LITMIR.BIZ

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      He checks it and I get into him. I know where he wants to go, so every cut he makes is met with a little bump from me. Nothing that catches the coaches’ attention, but enough to bounce him off course. After a few passes, Devin gets impatient and flings up a weak fadeaway that skips off the iron and into Tyler Stanford’s hands. He outlets to me up at the hash and I push it into the front-court. Starks is back quickly, and if there’s one thing I’ve learned against him it’s that you shouldn’t underestimate how crafty he is on the defensive end. He’ll make it seem like you’ve got a good look at the rim, only to cut you off or poke the ball away. So I ease up on the throttle and settle us into our offense. It’s clear pretty fast, though, that nobody else with the 2s has a prayer of making something happen, so when I swing back to the top of the key I catch a pass on the move and lower my shoulder, get myself to the elbow and rise up over Nick’s outstretched hand. Bucket.

      When they inbound it, I jump right on Starks. It’s hard to turn him over, but the more I get into him the more frustrated he’ll get. Sure enough, as he crosses mid-court, I flick at the ball and get a fingernail on it—not enough to steal it, but it slows him down again. Starks flashes a look at Coach Murphy, all but begging for a foul, but when Murphy just stares back, Starks gives the ball up and barks at me: “Don’t reach, man. That’s a foul.”

      “Less talk, more play,” I say. That comment receives a subtle elbow from Starks as he tries to free himself on the wing. Sure enough, Royce feeds him the ball and Starks darts back baseline, but when he floats up his little runner, I get part of it. “Piece!” I yell, and Stanford yanks down another board and we’re off.

      At the other end I drive and kick to the wing. No shot. I pop back out to the perimeter for the rock and feed Stanford low, but he just gets off balance, so I swing baseline and get it again. Reverse it back to the top. Wait a beat and then cut across the lane. Starks is trailing me, so I stop in the paint and just open up. It takes the three-man a second to realize it—he’s not used to a point guard who can post up near the basket—but he finally gets me the ball and Starks is still buried behind me. He tries to reach, but I keep the ball high and rise for an easy turnaround, only to see Moose flashing over. I know I can still score, even with Moose running at me. But I drop to it to Stanford who’s all alone for a layup.

      “Good look, Derrick!” Coach Bolden shouts. Then he jumps on the first team. “You guys are getting it taken to you by the second team! How are you gonna handle Arlington? How you gonna handle Cathedral? How you gonna handle Lawrence North?”

      “Come on!” Starks yells at his teammates, trying to rally them.

      I don’t let up. As soon as he gets the in-bounds pass I’m on him again. I flick my hand in again near mid-court, and he seethes at me: “Don’t reach!”

      So next chance I get, I reach again. This time I pick him clean. And here’s the thing: Nobody picks Nick Starks. So as I scoop the rock and push down the floor, I can hear a few people behind me—Ooooh.

      Two dribbles. I’m in the paint. I rise. Then, just as I’m about to finish, my feet go out from under me. For a second I’m weightless in mid-air, my back parallel with the floor. Then down. Hard.

      My shoulder gets the brunt of the fall, but my body twists, pushing weight up through my back and into my neck. Multiple whistles blow. As I lie on the floor I can hear the rumble of everyone’s feet as they sprint down to my spot.

      I leap to my feet and step to Starks: “What the hell was that?” I yell. “You trying to get someone killed?”

      “It’s a clean play! I was going for the ball.” Even as he protests, though, he’s backing up, looking out of the corner of his eyes for his boys Royce and Devin, who hustle over to get between us.

      “It was a dirty play and you know it,” I yell, but as I step forward, two things happen. First, Coach Bolden’s hand grabs my jersey. You wouldn’t think to look at the old man, but when he gets a hold of you, you’re going nowhere. Second, I get dizzy. My legs wobble and I just have to stand there for a second trying to gather myself.

      I worry that maybe something’s really wrong, but my hesitation gives Starks confidence. He steps my way. “You want to accuse me of playing dirty? You wanna go, we can go!”

      “That’s enough!” Bolden screams. The gym goes quiet, except I still feel a little buzzing in my neck and head. “You’re supposed to be getting ready for Arlington. For the goddamn basketball season. Instead you’re trying to fight each other like a bunch of ten-year-olds.”

      With that, the buzzing and numbness in my neck turns to heat. I can’t believe Bolden’s jumping my case too, when it was Starks who undercut me. I know to bite my tongue, but all it does is make me want even more to put Starks on his ass.

      “I ought to put both of you on the damn bench,” Bolden yells.

      I see Coach Murphy’s eyes widen a little when he hears that. I guess Bolden’s enough of a hard-ass to actually do something that crazy, so Murphy pipes up. “Okay, okay,” he says, “we got that out of our system. Now let’s put that energy in the right direction and have a good rest of practice.”

      Coach Bolden looks at Murphy. He doesn’t like getting interrupted, even by another coach. But I guess Bolden decides not to make a bad day worse, so he sends us all off to shoot free throws and calm down.

      For the remainder of practice, I kept my cool. The coaches don’t match me back up against Starks all day, and there are no more fireworks.

      In the locker room, with Bolden and Murphy keeping an eye on us, Starks came over and gave me a little fist bump.

      “We cool?” he asked.

      “Sure,” I said. But we’re not cool. Both of us know it.

      During practice, it didn’t take long for my numbness to fade. I most definitely didn’t want to let the coaches think I was hurt the day before our first game, but now that practice is over I play it up. I keep stretching my neck and rubbing it, even ask our trainer—some pint-sized but solid guy named Darius—to get me a bag of ice.

      So out of the gym I stroll, ice pack held to my neck even in 30 degree weather. The gym doors open up onto Fairfield, right where it meets Central, and the traffic is creeping in the early evening, a few flurries sparkling in the lights. I know my Mom’s got dinner waiting for me, but I like nights like this. Cold and crisp, all the city lights coming on as the sky gets dark, so I zip my coat up, pull off that ice pack, and decide to head up to 38th and College for a couple cheeseburgers before heading home.

      I text Wes and tell him to meet me there when I see Jasmine Winters. She’s leaning against a car in the corner of the gym lot, waiting on Nick, I guess. As always, she looks fine. She’s got on this big red coat that kind of stands out, this one flash of lively color in the black and gray of the city. She’s got her hands shoved in her pockets and she’s shivering, but she must sense me looking at her because she looks up and smiles, gives a quick wave.

      I head on up Central, trying to be cool, but I wave back and call Hey to her.

      “What happened?” she asks. I don’t know what she means, and she points to the doors. “I saw you had ice on when you came out.”

      “Nothing,” I say. “I got undercut and landed on my neck, but I’m straight.”

      She takes a couple strides toward me. “Let me see,” she says, sounding seriously concerned.

      I should know better. I really should. But here’s Jasmine taking an interest in me, so I walk into the parking lot, and when I get close I have to bend down a little and tilt my head so she can take a look. Her fingers are cold as little icicles against my skin, but I can feel her breath warm against my neck. I peek over at her, see the smooth caramel of her skin, see her simple silver necklace glimmering in the night. “I don’t see any swelling,” she says.

      I

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