Thread of Hope (The Joe Tyler Series, #1) (8 page)

The eyes stopped on me and she jogged across the floor, seemingly gliding because she moved with such little effort.

“Help you?” she asked without a smile.

“Just watching.”

“Practice is closed,” she said.

“I talked to Rob earlier,” I said.  Not a complete lie, but not the truth earlier.

“Rob?”

“Stricker.  Your A.D.”

“He didn’t tell me,” she said, then glanced over her shoulder.  She yelled “Okay.  Water and then back in for shells.  Hurry up!”  The girls jogged out of the gym and she turned back to me.  “And he doesn’t go by Rob.”

Dammit.  “My name’s Joe Tyler.  I understand Chuck Winslow was helping you out?”

She threw her shoulders back, stiffening, a questioning look now in her eyes.  “You working for or against him?”

“For.  Definitely for him.”

The girls started trickling back in the gym, red faced and sweating, looking in our direction.

“Look, I don’t want to take practice time to do this,” she said, watching the girls return.  “But I can talk to you afterward.”  She hesitated.  “You the friend that used to live here?”

Her words were like small hammers on my spine.  “
The
friend?  I don’t know.  I used to live here, yes.”

She ran a hand over her mouth, watching me.  “His point guard in high school?  You look like a point guard.”

Chuck had done a lot of talking about me in my absence.  I felt guilty, like I’d forced him into it.  But a small sense of relief flooded through me, glad she was talking about basketball and not Elizabeth.  “Yeah, that was me.”

“I’m Kelly Rundles, the coach.”  She pointed in the direction of the girls.  “I’m short an assistant coach today.  You rebound for my guards and we’ll talk when we’re through.”

I stared at the girls.  There was irritation in their faces now, frustrated that some intruder had interrupted their practice.  I didn’t see any welcoming looks coming from their direction.  I could still play a little, but I’d never coached. 

But it all came back to Chuck.

“Deal,” I said and followed her to the center of the court.

FIFTEEN

“They’re gonna do closeouts from the block to the wing,” Kelly said as we walked quickly.  “Shooter on the wing.  You rebound and pass hard to the player on the block.  They’ll do the rest.”

I tried to process that through my head, reverting back to my high school days, trying to remember the vocabulary and what it all should look like.  It didn’t come as fast as I would’ve liked.

“Okay,” Kelly said at mid-court.  “This is Coach Tyler.  He’s got the guards at the far end.  I’ve got the bigs.  Five minutes of closeouts to the wing.  Shooter catches on the fly, from the ready.  Defender chops her steps hard all the way out.  Defense to offense, offense rotates down.  Go.”

The group of girls split on the run and hustled to opposite ends of the court.  Kelly went to one end, so I jogged to the other. 

There were six girls with me.  They immediately formed two lines, one at the wing on the right and one at the baseline.  The first girl on the baseline jumped with the ball to the square block and fired at the first girl on the wing. 

The passer shuffled hard out to the wing, her hands up, calling “Ball! Ball!” the whole way, her screams echoing in the gym.  The shooter caught the ball, set and released her shot just as the passer reached her, pivoted into her and stuck her butt into the shooter’s thighs.

The ball bounced high off the rim and to the far side of the court.

The shooter looked at me, her mouth twisted into annoyance.  “Uh, aren’t you rebounding?”

Shit.

I scrambled to the corner, grabbed the ball and fired it back out to the new shooter.  She giggled, shook her head like I’d thrown her an apple instead of a basketball and bounced a pass to the new girl on the block. 

Which is where I should’ve thrown the ball to begin with.

I felt my face flush as I jogged back to the basket, wondering why in the hell teenagers had such a powerful ability to make adults feel so foolish.

The next two ran the drill and the shooter nailed the shot.  I ripped the ball out of the net and fired it at the next girl popping to the block, a little harder than needed, but I was pissed at myself for screwing up.

If the girl noticed my use of my super-human male strength, she didn’t react, just caught the ball, pivoted and passed to the next shooter.

We went like that for two minutes.  The girls worked hard, yelling encouragement to one another, slapping high fives.  They were efficient and smooth.

The tallest girl, the one I’d now targeted as the best player on my end, yelled for them to switch sides and they sprinted to the other side of the key, dashing around me, maintaining their lines.  I shifted to the other side of the basket.

The first shooter, who I’d identified as the weakest player in the group, caught her pass with her feet in the wrong position, putting her off balance.  She hoisted up an ugly looking shot and stumbled backward as her defender boxed her out.

I grabbed the ball as it careened off the rim, started to pass it to the next girl, then stopped. 

“Wait,” I said, not sure why I was talking.  “Girl that just shot.  What’s your name?”

She tugged at her shorts.  “Uh, Kristin.”

“Kristin.  Your feet are all screwed up.”

Several of the girls in line snickered and Kristin’s cheeks reddened.  I couldn’t tell if it was my use of the word “screwed” or because I had embarrassed the girl. 

Nice work, Tyler.

“What I mean is this,” I said, walking to where she’d shot.  “You’re catching the ball with your feet in the wrong spots.  They need to be reversed.”  I looked at her.  “You’re right-handed, correct?”

Kristin looked at several of her teammates, then back at me and nodded. 

“Then your left foot is your drive foot, which means it should be back,” I said, showing her what I meant.  “Your left foot was out front and it puts you off balance.  Left foot back, right foot just in front of it, catch and shoot.”  I spun the ball back into my hands, exaggerated my feet hitting the floor the way I wanted hers to look and arched a jumper.  It dropped softly through the net.

Several whispers went through the two lines.  The jumper impressed.  I had their attention.

“Do it again,” I said, backpedaling to my spot under the rim.  “Left foot back, right foot out front.”  I bounced the ball to the girl on the block.  “Go.”

The passer snapped the ball to Kristin.  She caught it like I’d shown her, got the shot off and watched it drop through the rim.

“There you go,” I said.

She nodded quickly, a brief hint of a smile shadowing across her face as she cut down to the defender line.

My heart pounded hard against the inside of my chest, part anxiety and part pride in showing her something and being right about it.  I didn’t know what Chuck’s reasons were for coaching high school basketball, but the little high I’d just experienced–teaching someone to do something and then watching them execute it successfully–made me want to stick around awhile longer.

SIXTEEN

The practice lasted another hour.  Kelly ran them through a series of drills, exhorting them to continue working.  I played a dummy defender in one drill and rebounded again in another. 

They were serious, intense, tight as a group.  I didn’t see any divisions.  They were supportive of one another, critical when it was called for and there was no bitching about any of it.  They moved precisely, found the spots they were supposed to and more often than not, did what they were needed to do and did it well.

I thought back to my high school days and couldn’t recall a single day where I went after it with the same intensity these girls did.  I thought at the time that I was lucky, that I was pretty good without having to practice too much at it.  Give me the ball and let me go.  If some coach had stopped me mid-drill and corrected me, like I had done with Kristin, I probably would’ve smirked with the arrogance of a teenage boy and continued doing it my way, rather than the right way.

These girls, the way they listened to their coach, the way they sprinted their butts off, were only interested in doing it the right way.

After running them through a short five-on-five scrimmage, Kelly Rundles clapped her hands and brought the team to center court.  The girls, breathing hard, sweat pouring down their red faces, watched her like she was going to give them the answers to every important question in life.

Kelly offered them some criticism of what she’d seen, then backed it up with a little bit of praise.  The girls nodded at both.

Then she looked at me.  “And let’s thank Coach Tyler for filling in today.  Maybe we can get him back here again soon.”

The girls clapped and whooped and I felt like I’d just won an ESPY.  I nodded, held up a hand in thanks and tried–unsuccessfully, I’m sure–to look cool about it all.

Kelly held her hands up high and the girls collapsed to her like buzzards to a carcass.  The girl I’d pegged as the best in my group, who I’d learned was named Meg, turned and looked at me.  “Get in here, coach.”

I took a couple of steps forward and awkwardly put my hand in with the rest of theirs.

From the middle of the pack, Meg said “Play hard on three.  One, two, three.”

The gym walls echoed with the entire team’s scream of “Play Hard!” My voice chimed in loudly with theirs.

The girls scattered toward the outside hallway and Kelly came over to me.

“You’ve coached before?” she asked.

“I haven’t.”

“Really?  Well, you did a nice job.  Getting on Kristin about her feet was sharp.”

I was surprised she’d noticed from the far end of the gym, but realized she didn’t seem like the type to miss much of anything.  “Thanks.  It was fun.  They’re a good group.”

Kelly nodded.  “They are.  And I was serious about getting you to come back.  You’re welcome anytime.  I always have such a hard time finding coaches to work with the guards.”

“If you’ve got time to talk about Chuck, I’ll come back here tomorrow,” I said.

“I was going to talk to you anyway,” she said, backpedaling slowly.  “But I’ll take that offer.  Meet you outside in ten minutes.”

I walked outside, letting the cool, ocean-tinged breeze wash away the warm gymnasium air that clung to me.  A group of players huddled together, laughing and talking.  They stopped as soon as they saw me

Meg stepped outside the small circle.  “Are you coming back tomorrow?”

She was maybe five-ten, most of it arms and legs.  Her long blonde hair was pulled back in a ponytail that had swayed wildly from side to side when she’d run up and down the court.  She had a gray sweatshirt on over her practice jersey, red mesh shorts and rubber sandals on her feet.  She was confident, not cocky.  She knew she could play but didn’t wave it in the other girls faces.