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He pauses to catch his breath, then turns back to us. The fire's drained from his face and the veins have settled back in. He points to me and Reynolds. “Shake hands. Now. Then let's try to have a practice.”

We do as we're told. Reynolds barely grips my hand—just a touch-and-go to satisfy coach. When I shuffle back to the court, I walk past Stanford. He's been silent through the whole ordeal. He's been through these things before. I glance up at him. Of all the guys in the gym, he's the one I can trust. We've seen some battlefields together. “You believe Reynolds talking that nonsense?” I say under my breath.

Stanford snorts. “I believe he might have a point, D,” he mutters.

I stop short. We can't get into it now, not after the Bolden tornado that just passed through the gym, but I'm stunned. Stanford is for real taking Reynolds' side? I look around and none of my teammates will make eye contact with me. Meanwhile, Fuller and Rider are both over by Reynolds trying to talk him up a little. Ridiculous.

There's only one thing to do. Show out. Let them be jealous. Let them get their backs up. All they need is a reminder about what I can do. I figure I only need one—a highlight reel play, a monster finish at the rim—to show them what's up. Then I'll spend the rest of the practice just feeding other guys.

My chance comes right away. Since the second team just scored, it's our ball underneath against their full-court pressure. Stanford looks to throw in. I jab cut toward mid-court. I feel another tweak in my calf, but there's no time to worry over that. I sprint back to the baseline, hands extended. An easy pass for Stanford. On the catch, I turn and look. Rider's on me. I know his plan is to force me one side or the other into a trap. I start left, waiting for the D to jump. When the double comes, Fuller empties up the sideline and Reynolds fills middle—but forget that. No need to methodically work it up pass-by-pass. At the last moment, I split the double team.

I push it past mid-court and we've got numbers. Reynolds and Fuller flare to the wings. Stanford steps to the short corner. Jones holds his position low. Every one of them has hands ready and eyes wide, expecting a look. Not this time, boys. Fuller's man peels off and tries to stop my drive, but I leave him reaching with a spin dribble at the top of the key.

Just me and the big now. He's got to choose between stepping
to me or checking Jones. He leaves early. Any other time that's an easy assist to Jones at the rim. But I
want
this one. I take another power dribble to get my shoulder past the defender. I take a jump-stop toward the rim, but as I do I feel one more tweak in that calf. At the last instant I think I'll back off, maybe go for the lay-up instead of the dunk. It throws off my rhythm. Instead of springing toward the rim, my weight comes down on my right leg—and so does that defender. He was still going full-tilt while I slowed down—disaster.

I feel the knee give with a series of pops. There's pain, but nothing searing. Not like the calf. In fact, when I crash down all the thump's on my head and elbows. So there's a flicker of hope that I'm okay. Just bruises. But in my heart I know better.

PART III

22.

The doctor was good. He'd seen his share of athletes, you could tell. He knew how to talk to me. I could walk on the leg—had no problem getting to the locker room and into my street clothes and out to the car—but it felt like I might topple on it unless I walked in a perfectly straight line.

“Don't think the worst,” he said. “Let's just wait and see.”

I stretched back on his table, felt that white paper crinkle up beneath me. My whole body shook, like I was some little kid trembling in the dark. The doctor stopped what he was doing. He put a hand gently on my chest. He took a deep breath. His face went still as I looked up at him, his mouth perfectly even. His face, a shade of honey, was gaunt, but he didn't look unhealthy. More like someone who ran religiously. There wasn't even a hint of a wrinkle, but that hairline—creeping back away from his forehead—showed he was older than his other features suggested. He drummed his slender fingers on my ribcage. “Hey now,” he said. “Breathe in there.”

While he worked, he kept a monologue going. He seemed to know that if the room went silent, my mind would race to ugly places. He said he knew who I was, that he was a huge hoops fan. He explained he'd gone to Indiana at the same time as Calbert Cheaney—their last real glory years under Bob Knight—and he'd been hooked ever since. As he explained all this, he worked on my leg. First, he pressed gently on the muscles above and below the knee. Then he placed one hand under my knee, the other just below it with his thumb pressed firmly on my shin. He interrupted his little chat to explain what he was doing. “This is the Lachman's test,” he said. “Standard. Relax.” Then, with more force than I was expecting, he pulled up on my knee while pressing down on my shin. Then again. And again. He let out a small grunt, but I tried not to read too much into it. Then he switched legs, testing my good one—well, good except for that nagging calf injury. Same thing. Same grunt.

Then he lifted my leg slightly, pinning my foot to his side. With his other hand, he grabbed my lower leg and pressed up and in toward my body. I tightened up in resistance, but he patted my kneecap. “Relax. I'm not going to do anything that hurts.” So I let him finish the examination. Right leg, then left. A few more grunts along the way.

“Go ahead and sit up,” he said.

He drew a rolling chair across the floor. With my legs dangling in front of him, he grabbed my right knee as if to secure it. Somehow it was comforting. He kept his grip up while he spoke. He looked me right in the eyes. “I think it's a torn ACL, Derrick. I know that's not what you want to hear, but—”

I sighed and flopped back again. I covered my eyes with my arm. The whole dream, gone just like that.

The doctor stood up. He didn't make me look at him. Maybe he thought underneath that arm, I was crying and he wanted to save me the embarrassment. Still, he talked me through it. “First of all, Derrick, this isn't a death sentence. There are players all over this city who've gone through this and they're good as new. It's not like it was in the 80s. Or even the 90s. Besides, I could be wrong. These tests have failed before. It could be a bad sprain and not a tear. That would still end your season, but it wouldn't mean surgery. The MRI will tell for certain.”

So that brings me to now. Thursday morning. Typically, I'd feel like I was getting away with something, sprung loose in the city while everyone else sweats out tests in the stuffy classrooms of Marion East. But there are tests and there are
tests
. I'd trade place with any of them. Hell, I'd trade place with a guy working on a highway crew or digging ditches or scrubbing toilets.

Anywhere but here. Back in Methodist. The MRI machine in front of me. It's huge, a gigantic gray cylinder. The nurse clamps a little bracket over my knee and hands me some headphones to protect my ears. She talks me through the basics, but it's just sound to me. I'm too nervous. In a way, I wish the doctor wouldn't have held out hope for me. I mean, I know what the test's going to reveal. I've known at some level since the moment my knee gave. But that sliver of hope makes me more nervous somehow. Like if I could just give up hope completely, at least I'd be at ease about it.

Soon enough, I slide into the machine. It makes me think of a body being ushered into the flames at a crematorium. But I only go in to my shoulders, so at least I can stare into the dimly lit room while they run the machine. The nurse is gone. It's just me and the machine.
It starts clicking and clanging and chirping, still loud even through the headphones. It sounds alternately like a motor struggling to turn over, then heat pipes banging, then someone on a clarinet making all the wrong notes.

My knee's torn. My season's over. In spite of what the doctor said, my senior season is in doubt too. Can I be 100% by the time next November rolls around? Can I get my quicks back? Can I ever trust the knee again? Can I?

I stop. I have to. There's no answering those questions, not for a long time. If it's actually torn, there will be surgery. And then rehab. And then? Forget it. One step at a time.

I stare at the shadows on the wall and listen to that machine churn. The whole thing takes twenty minutes, they say, but it feels like a full day. While the machine scans my knee, I scan for something else to think about, something comforting.

Not my teammates.

Not Kid.

Not Jayson.

Certainly not Wes.

Jasmine? No, I tell myself, she's vanished. She's nothing but a text that shows up now and then. I'm supposed to be thinking about Lia. And for a few minutes, I do. She's the best thing I have going right now. But you can't really stop thoughts, can you? Slowly but surely, Lia's face fades and there's Jasmine. Always Jasmine.

Torn. ACL. The call comes from my doctor while I'm between classes.

Around me, Marion East is buzzing like any other Friday
morning. There's a game tonight, so my teammates are rocking some swag—which really is just some cheap sweatshirts with Marion East Basketball printed across the chest. I'm wearing it too, but below that I've got a walking cast over my jeans.

“I'm sorry,” the nurse says, but she's not that sorry. She does this every day. She doesn't even wait two seconds before she starts scheduling the surgery for me.

We set the date—three weeks from yesterday's MRI, meaning the last weekend of the regular season. I had an image in my mind for that weekend—the team humming, everything coming together while we ripped into Zionsville and Ben Davis in a tune-up for Sectionals. Now? It'll be me on crutches. Stuck at the end of the bench. Or maybe even behind the bench to shelter me from players diving after loose balls.

I shove the phone back in my pocket. Lockers slam shut. People laugh at jokes. Feet pound the floor on the way to the next class. Everyone else seems to know exactly where they're going. But here I am, lost.

The only thing I do know is that rehab starts now. In fact, it started as soon as that doctor told me what he thought after the physical tests. Coach Bolden has had guys tear ACLs before, so he knows the drill. The more I get my leg stabilized and strengthened before surgery, the better. So the last few nights while the other guys practiced, Coach Murphy monitored me doing light quad sets, put me gingerly through hamstring stretches. Then lots and lots of ice. Ice. God, I've had enough of it already. On my calf and now on my knee. I'm sick of the burning cold, tired already of the swings between numbness and pain.

“Derrick?” It's Lia. She's one of the tallest girls in the school, but
right now—her books pinned to her chest, her chin tucked down a little—she seems impossibly small.

I don't even have to say anything. For the last three days, she's been the most positive one. I mean, yeah, my parents have been there every step, but Dad's still bristling about Kid. And Jayson's acted like I've got nothing more than a stubbed toe. Plus, for all the sympathy Bolden and Murphy give me, they've still got a team to coach. Not Lia. She's been there. In person. In encouraging texts each night. In a killer pic she sent me—nothing that would get us arrested, but she knows how to show herself off—the morning before my MRI with the caption
Be better
.

That's something we need catching up on. I mean, that's how bad things have gone—I haven't even had a chance to keep on hooking up with Lia. Even when her dad was gone for a whole day we didn't get together.

But now, as she looks at me, she knows the news. She just drops her book in a pile on the floor and covers the last few feet between us. She throws her arms around me. With only one strong leg to steady us, I sway with her force. “You're gonna be okay, D,” she says in my ear.

I hug back, thankful for her. I feel terrible for having thought of Jasmine yesterday. Somehow it seems worse than cheating on Lia. Like I'm determined to torpedo the one good thing I've got left.

23.

The texts stream in again. Really, it started earlier in the week from recruiters who have been in constant contact with me, but now the news is out for real.

Hang in there, Derrick.

Keep your head up, big man. You'll be back.

Sorry to hear about your injury, Derrick. Hang tough.

It's another Who's Who of college hoops—Wisconsin, Louisville, Arizona. I scroll through again, keeping a mental list of who's wished me well. I don't know though. Something seems off. There's a change I can't pinpoint that makes these texts seem empty in a way they didn't after I'd hurt my calf.

In about an hour, we tip against Hamilton Academy. The last two years, this was
the
game. They were the best team in the state, anchored by Vasco Lorbner, who's putting together a killer freshman year for Michigan State these days. Deon Charles is gone too—but without Vasco in the post his flaws have been made evident, and he's seeing a lot of pine at Xavier. But still. For two years, they were the standard in
Indiana basketball. It wasn't that long ago they were recruiting me to transfer so I could keep the ball rolling after Vasco and Deon graduated. This one means something, even if they're just 10-6 coming in.

And here I am in street clothes again, watching the other guys get suited up.

At least now the static between me and my teammates isn't as thick. When they come up, one after another to tell me how sorry they are that I'm not playing, they mean it. Even Reynolds comes over. “You gonna be okay, D,” he says. He stands beside me and rests a hand on my shoulder.

The truth is, I want to slap his hand away. I can't take being pitied. Part of me still wants someone to blame—like if Reynolds had just taken my criticism like a man none of this would have happened. Instead, I take a deep breath. He means well. No sense in making things worse. “Thanks, Reynolds,” I say. “Just go whip Hamilton Academy, got it?”

“Oh, we about to get after it,” he says. It's overly exuberant when just a second ago he was trying to be sympathetic, but this bothers me a lot less than that hand on my shoulder. He's a player. And players are game ready. No matter what.

Coach Murphy comes over. Now, Coach Bolden has been a help, but even with an injury he's all business. He's given me advice on rehab and a clear timeline of what to expect, but he refuses to let me wallow. Murphy, on the other hand, wants to be a pal. He's treated this like when my dad was in the hospital last year, like I need some big emotional outlet or counseling.

“You dealing, Derrick?” he asks. His voice is soft and concerned, like he's talking to a mourner at a funeral.

“I'll be fine, Coach,” I say.

He looks up, reaching back for a memory of his playing days. “Man, consider yourself lucky. Used to be a torn ACL meant it was all she wrote. You'll have a chance to come back full strength. Maybe by the opener next year.”

“Thanks,” I say, but he can tell he's not helping. I mean, why bring up next year? I know exactly how long it takes to rehab an ACL. I know there's a chance it will be mid-season next year before I'm 100%. I don't need somebody else reminding me about it.

“Sorry,” he says. Then he makes it worse, trying to joke. “At least the heat from some schools will decrease. Maybe some time away will help you get your head straight about colleges.”

I nod, but I don't say anything. I'm tempted to tell him maybe he should have taken his friend up on that offer of ten grand when he had the chance. But I'm not ready to crack jokes yet.

“Murphy!” Bolden shouts. He's at the front of the locker room and he needs his assistant, right this second, to go over the night's game plan. Murphy gives me a weak thumbs up. Then he's off, as obedient as a dog on a short leash.

It's just me again. Everyone else is doing their thing. The closer it gets to tip, the more I'm irrelevant. They might as well cordon my locker off with tape, like a crime scene or a quarantined apartment. No going near the injured body when you've got to get your own ready for battle. And in that bubble of relative silence, it hits me—the thing that was bothering me about all those texts.

I scroll back through my phone to be sure. Back, back, back until I reach the texts that rolled in after my first injury. Sure enough, there's
the evidence. Back then, almost everyone who'd made an offer prior to the calf injury made sure to remind me again. Over and over again, they said it:
Our offer still stands.
Or
Soon as you're up for it, let's get you here on an official visit.

But now? Nothing. Most texts are just by-the-book get-well-soon wishes. Hell, Duke's text is word-for-word like the one they sent a month ago, only without the reminder of an offer. It's like they've got a computer program churning these out. And other schools—Syracuse and Auburn leap to mind—don't even bother this time around.

I suddenly understand that I'm damaged goods. Oh, if I come back next year and ball out, they'll fire up the recruiting machine again. They'll come see me. Send moneymen to buy me out. Send assistants to my house like they never had a doubt I'd return to form. All smiles and handshakes and promises. But if I don't come back like before? They won't think twice. Maybe a few years down the road, when I pop up in the NCAA tournament with a mid-major school, they'll think
Derrick Bowen. Now where I have I heard that name before?
I'll bang out 30 on them, send them home in the first round. Then maybe they'll remember how they backed off on me when I was down.

It's a revenge plan. But that's all down the road. First thing is to make my way across the locker room. Straight line, I'm fine, but I still take it easy. I limp, not trusting my right leg to hold my full weight, even though it probably could.

“Coach, can I borrow a pen and paper?”

Instinctively, Bolden frowns. It's like I'm in a class and didn't bring materials. But then he realizes I'm not doing anything wrong. He motions for me to follow. I walk through the back door of the locker
room. This also serves as a side entry to his office, but I realize I've never come through this way. When you're called in to meet him, you always go through the door from the hallway. When you're in the locker room, only Murphy and Bolden can go through this one, like it's some password-encrypted door that keeps the nuclear codes safe. It's silly, I know, but this simple act—Bolden waving me through—makes me feel trusted somehow. It's almost how I felt last year when, at long last, I was given the starting point guard spot.

He reaches into his desk and pulls out a binder. He rips a page out, carefully removes the bits of paper hanging on past the perforation—always the perfectionist. He hands it to me, then plucks a pen from a coffee mug on his desk and gives it to me. “What do you need it for?” he asks. He's not grilling me. Just asking.

“I've got some thoughts on some schools all of a sudden.”

Bolden almost smiles. “Good,” he says. “Keep yourself looking ahead. That's good.” He digs in his pocket and tosses me the keys. “Have some privacy,” Bolden says. “Just lock up when you're done and be on the bench a couple minutes before tip.”

He heads back into the locker room. I take a second to consider the moment—Coach handing me his keys. Rich kids wait for that day when their father hands over the key to the sports car at last. I'm lucky to get the use of a beater Nova. So for me, this is as big a rite of passage as I'll get.

Right away, I get cracking on what I meant to do. I scroll back through my texts and write down the name of every school that's texted me after my calf injury. I'll check these against the more recent flow of texts. Any school that doesn't send a message now with an assurance of
their offer? Dead to me. But I'll keep this list in case I see them between the lines somewhere down the road.

It's clear early we've got a chance. Hamilton Academy hasn't been able to replace Lorbner and Charles—what high school team could?—but my boys have begun to get a feel for things. Rider's super cautious, but at least he's not doing dumb stuff anymore. And if he gets himself in trouble, Reynolds or Fuller sprint to the ball to bail him out. And Stanford? Man, the switch has flipped on for him. By the end of the third, he's got a double-double and when I glance down at the Hamilton Academy bench, their coaches are griping at each other about how to handle Stanford in the post. It's great to see, especially since their head coach, Henry Treat, always looks so smooth and polished.

Hamilton gets a deuce to end the third, cutting our lead to three. As the players come back to the bench, our crowd gives them a well-deserved roar. Sure, it's not for anything I've done, but it gets my blood pumping. The crowd on its feet and Hamilton Academy on the ropes? That's what I like in life.

I hobble onto the floor to bump fists with Reynolds and Fuller. Then I make eye contact with Stanford. “That's what I'm talking about out there,” I holler. Gingerly, I hop in his direction and give him a chest bump. Stanford's eases back at the last second, knowing that I've got the bad leg.

“How about you keep it to talking then,” Bolden shouts at me. “You want to tear your other ACL acting like an idiot?”

So much for being trusted by Bolden. His comment stings. It also kills the vibe on the bench. It figures Bolden would rip me even
when I'm trying to be a supportive teammate. Even he knows he went too far, because he steps to me and squeezes my shoulder. “I like the enthusiasm,” he says, “but you need to use some common sense.” That's as close as Bolden will ever get to an apology. I nod and try to laugh it off, but there's no reversing what happened. The guys slump back on the bench, looking exhausted—not from the physical effort, but by controversy surrounding me yet again. And that's the kicker. They blame me for this. I can feel it.

Murphy leaps into the huddle, all chatter and good will. “Come on now. Eight more minutes! We got these guys.” Guys nod and clap their hands, but it's hollow. They might as well be saying
Nice try, Coach
.

Bolden crouches in front of the squad and runs them through what to expect in the fourth. When he sees that they've lost focus a little, he cracks his clipboard down on the hardwood. That snaps some chins up. For a second I think maybe he's got them back on track.

Before they break, Stanford gathers the guys around him for a pep talk. When Reynolds wanders off a couple steps, Stanford reaches out and yanks him back in by his jersey. “Get back in here!” he demands. Reynolds obeys, but I can't hear the rest of what Stanford says. When his impromptu huddle splits, the blush on Reynolds' face is evident.

“Crank it up now!” I shout from the bench. Nobody looks my way. So I single out Fuller. “You got this, Fuller,” I shout. “Dig in for one more quarter.” He nods, but it's like a kid hearing his mother tell him to clean the dishes for the four millionth time. Fuller would just as soon I shut up.

We get it first. Rider walks it into the frontcourt. He takes a deep breath and then starts to attack. He penetrates close to the foul line, but it's just to get the defense jumping. When they squeeze in on him, he kicks it to Fuller on the wing. He offers a shot fake, but his man doesn't bite, so Fuller looks to the post. Stanford's there, hand raised for the rock. “Ball!” he shouts, but Fuller just pump fakes. It's the right decision—Stanford was a good four feet off the block and a second defender was already hedging down. But Stanford's not having it. He pauses for a second before re-posting on the other side. He gives Fuller a long glare, like he's personally offended by not having got the orange.

Finally, Stanford cuts to the other side. Since he's late on the cut, his man beats him to the spot. That doesn't matter to Stanford. I can hear him call
Ball!
again even from the other side of the floor. Only this time Reynolds has the rock. He doesn't even look Stanford's way. Maybe it's a little payback for that show coming out of the break. Or maybe he actually thinks he's got a look. Either way, Reynolds puts it on the deck. Two dribbles right, then a snap-back move to free himself. It's a nice shake, but Reynolds doesn't really have that kind of shot in his repertoire—it's a deep fade-away and, predictably, it scrapes front iron. Frustrated, Stanford barrels through his man in pursuit of the rebound. It's an easy whistle. Foul on Stanford. Hamilton Academy ball.

At least they don't snipe at each other on the way back down. Fuller, Stanford, and Reynolds all just stare at the floor. But their body language—hands clenching, heads shaking—makes it evident they're all angry. Whether that's at me or Bolden or each other or themselves, it doesn't matter. The feel on that floor is not one that comes off a winning team. Rider and Jones clap their hands, try to rally guys for a
defensive stand, but nobody's taking orders from them. You'd think we were down a dozen.

It's all the life Hamilton Academy needs. They come down, click out a few reversals, get Reynolds hung up on a cross-screen and locate their best shooter for a golden look from deep. Even before he releases, you can hear our crowd groan. And he delivers, of course. Tie game.

This time Fuller and Reynolds get into it. As they come into the frontcourt, I hear Reynolds shouting “Switch that!” at Fuller, who swats his hand at Reynolds like he's batting away a gnat. Behind them, Rider looks nervous. He's kept his cool most of the game, but now that the other guys are starting to wilt, he comes unwound. Hamilton Academy pressures him. Rather than making the easy pass, he just bolts. Buries his head and goes screaming toward the lane. A defender slides over, flicks the ball away, and it's a run-out.

They finish with an uncontested jam on the other end, putting them up two.

Time out.

It's clear what's happening. Sure, they all resented my status—and maybe I could have done a better job as a leader. But now that I'm out, they're all fighting to be the man in charge. It's like one of those mob movies when the boss goes down and the rest of the family starts offing each other.