fun in easy?” Then we sit there, the night silent except for her running engine. “Besides,” she says, “I’ve got to keep you on your toes about it with the season coming.” Then she leans over and kisses me. It’s a brush of a kiss, so brief it seems almost accidental, but even in that split second there’s a jolt. “Go on,” she says, motioning toward my door. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Then, in a blink of an eye, I’m on the sidewalk watching her go. It makes me feel played, all of it—the teasing, the relenting, the tempting little send-off—as played as if I’m on the court trying to guard some jitterbug point, the kind who’s all zig and zag, faking and faking until you’re turned in circles and jumping at phantoms.
Soon. That’s all I can think. Soon with Jasmine.
And soon, a season to dig into. A slate of games. A shot at Hamilton Academy and Vasco Lorbner, the team and the player that bumped us last year. If I close my eyes I can still see his shot that sent us home. And I can see him from the AAU circuit, where he showed out—not just the best big in Indiana, but in the whole country. He seemed even cockier this summer, telling me every time we crossed paths that he was looking forward to beating us again come winter. The player, his legend, his ego, growing and growing into some giant I’ve got to knock down.
Jasmine’s taillights flash as she stops again at the corner. Then she’s gone.
I’m a coiled spring.
2.
We hit those boards in our practice unis, and I feel the jump in my legs. Been too long. I see Moose getting his hammies loose at mid-court, then Devin takes a break from knocking down Js to come over to me. It’s his senior year. If we had a little static last year, it’s gone for real now. We know that together we can form one of the top backcourts in Indiana.
“You ready for this, Bowen?” he asks.
“Born ready,” I say.
AAU in the summer just isn’t the same. I know that it matters, that scouts get all over it because it’s the best against the best. But aside from bumping into Vasco and hearing him talk trash—something I seem to mind in everyone but him—it felt like I was just going through the motions. Real basketball is here. In the gym. With my boys.
Stanford busts out of the locker room at a near sprint, then joins Moose in his stretches. With those two, Coach Bolden’s dream has come true—Moose shed a good fifteen pounds over the summer. It’s like every ounce of it turned into muscle on Stanford’s frame. Stanford’s shaved his head for the dawn of the season. It makes him look a little younger somehow, like it shows off how lanky he is, but there’s a little more rip in those arms this time around.
I nod toward Moose. “It’s here,” I say. All those blazing July days we ran at the Fall Creek court, we kept telling each other we were sweating to be stronger for November.
Finally, the doors to the locker room swing open and Bolden comes striding out, looking like a man who means business. Murphy’s on his heels. When he hits the court, he jogs to the center, clapping his hands. “Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go!” he shouts. The freshmen straggle in behind him, one of them without his kicks even laced yet.
I try not to laugh, but I steal another peek at Moose. He just grins and shakes his head—freshmen. Always the same. One of them, a wire named Josh Reynolds who’s got a chance at finding some perimeter minutes, sidles up next to me. Maybe he thinks standing next to me will make him look good by association or something. He’s got this naïve smile that makes him look even younger than he is. He’s all eagerness, a little sheen of sweat on his face. I just give him a quick elbow. “Freshmen on the end, Reynolds,” I say. His face sags into a mope and he looks like a ten-year-old who lost his lunch money, never mind he’s 6'1".
No time for pity. “Down and back!” Bolden shouts, and he blows that whistle like an angry sergeant. Boom! We’re off. Already loose, I go full tilt and get out in front. Behind me, I hear the thunder of a dozen pairs of shoes pounding hardwood. I feel this rush in my chest. That sound means I’m back with the team. It means the season’s in swing again. It means in a couple weeks Bolden will have us worked into a frenzy, ready to tear apart Bowman Academy when they step between these lines.
We get back to the baseline and Bolden doesn’t even pause. “Down and back!” he shouts again. Then again. And again. And again. He follows this up with a few sets of suicides. I watch the eyes on the freshmen grow wide, like they’re trying to ask How long is this crazy man gonna run us? They’ve heard the stories about Bolden, but the reality of the man is bigger than the myth.
After the second suicide, Murphy walks over to Moose. He’s got a basketball in hand and bounces it to the big man. He nods to a side bucket. “Free throws?”
“Naw, Coach,” Moose says. He zips the ball back at Murphy, a little pepper on the pass to let him know he means it. “I didn’t bust ass all summer so I could ease off now.”
“Atta boy, Moose,” Bolden says. He loves it. It’s not like anyone’s going to confuse Moose with a long distance runner. He’s still built more like Glen Davis than Blake Griffin, and his chest is heaving with the effort. My man’s gassed. But when Bolden blows that whistle again, Moose is off, digging hard. Better than can be said for some of the freshmen who are dragging like they’ve ruptured an Achilles.
Bolden puts us through more suicides, then has us go down and back a few times in a defensive slide. By the time we’re into the third one of those, even my thighs are burning. I see Moose start to straighten up when he thinks the coaches aren’t looking. And, at last, a freshman bows out. As I turn at the baseline, I see him at mid-court. It’s Reynolds. He just raises up and puts his hands on his lower back. He takes a couple steps off to the side and doubles over. I see Bolden approach so quickly his whistle bounces off his chest as he walks.
We finish the drill leisurely, everyone easing off now that Bolden’s locked in on Reynolds. Coach works on him, daring him to quit, shouting to make an example of him. Reynolds has a lighter complexion, almost amber. It makes it easy to see the blush rising in his cheeks. He tries to make eye contact at first, but soon that head just sags, sags, sags, until his chin’s down on his chest. “You think this is bad?” Bolden shouts. “If you hang your head at this, how are you gonna react when things get tough in a game?” We’re all on the baseline now, catching our breath. Now Bolden just stares at him, trying to decide whether he’s made his point enough yet. It’s a brutal silence for a few seconds before Coach just says, “Go on,” like a father finally letting a kid go out to play even though his chores aren’t done. Reynolds trots back but doesn’t look at anyone, his head still down. I feel for him—something about the way he looks reminds me of my little brother Jayson—but I’m not here to hold some freshman’s hand every time Bolden gets mad.
“All right,” Coach barks. “Let’s see what we’ve got. Bigs down here with me. Perimeter guys stay there with Coach Murphy.”
First drill we do with Murphy is just a catch and shoot. We jab baseline and then flare to the wing for his pass. Devin goes first, since he’s a senior, and he drains his.
“One!” Murphy yells.
Then me—a splash from range with the form I worked on all summer.
“Nice motion, D,” Murphy says. “Two!”
Murphy keeps counting out how many we’ve made in a row. We make it up to six.
Then it’s Reynolds. Maybe his legs are
