LITMIR.BIZ

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      Everyone watches the smooth arc of the shot, following the orange until it finds home. But just as it rips through the net, I hear a pained yelp from the corner. There, in a heap, is Devin. He’s clutching his ankle with both hands and writhing in pain.

      Reynolds is standing over him with his hand still raised from challenging the shot, the way a big man will leave his hands up to show he didn’t do anything wrong after getting whistled for a foul. Finally, he lowers his hand and extends it to Devin, a late offering to help him up. That’s like giving a Band-aid to a man with a gunshot wound though—Devin’s not getting up anytime soon. He cries out a few more times, just animal sounds that aren’t even words, while Murphy and Bolden rush over to him.

      Bolden is the world’s biggest hard-ass, but let one of his boys get banged up and he’s as protective as anyone. He kneels next to Devin and puts his hand on his forehead, like some nurse comforting a patient. He talks to him quietly so nobody else can hear, and Devin starts to calm down. “Ice,” Bolden says, and our manager Darius sprints off the floor to get some.

      Devin finally lets go of his ankle. Bolden and Murphy help him up. He keeps that right foot a few inches off the floor though, while the coaches help him hop toward the locker room, one of them under each shoulder like they’re carrying a wounded soldier.

      “What happened?” Stanford finally asks. He’s got that scowl working hard, one eyebrow pinched down like he’s taking sight behind a gun.

      Devin speaks through gritted teeth. “Came down on Reynolds’ foot,” he says. “Rolled my ankle.”

      “Shit, Reynolds,” Stanford snaps. “You’ve been back an hour and you’ve already hurt a starter.” If his comment hurts Reynolds, there’s no telling because he’s still standing where it all happened, eyes down while he slowly shakes his head.

      “We don’t need that, Stanford!” This is Murphy, shouting over his shoulder while he’s still helping Devin to the locker room. “It could have happened to anyone.” They all pause, letting Devin stand on his one foot for a second while Bolden slips the whistle from around his neck and hands it to Murphy. Then Bolden turns back to Devin, giving Murphy the nod to take over practice for a while. Murphy claps his hands and points to me. “Come on, Derrick. Get ‘em going. Next man up for Devin.”

      I check the ball and start the offense, but we’re all just going through the motions. Everyone is wondering the same thing—how bad is Devin’s injury? I try to keep the worst scenarios—a ruptured Achilles, a broken ankle—out of my mind. But even as I drive the lane and dish to Moose, my thoughts are with Devin. I can see it playing out. The trip to the hospital. The MRI. The long wait for results. The bad news. The lost season.

      Damn. If we had trouble scoring with Devin, our possessions are going to be as jammed up as rush hour traffic.

      Two days and Bowman Academy comes calling. Usually, I can’t wait. But right now, this season is starting to feel cursed.

      5 – GREEN

      4 – STANFORD

      3 – JONES

      2 – FULLER

      1 – BOWEN

      Seeing my name written at the point guard spot fills me with pride. I knew it was coming. Everyone knew it. I was this team’s starting point guard the moment last season ended. But it’s still good to see.

      Problem is, I was counting on Devin Varney’s name being up there too. Now I’ve got Fuller in the backcourt and Jones at small forward. That’s a tough way to run.

      I lace up my AdiZeros and glance over at Devin. High ankle sprain. Grade two. That was the word after the MRI. The doctor said three weeks before Devin’s back at full speed. That, we could live with. He’d miss five games and be back in time for Franklin. The Pike game at worst. But everyone’s seen the same kind of injury derail NBA seasons. We’ve watched guys miss a month just to come back too early, doomed for lousy play and a quick aggravation of the injury.

      Devin looks back my way. He’s sitting in his street clothes at his locker, right foot in an air cast and elevated on a folding chair. “You got this, D,” he says. “I’ll be back before you know it, but you can run these first few in your sleep.”

      “You got that straight,” I say. I give him a fist bump. Before you know it, it’s time to hit the floor.

      The gym’s packed. When that band hits full volume as our kicks hit the hardwood, my heart’s about to burst out of my chest. Right now I don’t care if the damn Spurs walk through that door, I’m ready to go. I get myself into a solid lather and try to get the other guys amped.

      As I go through the layup line, I keep hearing people calling my name like I’m a star on stage. It’s been a long time since someone with my potential has come up here. Everyone wants to be able to say they knew me way back when. I know it’ll get crazier next year—recruiters, boosters, money men. But it’s nice to get recognition. I hear a particularly high-pitched shout—Hey, Derrick!—and I turn to see Daniella Cole staring at me. She’s not bad looking, but she spreads it around and everyone knows it. I nod to her, but I don’t make any kind of big deal. Last thing I need is Jasmine thinking I’m trying to hook up with Daniella.

      A deeper scan of the crowd shows that my people aren’t in the house yet, which is strange for them. They usually like to set up camp early so they get prime seats. I do catch a glimpse of Jasmine—she still hits the games, no matter how much she badmouths sports. She’s next to Iesha. They’re too busy laughing at something to see me. At least I get a nod from Wes in the band.

      “Let’s just stay calm and focused,” Bolden says in our last huddle before the tip. “Don’t get all crazed ‘cause it’s the first game. Patient offense, tenacious defense!” Then we all put our hands in together. Bolden smacks that top fist on the stack and we shout, “Team!”

      Game time.

      Now, I trust Coach Bolden. So I’m all for running offense and following orders. Learned that the hard way last year. But when that ball goes up and Moose taps it to me, I’ve got other plans. Bowman Academy can play, I know, but they’re not getting guys like me every night out at 2A, so I take a couple rhythm dribbles into the frontcourt, nod toward Fuller to start into the offense—and then just rip it to the rim. I blow by my man and get to the rack before their bigs can even catch their breath. I have to angle around one of them, so I can’t throw it down, but it’s a quick deuce—not to mention a little wake-up call to Bowman that they’re in for the real deal tonight.

      My early bucket gets the Bowman players back on their heels a little bit. When they bring the ball up, their guards look a little shell-shocked. They’ve got a nice big, Alex Danks, who’ll wrestle it out with Moose all night. But on the first trip, their perimeter guys seem almost scared to make a post entry. They reverse and reverse, then settle for a tough pull-up from the wing. It bangs back rim and falls to Stanford. He pivots and outlets to me at the hash, and I push—get right on top of their small point guard and get him off-balance. He has to reach late, and I just miss a chance at a hoop-and-harm.

      The crowd’s already into it, like sharks sensing blood in the water. I square up the first and knock it down, get a round of fives from my teammates, then set my toe on the stripe again. Ref bounces me the orange, and I go through my routine. Take another deep breath, let fly, and bury the second—4-0, and we’ve barely broken a sweat.

      When they inbound, I jump into their point. Coach didn’t call for a press, and I’m not really trying to turn him over, but I want him to know we’re gonna defend every inch of hardwood. Maybe get in his head a little. It works. He gives it up to their two-guard. I wave for Fuller to come pick him up. He comes in too hot, and the two rips past him, but all that does is get him sped up past his comfort zone. He flies into the frontcourt, gets off balance, and then tries to throw cross-court. There’s no zip on it and Jones snags it easily.

      This time they get back, so no easy ones for us. But now it’s time to follow Coach’s instructions. We work it through

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