Pull (3 page)

“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.

4.

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 some Jasmine time.

“How's the recruiting going?” she asks. Normally she wouldn't talk hoops, but she actually cares about where I end up. To answer, I just show her my phone. In the text history, there's a long scroll of schools—Indiana, Clemson, Michigan, Tennessee, Purdue, Kansas State. On and on. Jasmine follows for a minute, but then her eyes glaze. She looks back up at me. “You keeping your head on straight with all this?”

“Sure,” I say. “It's not gonna get serious until I start making visits.”

“Where?” she asks. It's a basic question, but she absent-mindedly runs her fingernail up and down my arm. Moments like that, it feels like we're a real couple—but I know what'll happen if I bite on her move. We'll find some place to be alone, mess around just enough to get me to my breaking point. Then she'll cut it off, and I won't hear from her for a week. So I play it straight.

“Indiana's most definitely on the list,” I say. “But everyone knows that. I'll just take my time and get a vibe for places.”

Jasmine nods, then looks out the window again. There's that distant stare. I try turning things around and give her a playful touch on the knee. She jumps like I'm a snake.

“Easy girl,” I say. “Touchy. I was just wondering where your head is. What about school for you?”

She gives a big sigh, her shoulders sagging under the weight of the question. “I don't know,” she says. “I thought my ACT score was good enough, but now everything I'm seeing says I need to get a 32 or better.” This is the first time I've ever seen her uptight about anything academic, and it's a wake-up call—I'm not the only one with some pressure on me.

“What'd you get so far?” I ask.

Jasmine looks away again. “Not 32,” she says. She shakes her head in disgust. “I don't get it. I crank out A after A at Marion East, and somehow that's not good enough? It's not right. Maybe I should take prep classes somewhere else.” Her fingernails, just briefly, dig violently into the couch cushion. Then she unclenches and tries to laugh it off. “Can we get out of here?” she says.

I don't know what she has in mind, but I'm down for whatever. I grab Jasmine's coat for her, and we jet.

Like he's pulling a night security shift, my dad's standing watch in the living room when I walk in. A quick double-check on my watch tells me I'm in with fifteen minutes to spare.

“How was the party?” Dad asks.

“Fine,” I say.

His eyes narrow, like he's inspecting me for some sign of misbehavior. I've got two inches on him, but he's still my dad. That stare would make me feel guilty even if I'd just come from church. “Who drove you home?” he asks.

“Jasmine,” I answer. I really don't want follow-ups. I'm in no position to lie about anything, but I don't want to get into it—driving
aimlessly with Jasmine until she pulled into the parking lot of a closed department store, making out with her for a few hot minutes, then getting the stiff-arm—again—when I tried to get busy for real. Then she just got all quiet on the drive home, like I was some stranger all of a sudden. Same story as always. With her, I'm like a big who keeps biting on every shot fake he sees.

Dad nods a couple times, considering more questions. This is usually Mom's job—staying up until I get back and grilling me—and Dad's not quite as tough. I know he's supposed to give me the third-degree, but I see it all over his face—he doesn't
really
want to know what his teenage son has been doing with a girl on a Friday night. He's beat anyway. He's cramming in double shifts working security every chance he gets, like he's trying to make up for all the time he lost last year when he was laid up. His shoulders go slack and he motions me back toward the hall. “Go on to bed,” he says.

“Cool,” I say, then tell him goodnight.

“Hey, Derrick?” he calls, just before I can make my way out of his sight. I turn, ready for more. “In the morning, tell your mom I grilled you good, okay?”

I smile. It's the first sign from my dad in a while that things are getting back to normal. “Most definitely, Dad,” I say.

With that, I'm free to retreat to my room. As soon as I walk in the door, I power off my cell phone. I've decided that this—my room, at least—is going to be a haven from the recruiting path. So I always kill my phone—no calls, no texts, nothing. It lets me actually get some studying done or, like now, just chill.

I've streamlined the room. Every time letters come, I organize
them by conference and put them in the closet next to my kicks. No clutter—just one basketball in the corner, the Reggie-Miller-signed rock that Uncle Kid got me when I was a little kid. Gone are the posters of CP, of John Wall, of Derrick Rose. I love each of them, dig their games, but now the walls are stripped back to LeBron, Jordan, and Magic. Just the guys with the rings. That's what I want—championships. Starting at Marion East and ending in the League. Where I want to cut down nets in between is still a mystery, even to me.

I lay back and think about Jasmine, about how I keep falling into her little trap. The thing is, it seems like she falls into it too. No doubt, when she sees me she's not thinking hook-up. She's always dealt better when we've just been friends. But there's this connection neither of us can shake. Maybe she gets distant with me just because she's pulled in two directions, one calling her toward college and away from Indianapolis, and one pulling her right back to me.

My door pushes open a few inches. Jayson peeks his head around the corner. Unsure of whether or not it's cool to come in, he lingers there for a second. He's in eighth grade now and he's starting to sprout. We always thought he got the short and squat genes from Mom's side, but he's stretching out each year and starting to look more like someone from Dad's side. Doesn't matter—only place he's a baller is on the X-Box sticks. But as he hangs there, I realize that in no time he'll be full-grown and ready to back up all that game he talks about with females. He's lost all that softness of boyhood from his face. Now there are some black wisps he's letting grow on his chin. They look like streaks of dirt on his light brown features. A terrible look. But it's one every guy's got to figure out for himself.

“Get on in here, Jay,” I tell him.

He smiles, a little embarrassed for having waited for permission but also relieved to have gotten it. “I can't tell with you anymore,” he says. “Sometimes you're locked in your own head, and it's like nobody else is supposed to disturb you.”

“You know it's always cool with you,” I say. “'Sup, anyway?”

“Just more calls,” he says. He digs into his back pocket and unfolds a piece of paper. “Mom and Dad got sick of answering, so they put me on phone duty. Wanna hear the list?”

I nod, and he starts in—assistants at Georgia Tech, Louisville, Ohio State, and head coaches at St. Louis, Dayton, and Temple. I think that's it, but then Jayson flips the paper over and keeps rattling off schools.

“You got ‘em all written down?” I ask. Jayson nods. I tell him to just set the paper on my dresser so I can check it in the morning.

Jayson yawns, like he's as exhausted by the process as I am. “Man, that assistant from Ohio State called three times in the last two days,” he says. “It was like he was pissed at me when I said you weren't home tonight. Like it was my fault or something. I about told him there wasn't much difference between a Big Ten assistant and a telemarketer.” Jayson seems bothered by the recruiter, but the way he says it makes it sound like he holds it against me too. He's all sneer these days.

I laugh. Maybe I should just make Jayson the point person for this whole thing. Let him sense who's cool and who's not, then just let him work whatever deal he wants as payment. He'd be good at it. “Jay,” I tell him, “next time that Buckeye assistant calls you tell him whatever the hell you want.”

He squints his eyes, skeptical. “For real?”

“Straight,” I say. “I don't know where I
do
want to go, but I know I don't want to play for Ohio State. Never liked those guys.”

Jayson nods approval, then raises his hand to his chin like he's plotting just how he's going to crack on that coach next time the phone rings.