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“No,” I say, “I'm good.”

“Suit yourself.”

When we walk into the living room, he points to the couch where Lia's taken a seat. He plops down in what is obviously his chair—a plush recliner that he pushes back in like he doesn't have a care in the world. “Actually, I should be getting home,” I say.

“Sit,” says Mr. Stone.

“Really?” I say.

“Sit,” he says, and it's pretty clear it's no longer a polite request.

Still, I linger there, standing beside Lia. She reaches up and touches my hand. “Derrick? Just sit, okay?” Her big brown eyes are watery and afraid.
Might as well,
I think. I mean, if any teenagers have ever been busted, it's us. So I sit. I feel my ankles bare against the cool air in the room.

Mr. Stone's eyes go directly to my feet. He puts his chin in his hand and gives a little hmph. He knows.

We make small talk for a while. He asks about the team. About my injury. But his gaze never budges from my feet. I feel sometimes like he's going to whip out a gun and just shoot me right through those ankles. Lia tries to keep the act up, talking cheerily like we're all just hanging out in the middle of the day, not a thing wrong in the world.

At last, I beg out, saying that I'm about to run up against my mom's curfew. Mr. Stone lets me go this time, but he doesn't stand to shake my hand again. Instead, as I pass him on my way to the door he just asks, “Where's your coat, Derrick?”

“I left it in my car,” I lie. And then I bumble out into the night. Lia stands in the doorway, probably wishing she could run off with me instead of facing her dad. I glance back at her as I climb in my car. She looks little and scared. But then she does this amazing thing—she straightens up and tilts her head to one side. She gives a mischievous grin. She blows a kiss.

Girl is killer. I start the ignition, my heart racing again. I get those images of her in my head, remember how her body felt under mine.
Who cares?
I think. Her dad isn't going to kill me. For real. If anything was ever worth the trouble that comes with it, then my night with Lia most definitely was.

I thought my night was done. Maybe a shower to slow my racing pulse. Maybe some flipping to find a late game. Then bed.

Nope. Not for this kid. Not with this family.

I get home and Kid's sitting on the front porch steps in fifteen-degree weather. He doesn't have his coat on either. Even in the light of a half-moon, I can tell he's distressed. His head's buried in his hands. He only looks up when he hears my footsteps. Then he tries to act all normal.

“Hey, D, what's the word?” He sniffs big, like he's trying to breathe in the night air, but I can tell he's on the verge of tears.

“You okay, Kid?” I ask.

“Yeah. Yeah. All good.” He shrugs, then shivers. “I gotta hit it,” he says, then turns and heads across the street to his car.

I stand by our door and watch him go. The taillights pulse at the corner, but he whips into the turn recklessly, like he can't wait to get anywhere but here.

Inside, it's just my dad sitting in his chair and watching T.V. There's a prickliness to the quiet in the house. The heat feels good after being in the cold, but after a second my skin starts to itch. I feel like if I take a wrong step right now, I'll set off a detonator.

Dad shifts in his chair and looks around toward me, his eyes glowing with anger. When he sees it's me, he relaxes and tries to smile—but it's about as convincing as those smiles he gave me when he was in the hospital last year, trying to tell me everything was okay. “You have a good time with Lia?” he asks.

“Yeah,” I answer, but I'm not letting this go. “What's up with Kid?”

Dad lifts off his glasses with one hand and rubs the bridge of his nose with the other. Then he draws that hand down over his mouth and neck in frustration. “I'd like to not talk about your uncle right now,” he says.

At first it riles me. I mean, what kind of nonsense is that? I'm grown enough to handle whatever's going on. But I'm too beat to tackle more tension.

I hit my room and fall down on the bed, clothes still on. I think I'll never be able to sleep—not with my nerves jangling from my hookup with Lia, from my frustration over my injury, from Kid's trouble, whatever that might be. Then when I open my eyes again it's three in the morning. I don't even bother undressing—at this point even that can wait until morning.

19.

Fraud.
That's the word in the morning. Mom explains it to me and Jayson while Dad scrambles eggs and fries up bacon for breakfast. He's clearly too mad to talk about it so he's focusing on the food instead. Still, he can't help himself from chiming in now and then.

“Your uncle was still collecting unemployment checks all this time,” Mom says. “Even though he'd had that new job for a year.”

“I
knew
it,” Dad snaps. “I
knew
something was going on. New car. New clothes. Acting like some big man.”

Mom holds up her hand to tell him that she's got this, that he should just relax. She turns back to us, puts on a patient expression. “He's in real trouble this time. Apparently, he got caught with about six of his friends,” she explains. “He'll probably have to pay restitution.”

“How much?” I ask. I mean, if he used this coin for his ride, he's in the red something serious.

Mom shakes her head. “Well, when we asked him, he did his Kid thing.” She sways her shoulders back and forth like she's dodging
something. “He wouldn't answer straight, but we're not talking a few bucks here.”

Jayson smirks and rolls his eyes, like he's personally offended by all this. “So, what?” he says. “We're gonna have an uncle in jail?”

“No,” Mom says. “That seems really unlikely. Instead, he'll have to go to some classes and do community—”

“He
should
,” Dad hollers. He slaps his spatula down on the stovetop and seems to scream directly at the food. “They should send his ass to jail. Keep him in there for a while. Only way he'll ever get his stupid head straightened out.”

“Tom, yelling won't help,” Mom says, her voice soft as a summer breeze. It's not their usual roles. Mom's typically the one going a hundred miles an hour. Dad's the one who applies the brakes.

So Dad's back stiffens under that little reminder from Mom. He grabs the bacon with some tongs, but grease pops up and burns his wrist. “God
damnit!
” he screams.

“Tom!” Mom seethes. “Language!”

Everyone knows that between my time in the locker room and Jayson's rebelliousness, we're used to language a lot worse than that. But it's a rule in the house and always will be—no cursing. Sure, Mom breaks the rule more than anyone, but she's not letting Dad off the hook.

Problem is, Dad's in no mood. He turns, real slowly, to the table. Without looking, he reaches behind him and snaps the burners off. “You think you know,” he says to us all. “Everyone in this family thinks they know everything. So I take it. I get told by”—he points to us one by one—“my son who thinks he's God's gift to the court and my son who thinks he's figured the whole world out at age 13. And,
oh, I get told by my wife Kaylene. Even when my brother's in trouble for the seven millionth time, I'm supposed to bite my tongue and be good, dutiful Tom Bowen. Well, listen to me! I can say
goddamnit
in my
goddamn
house whenever I
goddamn
want to!”

And with that he storms out, feet pounding through the living room toward the front door. It's as hot as I've ever seen my Dad. But when Mom gasps and clasps her hand over her mouth—there's hurt all over her face and she's trying not to cry—I see Dad pause mid-stride. He heard that gasp. He knows what he's done. Still, he plows ahead, slamming the door behind him as he goes.

Mom stands, trying to keep some dignity. I recognize that look on her face. It's just how Jasmine used to look when I'd say the worst thing possible to her. Mom's too strong to cry in front of us, but she's trembling. “Food's ready,” she rasps. “Fix your own plates.” Then she's gone.

Jayson and I do as we're told, moving through the kitchen so quietly you'd think we were thieves. We settle back at the table and start to eat. The food tastes like cardboard to me. The room seems suddenly drab—stains on the table, a small tear in the curtains, scuffs all over the floor.

“So what do you think?” Jayson whispers to me.

I'm about to tell him I think we live in a disaster of a family. We only look normal because all the families around us are even bigger disasters. But that's when the door opens again. Dad steps back inside.

I figure he's headed straight back to beg Mom's forgiveness. But when he sees us, he stops. He hangs his head for a second, then comes to the kitchen—his stride a lot less emphatic than when he stormed out. He pulls up a chair. He folds his hands on the table.

“Boys,” he says, “there's nothing that gets me worked up like your uncle. I don't know why exactly. But I think it has a lot to do with the idea that I'm supposed to be watching out for him. That's what big brothers are supposed to do, especially now that our parents are gone. So I take his failures personally. And it also makes me mad because I see all the potential in him. Last year, when I was banged up, he's the one who held us together. I just—”

He trails off, looking away from us for the first time. I wonder if maybe he's going through the long list of Kid's mistakes, a list that just got one item longer. I glance over at Jayson. He's all sulk. I don't think for a second that he was actually hurt by what Dad said, but he's not going to make it easy on him. So I try instead. “It's okay, Dad,” I say. “Everyone loses it now and then.”

He smiles at me. He takes off his glasses, wipes them with his shirt and then places them on the table. Without them, he looks a few years younger on the spot. I can see a little more resemblance between Dad and Kid—the bright eyes, the high arch of his eyebrows. “No, it's not okay,” he says. “Certainly not to you two. You're the best sons I could ever ask for. I should be grateful.” Jayson gives a little snort at that, but Dad lets it go. “So I apologize to both of you,” Dad continues. “But I also apologize for talking to your mother that way. It's not right. You don't act that way to women. Not any woman. Certainly not to one as good as your mother. If I'm honest with myself, she's all that separates me from being a far bigger mess than your uncle.” He looks at me intently, then shifts his gaze to Jayson, who at least has enough sense to straighten up now. “You understand me?” Dad asks. “You're not supposed to act that way. I'm sorry you saw me do it.”

“I hear you,” I say.

“Yeah,” Jayson manages.

That's enough for Dad. He pushes up from the table with a sigh. He takes a long look into the living room, staring at a spot on the wall that separates it and their bedroom. “Now if you'll excuse me,” he says. “I need to go apologize to your mother.” He gives a mock shudder of fear. “Now I mean it. She's the best woman in the world, but I promise you she's back there storing up some heat that will make my outburst look like nothing.” He smiles at us, then gives a quick wink. “Pray for me, guys.”

20.

At least I have ball. Enough waiting around. With Bishop Chatard in our gym, it's time to go. And I tell Coach Bolden so.

He sits at the head of the locker room, leaning back in a simple folding chair. He studies me, trying to detect how much he can trust me. I made sure I was the first one in. It's almost like I've caught him unprepared. His shirt isn't tucked in. The laces on one shoe are dangling, about to come undone.

“Give it another week,” he says. “Why push it?”

“I'm not pushing it,” I say. “I could have gone last night if I needed to.”

“But you didn't
need
to,” he counters. “And you don't
need
to tonight either. If this were Sectionals then I'd hear some argument, but I want you back at one hundred percent or not at all.”

I lift my leg in front of me and hitch up my pants so he can see my calf. Then I flex it a few times. “I
am
a hundred percent,” I say. “I swear.” It feels like the truth, but I know there's just the slightest
discomfort left when I push off of it sometimes, like there's a tiny pebble lodged in the muscle. So maybe 95% would be more honest. But I'm playing tonight. That's just how it is. Enough sitting.

“Okay,” Coach says. Even as he concedes, there's a half-frown on his face. It's like he's watching some kid knock in a J but with terrible form. He knows that the short-term success is only setting up a bigger problem down the road. He stands and walks for the door that leads to his office. As he swings the door open, he calls over his shoulder, “Suit on up.”

Even in warmups, I heard that buzz ripple through the crowd. When I hit the hardwood in uniform my name passed through the stands in soft waves—
Bowen-Bowen-Bowen's-back-Bowen's-playing.

Pre-tip, I make the rounds. Chest bump with Stanford. Quick fist bumps with Reynolds and Jones. Then a stop next to Fuller. “We ready to ride now,” I shout at him. He tries to stay even as ever, but then I grab both his shoulders and give him a quick shake. “Game time, Fuller! Let's run this.” Finally I coax a smile from him, which is a win in its own right.

The ball goes up, and I attack. Chatard's center outleaps Stanford, but I'm quicker to the rock than their guard. I tip it away from him and corral it near the sideline. Fuller's on top of things. He streaks right to the rim. I hit him with a laser right in stride. He doesn't even need to dribble—just catches, rises, and lays one in for a quick 2-0 lead.

Bishop Chatard brings it up. They're too good to get rattled that quick, even on the road. Plus, they've got a solid point guard—a senior named Trey Graves—and he's been through some battles before. He
makes sure they take their time. A few reversals. A feed to the post and then back out to Graves. He darts baseline, but I cut him off. So he circles back top, staying patient. When he kicks it to the right wing though, their off-guard tries to muscle through Reynolds. My boy stands his ground, takes the charge. Just like that, all their patience is wasted. Our ball.

I'm not so itchy that I'm going to force. But I didn't wait all this time so I could just run offense for forty seconds at a time. We go through a couple ball reversals, but when I rub off a Jones screen and catch it baseline, I get after it. A power dribble past Graves, and I'm into the lane. There's a tangle of bigs in there, but I don't care. Just rise—that calf muscle firing clean—and bury a mid-range J.

That lets the people know I'm back for real, and they respond. Watching the other guys maul Covenant Christian is nice, but they've got higher hopes than that for the season—and seeing me back in form lets them know those aren't just fantasies.

Bishop Chatard digs. They've got some solid bigs who give Stanford and Jones fits. Plus Graves loses me a couple times for easy buckets. And on our end, it's like my return has sent Fuller and Reynolds into a funk. Every time I drive and kick to them for open looks, they rim it out. After a few of those, they don't even shoot—just pump fake and drive, going nowhere.

So mid-third, as we're nursing a three-point lead, I figure it's
time
. Instead of starting the offense when I cross half-court, I just wave Reynolds down to the baseline. That flattens everyone out so I can solo up Graves. And it's no contest. I give a rhythm dribble left, then freeze him with a cross-over. Into the paint. Quick J from twelve. Bucket.

Next time down, we run the O. But as I'm making my baseline cut, I stop short at the rim. Just turn and seal. Fuller hits me and nobody even contends. An easy rise and throwdown for another deuce.

Then it's time to show off the range. Next possession I fly off a Stanford screen to the wing. Graves—afraid of my burst to the rim—stays back. That leaves me a nice, long look at a three.
Wet
.

Bishop Chatard calls timeout, but I've got the taste now. Bolden talks at us in the huddle, but I've got my eyes on the court the whole time. As soon as the ref comes over to tell us it's almost time to go, I'm up. I pop guys on their shoulders, slap the knees of the guys still sitting—
Let's go!

Bishop Chatard runs a nice set out of the break. They fake some action to Graves on the wing, but their big bails on the screen for an easy back-door deuce. Lead's back down to six.

Doesn't matter. I race into the frontcourt. I slow up near the top of the circle, but it's just a pause to bait Graves. When he settles onto his heels, I push again. The defense jumps to me. It's an easy bounce pass to Jones at the rack. I put it right in his paws, but he fumbles it for a second. That gives the D a chance to recover. His man gets a piece as he goes up. I have it read the whole way—I move my feet for position and rise to meet the rock just as it skips off the front rim. Not enough momentum on my side for a throwdown, but it's an easy tip. Back to an eight-point spread.

I hound Graves as he brings it up, but he's too good, too experienced, just to rip it from him. He gives it up as soon as he crosses mid-court. They start to cycle through their sets. By this time, I've got a pretty good feel for them. Without the benefit of a timeout, their
coach can't draw up anything special, so I tag Graves—stay glued on his UCLA cut, stay on top of him when he cuts baseline, then sag to the middle when the ball reverses the other way. And I know what's coming next. They set a cross-screen for him so he can come back to get it at the top of the circle. Since I'm so far off, they can't put a good screen on me, but I let myself get hung up for just a split second. Graves thinks maybe he's got a look, so he doesn't flare way up top. Instead he straight cuts with his hands extended, and that's when I jump. I spring off that screen and into the passing lane. Beat Graves to the spot. Tap the ball away. Scoop it.
Gone
.

The crowd's on their feet before I even hit the lane. So I decide to give them a little sugar. I rise like I'm going for a straight throwdown, but whip my body around at the last second for a filthy reverse.

Place goes bananas. And, yeah, there's a minute left in the third, but this thing's over. Everyone knows the boss is back.

I linger on the baseline for a second, soaking it in while the ref chases down the rock, which rolled all the way to the corner. Then I give a little hop back onto the court to start digging into Graves again. That's when I feel it—it's no tear, nothing serious, just a small little stab in my calf like I was still feeling a week ago. I press on though. No stopping this train now.

The calf held up. Bishop Chatard didn't. Even easing off my leg a bit, I kept it rolling. I finished with 24 and 8 boards as we coasted to a 15-point win over a pretty stout squad.

But in the locker room, things are subdued. Sure, Reynolds is rapping along and bobbing his head to whatever he's got on headphone
blast. And Jones and Stanford are talking smack to each other by their lockers, congratulating each other for every block, every bucket, every board. And Bolden and Murphy are huddled at the head of the locker room and cracking their private jokes, maybe convincing each other that we won because they're so much sharper than the brain trust on the Bishop Chatard bench. Still, something's missing. Last year, after a win like that, the locker room would have been bursting with energy.

I lean back in my locker and try not to sweat it. I flex my calf a few times, making sure Bolden's not watching me. It's tender, but there's nothing serious. All good. Fuller walks by, ready to hit the showers. He's got a towel wrapped around his waist. It cuts off a big tattoo of a cross on the right side of his stomach—that ink the only real flavor to Fuller.

Quickly, I rip off my jersey and snap it at him. He just swats at it.

“Come on, big man,” I say. “You could at least smile. We
won
, Fuller.”

He grins a little, but that's it. “Yeah,” he says. “Not bad. I guess we have to get our minds on Howe next weekend. Stay focused, right?”

“Loosen up, Fuller!” I shout. “If you can't enjoy a win, what are you in this for? I mean, you see me break Graves' ankles on that crossover in the third?” I was just saying it to try to get a laugh, but as soon as that question hits him whatever grin he had vanishes.

“I saw it,” he says. “Everyone saw the D-Bow Show back in primetime.” Then he heads for the shower, his body as tensed up as if he were about to box someone off the glass. Brutal. That interview with Whitfield was a month ago, and I already caught enough grief from it. Calling me out on it now—after a win—is just cold.

Fine
, I think. Guys resent me being the star? That's on them. If
they'd rather go back to getting thumped by Park Tudor, then they're not in this for the right reasons. But, damn, I really don't want to go down this road—no team ever got far when the star and the supporting cast were pulling in different directions.