Pull (20 page)

I start to stammer out an apology. It's a hard thing to hear. Because this isn't just a teammate who's sour because he's not getting enough touches. This is my brother. And he's got a legit gripe. I want to protest, but deep down I know we've all ignored him. As soon as I start to speak, he shakes his head. He doesn't want to hear it. He's not rude about it, but it's pretty clear that this is his time to talk—he's been walking around with all this bottled up, so it's best not to try and slow him down now.

He lets it all out. He explains to me that it was bad enough when it was all about hoops, but when I started having problems—my trouble at the end of the summer, my injuries—and I was still the center of everything, it just hit him wrong. “Even when you're bad news, you're the only news there is,” he says. “Besides Kid,” he adds, then offers a disgusted little laugh. “I'm sorry I feel that way, D. I know I'm not supposed to.”

Now I realize it's my turn to talk. I reach out to him—we're across the room from each other, so it's not to touch him, but I open my palm like I'm offering him a hand up. “Jayson, you can feel any way you want to. For real. You got every right. And I'm sorry, man.”

“You don't have to apologize,” he says. “That's not what I'm asking for.”

“I think I do have to,” I say. “But okay. Tell me what you do want.” He looks away again. Somehow, I've hit a nerve again. “Just say it, Jayson.”

He offers a half-smile. He kicks at an old t-shirt on the floor. “I've been doing this thing,” he says. “I haven't told anybody.” He looks mortified to say it. That scares me.

“What?” I ask. My throat is dry with anxiety. I can't take one more person in real trouble. Most of all, not Jayson.

He mutters the answer, speaking down to his lap. I have to ask him to repeat it. He doesn't really want to, but he knows I'm not going anywhere. And deep down he wants to talk. Otherwise, he wouldn't have said everything that's already come out. “I'm in the school play,” he says. He sounds ashamed.

“That's cool,” I say. Then, with more enthusiasm, I add, “You ought to be proud of that, Jayson.”

“Proud?” he says. “I mean, being in a play? It's not, like, manly, is it? It's not like balling out on the hardwood.” He looks dejected and shrugs again. “Anyway, I'm only doing it because the drama teacher says I've got talent.”

Jayson talented at drama? Man, how could we have not seen this coming? I stifle a laugh, because the truth is Jayson's clearly conflicted on this. “I don't know what to tell you about what makes you a man. I mean, I can roll up a triple-double when I'm healthy. And last night I hooked up with the most bangin' girl in the history of Marion East. But I don't think that stuff makes me a man.” I think about my failures with Wes, about how for all my eye-popping stats, I never really led the team like I should have this year. “I kind of think I've got a long way to go for that.”

“Yeah, but plays?” Jayson whines. “It's not how I want to see myself.”

I nod, because I get it. It's hard to prove you're a man. If a guy's not a star athlete, then where does he go? It's not cool to be good at math, at music, at history. So guys have to act tough. For someone like
Wes, that's a dead end. In some ways, that happened to me last year. I got my head all mixed up with Daniella—and I did her wrong—mostly because I wanted to see myself as some player. “But you're good at it?” I ask Jayson.

“That's what the teacher says.”

“Then do it, man.”

“I guess,” Jayson says. He squints and looks away, but he doesn't reject the advice outright. In fact, after a second he tilts his head and purses his lips in consideration. “Thanks, D,” he says. It's sincere, almost happy, but he also stands as he says it. That's a signal that this conversation has gone as far as he'll let it. Cool with me. It was progress. Better than I got with Wes.

I stand too, wobbling for a second on my bad leg. “Hey, what set you and Dad off anyway?” I ask.

Jayson stops cold, like he'd forgotten all about it. Then he smiles sheepishly. “Aw, he just told me not to check my phone at the breakfast table, and we kind of went crazy from there.”

I know there's more to it than that. “Come on, man. You said something, didn't you?”

He hangs his head. “I said Dad was being stupid.”

“Oh, Jayson!” I say. We both know that word—
stupid
—is straight-up off-limits to say about someone in this house. Especially for Dad. “For someone who's worried about being a man, you sure got a pair.”

That cracks him up. For the first time in too long, he's like the old Jayson. When he's done laughing, he points to his X-Box. “Come on, D,” he says. “If you really want a whippin' on there, I'll give you one.”

To try making it fair, Jayson takes the Sixers and gives me LeBron and the Cavs. But he's right. On here, I'm no match. He's up double-digits almost immediately. He's mastered the game so much that he turns and looks straight at me sometimes. “Three from the corner,” he says, then—for emphasis—raises his right hand like he's actually the one shooting. And, of course, he's right. Then he eases back on me, letting me keep it close for a while. But it's quickly clear what he really wants out of this trip on the sticks. “So,” he says, “Lia?”

“Yeah. What about it?”

He sets his controller down and crosses his arms. “D, you gotta spill.”

I take the opportunity to get an easy jam with King James. “I don't gotta do a thing.”

He hits pause. “Uh uh,” he says. He points back to his bean bag. “I sat there and answered everything you wanted. And, man, I'm your little brother. You owe it to me to give the deets.”

“No details to tell,” I lie, but he sees the smirk on my face.

“For starters,” he says, “let's get real clear about what hook up means. You—”

“Don't get crude, man,” I say, cutting him off before he can finish his sentence. “Don't talk about Lia like that.”

“I get it,” Jayson says. “You two got it going on. You wouldn't get your back up if you weren't.”

“Shut up,” I say. I reach over to his controller to un-pause the game. “You don't know.”

“Oh, I know.”

“No, you don't.”

“D, I know,” he says, starting to laugh. “I know it sure as I know I'm about to drop another three on you here.”

He's right, of course. On all counts.

25.

If we struggled with Hamilton Academy, then a trip to Pike might just turn into a beatdown.

Still, even on the bus ride the team's energy has changed. It's like a deep freeze broke. I hit my standard spot—the seat behind Coach Bolden, across from Coach Murphy—but as players file on, almost every one of them stops for a second. Jones gives a fist bump. Fuller gives me a
Whatup
and asks how my knee's feeling. Even Reynolds and Stanford—who at points have been about as likely to shoot me as talk to me—at least say
Hey, D
as they pass by. And then there's Rider. He slides right into the seat behind me and leans over so his elbows rest on my seatback. The pose makes him look like some fourth-grader who's all excited about a field trip. He just looks at me.

“What?” I ask, a little puzzled. He hesitates—it's like we're riding back from a bad loss and he doesn't want to be the one to break Bolden's command for silence. I relax my pose. “Just talk, Rider. It's all good.”

“I was thinking,” he starts. Then he looks across at Murphy, who's eyeing him. “Well, okay, Coach Murphy told me. He said I'd do a lot
better to spend the ride to Pike picking your brain instead of buried in my headphones.”

I can feel Murphy watching me now. But after wrestling things out with Jayson and Wes, handling Rider's request is easy. I straighten up and turn so my back's against the side of the bus. That way I can make better eye contact with Rider.

“Here's the deal on Pike,” I say. And I just start unloading the scouting report on him. First, he needs to know the history. We swept them last year, including a killer in the Sectional Championship. Plus, they lost their best player, Major Newsome, who's dropping about a dozen a game for Dayton this year. So you'd think it would be a down year for them. But they've stepped up—nobody more than Devin Drew, the point guard Rider will need to check. With Newsome gone, he's flourished. Their bigs have gotten more involved too. And that's why they're sitting at 17-3, ranked #10 in the state. And we're in their gym to boot.

I lay it on pretty thick. By the time I'm done, Rider looks intimidated. So I backhand him on his elbow. “Now here's the good news,” I say. “Drew's no better than you've seen before. He can bury a spot-up and he's a demon on the drive, but if you make him settle for pull-ups, he's uncomfortable. So here's what you do.” I explain false pressure to Rider. Granted, Bolden's explained the concept only about five hundred times, but sometimes players only listen to other players. So I walk him through it—every time Drew catches, Rider needs to come at him hard, hands out, like he wants to pressure him. “Then right when you arrive, you want to jump back and give yourself some space.” I hop in my seat as demonstration. “He'll see you running at
him and pass on the J, because he's dying for a reason to put it on the deck. But if you time it right, he won't be able to blow by. He'll only have that pull-up he hates.”

Rider nods, soaking it in. I walk him through a few more things—where our advantages are on the other end, mainly. But before he goes, I remind him about how to play Drew. That's the key thing, so he gets that first and last.

Then he thanks me and heads toward the back of the bus. We careen into a turn and Rider about tumbles into Stanford's lap, but they both laugh it off. If someone didn't know any better, you'd think this team was riding a ten-game winning streak.

Pike gives us a wake-up call pretty quick. Drew flat turns Rider inside-out. First time down Rider—forgetting everything I told him—comes at him too hot, and Drew blows past for a quick deuce. The next time Rider gets pinned on a screen and Drew drops a trey. And then it just gets worse. Rider remembers my false pressure lesson, but Drew freezes him with a head fake and rips past for a drive-and-dish. To top it off, Rider finally plays it right and gets Drew to settle for a tough pull-up—and of course it banks home.

On that last one, Rider finally turns toward our bench, a pleading look on his face. “That's okay,” I shout. “We can live with him taking that—he can't keep knocking it down.”

Rider nods. From the other end of the court, I hear Drew shout in my direction. I can't make it out, but I know the basic message—he's gently informing me that he very much can drop that pull-up all night, and that I best mind my own business. The ref gives him a stern look,
like one more word will earn a T. But all that matters is that as Rider brings the ball up, he takes a deep breath and nods a couple times—just trying to get his head straight. The kid's going to be okay. And not just because he's sticking with it—but because everyone else on the floor is fighting for their basketball lives. Despite the Devin Drew highlight reel, we're only down four.

As Rider crosses the mid-court stripe, Reynolds sprints the hash to get the ball. When Rider gives it up, Reynolds barks a few things at Rider. It's not mean, but it's forceful. And it's crazy to see Reynolds get that baby face all squinched up—but maybe he's actually been waiting for a chance to lead a little.

Whatever Reynolds said, it works. He takes a few rhythm dribbles right, then hits Fuller at the top of the key. A quick look to Stanford low, but when he can't find position, Fuller rips it back to Reynolds on the wing. He drives middle, then kicks to Jones on the left baseline. Nothing there. But Jones power dribbles toward the middle and gets the D to sag. Fuller pins Drew on a screen, leaving Rider wide open back on the right wing. Jones finds him and Rider steps into it like a vet—bang!

Our bench explodes. So does our crowd. But what's more important is Rider. He pounds his own chest, but he doesn't get carried away. Instead, he jumps right onto Drew's hip, pressuring him the whole way up. Drew's way too good to let Rider rip it from him, but he gets himself in too much of a rush to prove it. Instead of setting the offense, Drew tries to take Rider all the way to the rack. He gets there, but it's so long in coming that Coach Murphy would have had time to bolt from the bench to challenge. He doesn't have to, because Jones is
already there—and he slaps that thing back out to mid-court. Reynolds beats his man to the loose ball, then cruises ahead for a deuce.

And just like that, we're up one at Pike. It's early, but when Pike calls time our whole bench practically pours onto the floor to meet the team. I keep it reasonable—no chest bumps this time. But I get right in Rider's ear to tell him to keep up the good work. Then, once Bolden's had his say in the huddle, I get to Rider one more time before the ball goes live again. “It's a marathon, man,” I say. “Don't get too low. Don't get too high. Just keep fighting and let the guys around you make plays.” I point to Drew, who's staring right back at us. He's clearly re-focused, his eyes narrowed and angry. “He's gonna get his. You don't have to outscore him. Just help Marion East outscore Pike, you feel me?”

Rider smiles. For real. Like for the first time all year things make sense for him. “Most def,” he says. “Straight, straight, straight.”

Then he's gone, practically sprinting to go check Drew.

Rider's been good, hanging with Drew play for play. Reynolds has been the fire, getting guys revved back up every time we start to fall behind. And Jones and Stanford have been warriors down low, pushing us to an advantage on the boards through sheer will.

But Fuller's been the revelation tonight. It started slow—a putback in the first, plus a couple freebies. Then he knocked in a mid-range in the second, followed by a rare triple. But in this second half, he's gone off. A couple short corner Js. A hoop-and-harm on a stick-back. A sweet drive past his man and then around a challenging big. Plus another three—and on that one he didn't even hesitate, just caught it on the move and let fly. On top of that, he's still doing his typical Fuller
thing—challenging drivers, helping Jones and Stanford on the glass, tracking down loose balls. All hustle, all the time. The thing is, except for his last couple buckets, there's been no real flash. The casual observer might be thinking,
Well, that kid's putting together a decent game, but he's not making eyes pop
. But he's the reason we're tied with Pike with three minutes to go. When Pike calls time and their players slog back to the bench—a little frustrated because they can't put us away—their head coach meets them at the hash mark. “For the love of God,” he shouts, “can somebody figure out how to check number thirty?”

We're not quite in the huddle yet, so everyone hears it. Murphy's the first to react. He starts looking at guys' jerseys, making a big production of it. He even lifts up my sweater like he's checking to see if I've got a number on my T-shirt underneath. “Thirty?” he asks. “Who's this number thirty they're sweating?” Guys are already laughing, so Murphy looks at Fuller and rears back like he's in shock. “You're thirty? J.J. Fuller?” Then he quits fooling and pounds Fuller on the chest. “Way to get after it, big man.”

The only guy not laughing is Fuller. He's got concentration etched on his face. He mouths an inaudible
Thanks
to Murphy, but judging by Fuller's expression you'd think we were down a dozen. Of course, that's right up Bolden's alley. “Are we done clowning?” he growls. Everyone sits and listens but this time it's different. Instead of being disgusted that Bolden killed the buzz, everyone's focused. “You know they want to isolate Drew on this next touch,” he says. He points at Rider. “That means you're in the cross-hairs. But just stay with him. False pressure and then make him settle. The rest of you be ready to help, but don't leave your man too early. Make Drew earn it.”

Then we break the huddle with a resounding
Team!
Before he gets away, I grab Fuller's jersey real quick. I get right in his ear. Fuller's sweating in streams, still breathing heavy despite the timeout. And here I am in khakis, my heart rate barely raised. Still, if this is the only way I can help, this is what I've got to do. “You don't have to get all hype and pound your chest about it,” I say. “Just be you. But, Fuller, you're in the zone. And I can tell you nights like this don't come around that often. So ride it. You get a look to bury these guys, pull the damn trigger.”

“On it,” he says. We bump fists, then he's off to the hardwood, and I'm back to the pine. But Fuller calls to me. I turn around. “Is it okay if I do pound my chest a little?” Then he gives a sheepish grin, like he's not sure he's allowed to crack jokes.

“Go on with yourself,” I call.

Pike in-bounds to Drew. They flatten out right away, just like Bolden said. The good news for Rider is that he doesn't have to fight through any screens to find his man. The bad news is he's on an island with one of the better point guards in the state. Drew sizes Rider up. He gives a few bounces left, then crouches down and crosses right. He jabs right a few times, trying to get Rider to bite. Then he gives a hesitation, like he's about to pull from range. Rider plays it perfectly—he hops, hands up, at Drew, but he keeps his balance. Drew sees those hands flash and lowers his shoulder. But Rider's there. He cuts him off. Drew has no choice but to pick up his dribble. He extends his elbow a little to push Rider off-balance—the kind of move a senior gets away with on a freshman—but he's still stuck in that mid-range area he hates. And this time his shot comes up flat. Tired legs.

Stanford rips it and turns. He hits Rider at the near hash. I
can see what Rider sees—lots of open space with just Drew back. My instinct is to yell
Push!
But I rein myself in. That's what I'd do, but Rider needs to take it easy.

When I see him turn up court with a head full of steam, I stand. “Wait for trailers!” I yell.

Rider eases back on his speed, then centers the ball. Reynolds fills on one wing, but he's blanketed. So Rider keeps pushing it up. He's no real threat, but Fuller's man reacts out of habit. He pinches down on the drive, and Rider does the right thing—he lasers one out to Fuller, who's standing all alone behind the arc.

The whole Pike crowd groans when they see him catch it. And sure enough, Fuller rings up his third triple of the night. Our lead. At Pike. Late.

Then they come unglued. Drew takes the in-bounds and gets a crazed look in his eyes. It's like he's taking this game as a personal insult. Everyone watching knows he's headed rack-to-rack. Rider stays on him the whole way, funneling him right into Jones, who stands his ground. Charge.

The Pike coach throws up his arms in protest, then stomps a few times begging for a blocking call instead. But even he knows. For a senior to get whistled for a charge at that point, at home no less, it had to be a no-brainer. The ref just holds his hand up to the Pike bench as if to say
Save it
, and they all simmer down.

When we inbound the ball, we're in no hurry. Bolden shouts at them to work for a good one. We reverse and reverse. A look in to Stanford. A kick out to Reynolds. A pass to Rider out top to re-set.

The longer we hold it, the jumpier Pike gets. Drew jumps so hard
at the pass to Rider that his momentum carries him almost to mid-court. Then, when he recovers, he keeps reaching on Rider, hoping to poke one free. He's desperate.

After one more reach, Rider backs away for some space and then looks to the bench. Right at me. Maybe it's my emotions getting the better of me. Maybe it's just the force of my wanting to be out of these street shoes and into D Rose 5s. Whatever it is, I nod urgently.
Take him
, I mouth.

Rider looks back at Drew. Then he dribbles the ball away from his body, just daring Drew. And, of course, Drew lunges. Quick as a rabbit, Rider crosses it back to his left. He knifes into the lane, head up. The bigs both jump at him, and he's got his pick. He goes with the sure thing: Stanford, who muscles in a nasty jam. Plus, a late whistle on a wing player trying to help.