LITMIR.BIZ

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Florida. And then there’s the Clemson trip—their game against Duke, the team I hate most. It lands right when we have an open Saturday. I’m all kinds of on it.

      That leaves Marquette and Michigan, but I hold off for now. I’m not feeling those schools quite as much as the others. So we’ll wait and see about them.

      When we’ve got it all settled, all that’s left to do is for me to contact the schools with the dates. Then they’ll take care of the rest. It’s only one step to making the ultimate decision, but I lean back from the table feeling better about things.

      “You good with this, D?” Murphy asks.

      “Sure,” I say. I can’t give Murphy much more than that. He’s cool with it all, not pushing me one way or another. But the truth is I still miss Coach Bolden in these conversations. We argued plenty, but I trusted the old man. I’m not quite there yet with Murphy. Especially not after him talking up Gibson the other night. “We’ll see how it goes,” I add.

      Murphy nods, but I can tell something doesn’t quite sit right with him. “That’s all?” he asks.

      “For now I guess,” I say. Then I turn to Jayson and tell him we should go chill in our room. I don’t really have anything in mind, but I don’t want to keep on with Murphy.

      But when Jayson and I get ready to jet, I see Murphy turn to Uncle Kid instead. “You got a second?” he asks. Uncle Kid, as surprised as anyone, snaps his head up from a Michigan mailer he’d been eyeing. Murphy just motions for Kid to follow him outside.

      This I’ve got to see. So instead of heading down the hall with Jayson, I double back and peek out the front window. Kid and Murphy stand by Murphy’s car and chat, standing there as easy as if they were discussing the weather or something. Then it hits me—maybe they’re playing an angle. After all, Murphy did get a big offer last year. And when I was a freshman, Uncle Kid made a play for a job to get me to transfer to another school. Maybe now, with Coach Bolden out of the way, they think they can chase a payday. If they think that, though, they’re in for a serious wake-up call from my parents—and me too, for that matter.

      “What you think that’s about?” It’s Jayson, who’s sidled up next to me.

      “Who knows,” I say. “But I know Uncle Kid, so it’s probably nothing good.”

      We check over our shoulders. Mom and Dad are still at the table, having their own conversation about schools. I’m kind of shocked they’re not all up in Kid and Murphy’s business. Maybe they’re too obsessed over school rankings to notice.

      “Let’s hit it,” Jayson says.

      “Sure,” I agree. There’s nothing I can do about what’s happening out there now. When we head down the hall, I peep at my phone. I’d had it on silent, but it’s filled up with texts. Some from schools. One from Wes telling me to throw some green his way if I get offered some cash on my visits—a joke, I know, but a bad one. Two from Lia asking me to come over when I’m done talking schools. And one from Jasmine, still wondering when we’re going to catch up.

       8.

      Against Richmond it’s the same deal. My J is smooth as silk, but I can’t get to the rim like I used to. All pull-ups in the lane. Then Gibson comes in and just rips past Richmond’s guards like they’re standing in sand.

      If it weren’t for the fact that Richmond’s in a down year, we’d be in real trouble. Jones has foul problems again. Xavier can’t remember his defensive assignment to save his life. And Reynolds and Fuller are forcing—taking bad shots, turning the ball over, gambling on the defensive end. It all means this—with two minutes to go, we’re nursing a two-point lead. Richmond ball.

      They’ve got a solid two guard, Randall Harrison. He’s basically kept them in it, dropping 20 so far. Now, their coach barks out some orders to them from the sidelines. As a group, the players all look at him and nod. There’s no secret though—everyone in this gym knows the rock’s going Harrison’s way. I’ve got their point out top, but while he motions to his teammates, I sneak a peek behind me. They’ve got Harrison flattened out on the right baseline. Their bigs are on opposite blocks. Again, no secret—Harrison’s gonna come flying off those bigs looking for the ball. Easy enough to see, but a lot harder to check. But that’s the job for Reynolds.

      What I can do is pressure the ball enough to make a pass to Harrison harder. So I get up in their point’s grill. He takes a step back toward mid-court and I jump with him. Flick for the ball once. Nothing there—just a move to keep the pressure on. For a moment, their guard looks uncomfortable. He switches the rock to his left and backs up again. I stay into him. His eyes flash a little, and I know that behind me the play is unfolding. He takes a step left, then goes behind his back to the right. It’s a slow move and I jump to cut him off. I beat him to the spot, but I don’t have the quicks to check his response—a little cross-over back to his left. He gets past me, giving him a free look at the play. He finds Harrison right in rhythm on the opposite baseline. There’s no hesitation from Harrison. He grips and rips, burying a trey to put Richmond up one.

      Their crowd gets loud. I see some shoulders slump on my teammates—doubt creeping in. I clap for the ball and Reynolds inbounds it to me. As I bring it up, the Richmond crowd starts stomping and clapping in rhythm. They can taste it. I take a glance to Murphy to see if he wants a special play, but he’s got nothing. He looks a little frozen by the situation, really.

      Well, if the coach doesn’t know what to do, I do. Get to the rack.

      I don’t even bother setting my man up, I just power into the lane with my right. When their bigs see that I’m not waiting around to run offense, they jump to me. I take one last power dribble, plant, and rise up on their center. He doesn’t have time to gather his legs, so he’s got to reach a little.

      Turns out that reach is enough to check me. He meets me a foot from the rim and flat-out caps me. The rock ricochets off my elbow, then glances off his knee before rolling out of bounds. Their crowd howls. It’s still our ball, but that was an emphatic rejection. Their big just hovers beside me, scowling. He doesn’t even need to talk trash. That stare says it all. He owns me.

      A year ago I would have flushed that thing, no problem. But now I’m going to have to get used to my limitations.

      I’m about to signal the out-of-bounds play when the buzzer sounds. Gibson saunters between the lines. Reynolds takes a couple steps toward the sideline, thinking that we’re going with me and Gibson again for the stretch run. But Gibson waves him back. Then he points at me.

      “I got it from here,” he says.

      It makes me want to scream—louder than all these Richmond fans combined. Lord, I’m a senior! I’ve taken us to the state finals! And Murphy’s taking me out in crunch time? I know I’ve hit a rough patch, but this is a betrayal. You just don’t do a player this way. I don’t even look at Murphy as I walk past.

      “Keep your head in it,” he says. “Just catch your breath and I’ll get you right back in.”

      Keep your head in it. It doesn’t matter what’s going on in my head—I can’t help the team win with my ass on the bench. And the truth is my head is going to some bad places anyway. The worst thought a player can think flashes through—if Murphy’s going to play me like that then I don’t care if we win or lose.

      We won. Not because of Gibson’s heroics. Certainly not mine either. Mostly because of Richmond being a mediocre team. They lost track of Fuller on the in-bounds—bucket, with a foul to boot. Then they did the unthinkable—when Reynolds offered a little false pressure on the in-bounds, their big man stepped across the line. Turnover. Then they just kept on fouling us.

      I got back in there, sunk some freebies, but it didn’t seem as sweet as wins normally do. Even on the bus ride home, there was some chatter but not the hype atmosphere you’d think. Hell, we’re 2-0 with both wins coming on the road, and we’re

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