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      This is a work of fiction. Any references to real personalities or college programs are made only for dramatic effect, and are not intended to be construed as actual fact.

      QUICKS: D-Bow’s High School Hoops. Copyright © 2016 by Kevin Waltman. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written consent from the publisher, except for brief quotations for reviews. For further information, write Cinco Puntos Press, 701 Texas Avenue, El Paso, TX 79901 or call 1-915-838-1625.

      FIRST EDITION

      10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

      Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

      Names: Waltman, Kevin, author.

      Title: Quicks / by Kevin Waltman.

      Description: First edition. | El Paso, TX: Cinco Puntos Press, [2016] |

      Series: D-Bow’s high school hoops; book 4 | Summary: “Marion High, an inner-city school in Indianapolis, has never had a state championship. It’s D-Bow’s senior year, his A-Game is ready, big-time colleges are taking notice, and he’s dreaming big. What’s rattling D-Bow is the cocky white guy, Daryl. He wants D-Bow’s job at point. It’s time for D-Bow to man up. He needs to be the team leader, and he needs to bring that A-Game. —Provided by publisher.

      Identifiers: LCCN 2016014621 | ISBN 978-1-941026-63-2 (e-book)

      Subjects: | CYAC: Basketball—Fiction. | High schools—Fiction. | Schools—Fiction. | African Americans--Fiction. | BISAC: JUVENILE FICTION / Sports & Recreation / Basketball. | JUVENILE FICTION / Boys & Men. | JUVENILE FICTION / People & Places / United States / African American. | JUVENILE FICTION / Social Issues / General (see also headings under Family).

      Classification: LCC PZ7.W1728 Qu 2016 | DDC [Fic]—dc23

      LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016014621

      Book and cover design by Anne M. Giangiulio

       For Gram and Mah and Dack

      CONTENTS

PART I

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

       CHAPTER 10

       CHAPTER 11

      PART II

       CHAPTER 12

       CHAPTER 13

       CHAPTER 14

       CHAPTER 15

       CHAPTER 16

       CHAPTER 17

       CHAPTER 18

       CHAPTER 19

      PART III

       CHAPTER 20

       CHAPTER 21

       CHAPTER 22

       CHAPTER 23

       CHAPTER 24

       CHAPTER 25

       CHAPTER 26

       CHAPTER 27

      OVERTIME

      ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

       PART I

       1.

      On these blocks, it’s different. The numbers in official box scores? Sure, those matter. Those let you leap to college. To the L. But they don’t count the same way as skills on the blacktop. That’s the real proving ground.

      My Uncle Kid for example. Never scored a D-I deuce. Flamed out in Juco. And now he’s middle-aged and crashing at our house because he doesn’t have the scratch for his own place. But he can still get out there on that Fall Creek court and bring it. So he can strut all summer because he can run off ballers half his age.

      It’s early August, the threat of school staring us in the face. And it’s brutal hot. So after a few games, the crowd thins. Now it’s just a three-on-three battle on the other end, while Kid feeds me on this one. My boy Fuller—locked in at the three spot for Marion East this fall—watches us while he unlaces his kicks and takes big swigs from a Gatorade.

      I catch baseline, rise in a smooth motion. Bucket. Then to the wing behind the stripe. Wet again.

      “I’m telling you, D,” Uncle Kid says, “don’t sweat this Gibson guy. I’ve seen him run. Nothing special.”

      “He’s got a little burst,” Fuller chimes from the sideline.

      I catch the rock at the top of the key, then stop mid-stroke. I stare at Fuller. “What you trying to say?”

      He holds his hands up apologetically. “Nothing, man. He’s got quicks. But no real J to respect. Too small to finish at the rim. Just quicks.”

      I nod at Fuller to let him know it’s cool. Then I go back to my work. Next shot’s back rim, the rebound soaring so high that the rock arcs across the sun in the distance. Kid chases.

      Burst. Quicks. That’s the last thing I need to hear. I’m still lugging around this brace on my knee. Still feeling that old tightness after my step-up exercises. Still have to wait until the court clears so I can come work on my J—the only hoops I can have until I get clearance. And I’ve still got the scar from the surgery—a reminder that one wrong step can wipe out a season, a career.

      I spent the summer entertaining home visits from coaches and setting up official visits to high majors. I’ve got the stars next to my name. Got the scholly offers. Got the stats from three seasons of tearing it up at Marion East. But quicks is the one thing I’m still missing.

      Fuller polishes off the last of his Gatorade. He arcs the empty at a trash can fifteen feet away. True. He smiles. Doesn’t matter if it’s trash in the garbage or leather through the nylon—finding bottom is always good. “Later, D-Bow,” he tells me, then starts hoofing it toward home. I finish my workout with Uncle Kid in silence, then we hit it, too.

      For a while the only sound is the traffic. It’s thick on Fall Creek, then dwindles to a couple creeping cars once we’re into the neighborhood. A thumping bass here. A squealing tire there.

      “You can’t seriously be sweating Darryl Gibson,” Kid finally says.

      I shrug. “Nah. You kidding? Everyone always hypes the new kid just because. No worries.”

      Kid bobs his head in agreement. We’re a block from Patton now. My knee’s just the littlest bit tight after the workout. “That’s right,” Kid says. “Gibson’s flavor of the day. But I mean, he had two years to prove himself down in Bloomington, and he barely made a dent in the stat sheet.”

      We keep talking as we walk. We spill out all the reasons not to worry. I’ve still got a couple months to get right. No way Coach Bolden would hand over my starting spot now, not after all we’ve been through.

      “And let’s face it,” Kid says as we open the door. “Ain’t no white boy gonna transfer to Marion East and steal minutes from you.”

      He gives me a playful punch on the

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