought maybe you could take your girl Lia.”

“True enough,” I say. Neither of us look at each other while we talk. We each want to act like nothing's that a big deal—not the tickets and certainly not me clocking time with Lia. Once the game gets rolling we shut it down. Nothing said but some commentary on the plays in front of us. The only thing that breaks it is an alert on my phone. Incoming text. I figure it's a school hassling me on Christmas, but instead I see a note from Jasmine. My pulse races a little more than I'd like it to. It's a thank-you note. And not much of one at that. She even drops into textspeak—
ur a sweetie
—which is something she almost never does. It makes me feel like it was just a quick chore she had to get finished. Nothing any more meaningful than taking out the trash. Fine. I can never quite kill my thing for Jasmine, but the thought of taking Lia out again sure helps.

Dad comes back out from his talk with Jayson. Mom meets him with a plate of food—like it's a reward for going into the lion's den. “How'd it go?” she asks.

Dad slumps his shoulders and shakes his head. Mom's back stiffens. She looks toward the hall. I know that look. She's about to march in there and lay into Jayson. But Dad runs his hand gently along her back, letting it rest just above her hip. “Let it go,” he says. “Come sit with me.” So they retreat to the kitchen, leaving Kid and me in peace to watch hoops.

First timeout, Kid pops up to get some grub. I start to push myself up, too, but he waves me down. “Ice that thing,” he says. “Get healthy. I'll hook you up.”

As he heads for the kitchen, I ask him how he scored such choice tickets anyway. I don't mean anything by it. I'm really just curious. But when Kid answers, his voice rises up in that old defensive tone. “I just got 'em, okay? Don't worry about some grand jury inquiry. Just take your girl and have fun.” Then he catches himself. That answer let the old Kid shine back through his new polished attitude. He straightens up and puffs out his chest a bit. “Besides, you ought to see what I got for April. Gonna be a very merry Christmas when she unwraps my gift.”

Full of himself again, Kid turns to fix our plates. When he moves, I see the kitchen table behind him. And there's Dad, his hand gripped around his fork like he's trying to snap it in two, watching his brother. He
knows
Kid's up to some nonsense again. This time it's Mom's turn to calm Dad. She reaches across the table and rubs his hand. She whispers something to him. And slowly Dad's tight-lipped stare eases into a smile, then finally a laugh.

Family can be an uneasy thing. Even during good times, there's always something about to snap. And yet we hold together. Give each other gentle checks. Call each other out when we have to.

Kid comes back with some food for me. He settles back into his seat. I reposition my leg on my ice. Mom and Dad continue a hushed, easy conversation while they eat. And, finally, from down the hall, comes the sound of Jayson firing up his X-Box. I guess he's digging on his Christmas gift even if he wants people to think he's too old for it, wants to show more attitude than gratitude.

16.

The first practice after Christmas is a mess. Everyone's lugging around that holiday weight—sluggish and slow, unmotivated with the next game still a week away.

I'm still sidelined. The calf's getting better. Pretty quickly, really. I can walk normally. The only time I really have to ease off is if I'm going up stairs. I'm not going to do anything stupid and test it too early, but I've eyed the schedule. The Northwest game this weekend is a lost cause. But there's a chance by the weekend after—Covenant Christian on Friday or Bishop Chatard on Saturday—that I could be back in action.

And not a moment too soon. Rider's
struggling
. Even walking through our sets with no defense he gets turned around. He cuts baseline when he's supposed to widen to the wing. Or he down-screens when he's supposed to cross-screen. The first few mistakes Coach Bolden takes in stride. “Back it up,” he says. “We'll get this.” He puts his hand on Rider's shoulder and guides him through the right cuts.

But there's only so much a guy like Bolden can take. I mean, the man was probably born impatient. And it's not like age has
mellowed him. So after the fourth Rider mistake, Bolden's tone gets a little clipped. After the sixth, he sighs in exasperation and stares at the ceiling. And after one more time, he's finally had it. “Good
Lord
, Rider!” he snaps. “It's a cross-screen after the reversal. A cross-screen! A
cross-screen!
”

As soon as the words are out of his mouth, Bolden regrets it. His stance softens and he says everything's okay, using the soft tone a parent gets when they've just shouted at a kid in the grocery store. Rider tries to shrug it off, but everyone in the gym can tell he's getting more and more rattled with every mistake. Fuller comes over and loops an arm over Rider's shoulder. He turns Rider away from Bolden, walking him toward the far side of the court while he talks a little encouragement.

“Why don't we run fives, Coach?” Murphy offers. He's standing down on the baseline, a basketball tucked into his elbow. He asks the question gently, like someone trying to ease the car keys away from a friend who's had one too many. “Let these guys stretch their legs and burn off some Christmas fat, maybe?”

Coach swivels his head slowly toward Murphy. I know what's going through the old man's head—why on earth should he let them run full court when they can't even get the half-court sets? He thinks about it, then relents. Maybe he knows that if things keep going like they are, he'll really blow a fuse and go off on Rider.

Leg propped on a folding chair, I watch the guys run it back and forth. Every time there's a break in the action, Fuller's right back in Rider's ear. Fuller's eyes are wide and he leans forward and pumps his fist in front of him as he speaks—all pep talk for our freshman. And maybe it works. Each trip down, the worry starts to ease out of Rider's face.
Soon enough, he hits Stanford right in rhythm for a lay-in. Then next trip he rips it past his man and hits Reynolds for a spot-up. “Nice,” Fuller hollers. “Atta baby.” The rest of the guys clap, starting to get on board.

But on the sideline, I can hear Bolden grumble to Murphy. “He
still
can't figure out the offense,” he gripes. “We're not gonna get easy ones like that against any team with a pulse.”

Then Bolden whips his attention toward me. On a lot of squads, an injury gives you some kind of special status, immunity from a coach's wrath. No such luck at Marion East. “And
you!
” Bolden yells. “Lounging there like you're on vacation. Why aren't
you
teaching Rider? Why does it have to be Fuller? Or me? Or Murphy? An injured calf doesn't give you laryngitis, does it?”

He stares at me, eyes blazing. I stare back. Two and a half years of this. I get the guy, I do. And I know he's always trying to make me better. But one of these days I'll be the one to snap. “No, Coach,” I say.

“Well?” he shouts. Behind him, the team is still in mid-possession, but guys glance over every chance they get. I feel that old anger and embarrassment ride up my neck and into my cheeks. “Get off your ass and
talk to him!
” Bolden screams.

Scolded, I pop up. And the moment I do I feel that old pain in my calf. It pisses me off. I mean, how come everyone else gets slack and I'm the one that always catches hell? It's just like before the season. I didn't do anything wrong then. And now it's not like I
tried
to get hurt. But, for Coach, it's all my fault, I guess—my injury, the blustery post-Christmas weather, the aches in his old bones. All me.

With my good leg, I kick at that folding chair. It's not a full-on kick. I make it so it looks like I'm just trying to get it out of my way.
The problem is, it tips back and clatters down on the hardwood. I can feel every head in the gym turn my way, but I don't even look up. Especially not at Bolden. I just make my way—limping a little extra for show—over to the sideline close to Rider. “You're okay,” I tell him. “Just listen to me if you're in doubt.”

When the ball goes live again, I call out his cuts for him. Every time I say something, he nods. At first he seems appreciative of the help, but after a couple possessions his nods get a little exaggerated, almost like he's mocking me. Soon as he does that, he screws up again. He down-screens even as I shout
Cross!
—and Fuller's pass bounces off of Rider's back instead of finding Jones for an easy deuce.

It doesn't get much better after that. Rider's feeling surly because he's getting instructed like he's at some pre-school camp. I'm sick of the abuse from Coach. And Coach is just plain angry at the world. After some more slop on both ends, he just decides to run guys for the last 15 minutes of practice. When he calls that out, I stay on the sideline, palms up, like,
You want me to talk Rider through this too.

“You can sit now, Bowen,” he says. Withering.

In the locker room, everyone's just kind of done with it, as if the tension between me and Coach has spilled over. Guys peel off their practice unis and hit the showers in silence. I chill at my locker for a few minutes. I feel like if I just bolt then somehow that will anger Bolden even more.

Only Fuller breaks the silence. He comes over and offers a fist. I wait a second like I'm going to leave him hanging, then go ahead and give him a bump. “It's gonna get good again, D,” he says. He scrunches his brows up like he's a concerned parent.

“You base that on what?” I ask.

“Hey, come
on
, man,” he pleads. “You know Coach is always gonna rag on you. That's the price of being the star.”

“Star, huh?” I say. “Just the other night you were saying how you wanted to win without me.” I know the guy's just trying to help, but he can't have it both ways.

Fuller squats down in front of me, so close he almost drips sweat on my street kicks. He looks down at the floor, thinking about what to say. In that pause, I feel myself give in. The guy's trying. Give him that. “I didn't mean it that way,” he says. “You know that. I mean, I just want guys to get along.”

“Okay,” I say. “We're good.” I gather up my backpack. Anyone else on the planet knows that means a guy wants to bolt, but Fuller doesn't budge.

“Hey, speaking of getting along,” he says, raising his eyebrows like he's in on some dirty secret, “how you getting with Lia?” He even slaps my knee like we're some old friends who swap tales.

“I'd be getting with her a lot better if you didn't crowd our space,” I tell him. I deadpan it, like I'm mad. It's worth it just to watch his face drop. Then I stand. “Don't sweat it, Fuller,” I tell him. “I wasn't getting anywhere, anyway. We're cool.”

I may not have been getting anywhere the other night, but right away this one feels different. Lia got herself decked out for the game—skintight jeans and a bomb leather jacket that still manages to show her curves—and it was all I could do to keep my jaw off the floor when I picked her up.

Now here we are, fifth row. Styling. I've been to plenty of Pacers games before. During the regular season you can score tickets for cheap, especially if you don't mind sitting up in the clouds. But this is a different world. We can hear the players and refs bark back and forth. We're nearer the Cavs' bench, so I can see LeBron up close. I knew the guy was big, but, man, in person he's a true beast. At 6'3” I can lean on some high school guards, but if I'm ever making the leap to the League I won't be banging with King James.

I'm rooting for the Pacers, but I can't stop paying attention to LeBron. He's in control of everything. I can hear him learning up the younger guys. I can see him baiting people. I can even see him turning down shots—things he'd bury in crunch time—just to get other guys involved. It's a lesson in how the game's supposed to be played.

Still, the Pacers hang tight. And down this close, you can really feel the arena. You can see the bright T.V. lights, see the ESPN crew courtside, and when the Pacers go on any kind of run—a trey by Miles and a dunk by George—the crowd roar is deafening. It's like there's a tidal wave of sound pouring down from above. Even Lia's impressed. She gets into the game like everyone else, but she also checks out the scene. At one timeout she grabs my arm, her fingernails digging into my flesh just a touch, and points across the court. “Is that Andrew Luck?” she squeals.

I follow to where she's pointing and, sure enough, there's the Colts quarterback, flanked by a few guys so huge they must be some offensive lineman. It's cool, but I don't really care. Seeing pro athletes doesn't make my heart race. But Lia's nails on my arm? That works. Then she leans over to whisper in my ear. She drops her hand to my leg. “I have to say, Derrick, scoring these seats is a pretty baller move.”

The rest of the game? A blur. I know the Pacers had a chance to tie it late, but LeBron rejected a weak runner in the lane, then iced it on the other end. After that we filed out with the masses, squeezed so close with everyone else that we could smell the beer on people's breath. Lia looped her arms around mine like she needed protecting. I played right along. Even through our coats, I could feel that tight body of hers—all I could do not to start plowing people over so I could get alone with her.

And now here we are. At my car. There are still people filing through the parking garage and cars swoop down the ramps, their tires squeaking in the turns, so we can't really get to it. At least that's what I'm thinking. But when I lift the keys to the ignition, Lia grabs my wrist. “No hurry, right?” she says. “We could just hang here.”

“Yeah,” I say, and I don't really know where to go from there.

But Lia's got it covered. She stretches across the car, her coat making a slow swoosh against the seat. I lean for the kiss, her lips glistening in the lights of a passing car. But she pulls back a few inches. She smiles. Then she places her index finger under my chin and gently tilts my head up. When I let her, she traces kisses—one, two, three, four—from just below my jaw down to my collar bone. She pulls my coat and shirt back so she can kiss a little lower. Then she shifts again, so she can reach across with her other hand. And that one goes first to my knee, then slides on up to rub me. Meanwhile, she keeps kissing on my neck.

I can barely catch my breath. For a minute I think she's going to
keep going on down my body with her mouth. She unzips my coat and unbuttons my first two buttons, but then—like she had in her mind just exactly how far she was willing to go—she raises her head back up, and smiles again. She must see the want in my face, because she shakes her head. “Uh uh,” she says. “I'm not that easy.”

I itch with lust, but I've been in this kind of spot before with Jasmine. I pushed with her—pleaded, guilted, acted like a whiny little brat. And I'm not going there again. This thing with Lia? I want to make it work. “It's cool,” I say. Then, when Lia leans back the other way, she tilts her head as if to say
Come on
, and then it's my turn to get her on high blast. I try to match what she did step for step and kiss for kiss, only I get the arm-bar when I go for the zipper on her coat.

I sit back up, my temples throbbing. At least I can tell Lia's feeling it too. “
Lord,
D,” she says. “We got to
go
before I get stupid.” I turn back to her for a second, but she shakes her head. “No way. You get this car started.”

I do as I'm told. We back out, not saying a word as we go down the first couple levels. We pull out onto Maryland Street. The windows shudder in a gust. People hurry along the sidewalks. The traffic lights change colors. And all up and down the blocks, restaurants and bars teem with lights and life. Simultaneously, we start laughing. It's like we're coming out of some trance. The fact that the world is still just going about its business is hilarious to us.