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  In the locker room after the game none of the other guys said a word, but I knew what they were thinking. That I'd blown it, that I'd made a sophomore's play, an idiot's play, and had cost us the game, the league opener. I relived that last minute over and over. All the mistakes! Backing off Jefferson. Not passing to Carver. Not passing to Luke. Trying to do it all myself! Who did I think I was?

  The locker room emptied. Still I sat, unable to rouse myself. O'Leary left, not even saying goodbye. I remembered the final huddle, the way he'd looked at me and then looked at Fabroa. He'd given me my chance. Right away, in the opening game, he'd put the team in my hands. And I'd choked. I'd choked big time.

  Dad drove me home. "What were you thinking?" he said, slapping the steering wheel as he spoke. "Trying to back a guy like that down and shoot over him? No way, Nick. You've got to drive on someone like that, use your quickness against him. Drive to the hoop or stop and take the pull-up jumper, but not back him down. Use your head, or the coach is going to sit your butt down." He pulled up in front of the house. I got out, and he leaned across and rolled down the window. "You get only so many chances, Nick. You've got to play smart."

  Chapter 3

  At lunch on Friday Luke and I sat off by ourselves. "You made a couple of bad plays," he said. "It happens. You'll get another chance."

  "Yeah," I mumbled. "Next year."

  He laughed. "Come on. Fabroa can't play the whole game. You've got to get some minutes. Play your game tomorrow night against Eastlake and you'll be okay."

  In the locker room before practice it was as if I had some contagious disease. Even Luke left me alone. I dressed in the corner, then headed out, head down.

  But the court worked its magic. I stepped on the hardwood and it was like coming home. All the drills—passing, shooting, rebounding—were like old friends. Luke was right: there'd be another game, another chance.

  With an hour left in practice, O'Leary blew his whistle. My throat tightened. Scrimmage. Would he say something to me? Point out my mistakes to everybody? Or would he let it go?

  We gathered around him. He took out a red handkerchief and wiped the sweat from his forehead. "All right, listen up. I want to go over some changes for tomorrow's game." He looked at Brian Chang. "Brian, Luke Jackson is going to take your spot on the starting unit. But don't worry, you'll be the first guy off the bench."

  Chang flushed. "Sure, Coach. Whatever you say."

  "Good. Good attitude. The kind of attitude I like to see. The kind that wins games. Which brings me to my next point." O'Leary paused, and when he spoke there was anger in his voice. "We were too wild against Juanita, too helter-skelter. From now on, if the lay-in isn't there on the fast break, pull the ball out and run a play. No more playground stuff. Everybody got it?"

  1 got it all right. He might as well have pointed right at me. I was the playground guy, the point guard who didn't run set plays.

  "All right, then, let's walk through our plays. I want the first team on the court, and I want the rest of you along the wall watching. We're going to do it until we get it right."

  I found a spot by the drinking fountain and watched. Or pretended to watch. When it was the second team's turn to be on the court, I did everything O'Leary asked, but I did it the way a zombie might. "Get with it, Abbott!" O'Leary bellowed more than once. I couldn't free my mind from Juanita's gym; I kept reliving that final minute. If I'd stayed tight on Jefferson. If I'd passed the ball to Carver or Luke.

  The whistle finally blew. "All right, that's it for today," O'Leary shouted. "Shower up."

  I headed for the locker room.

  "Abbott," O'Leary called, "could I see you for a minute?"

  As I followed him into his office, my heart pounded. What now? A one-on-one chewing out?

  O'Leary closed the door behind us, then rubbed his freckled hands together. "I know this was a tough day for you, Nick."

  My throat was so tight I wasn't sure I could breathe.

  He waited, but when he saw I wasn't going to answer, he went on. "I won't pretend I liked the way you played last night. You forgot about your teammates, forgot about your coach, tried to do it all yourself. But I take the blame for putting you in that position. Point guard is the toughest job on the court. You weren't ready for it, not after a couple of weeks of practice, and I should have known that."

  "I'll do better next time," I managed to say. "I've thought about what I did, and I know I'll do better."

  "Good. That's what I wanted to hear. Be patient. Don't force things. Let the game come to you."

  A little flame of hope came to life inside me. "Coach, if you give me another chance, I won't screw up again. I promise."

  He smiled. "That's the spirit. It's a long season. You'll get your chance."

  I thought he was done. I started for the door, but before I could leave he called me back. "There's something else I want to talk to you about, Nick." The tone of his voice was strange, and so was the expression on his face. He cleared his throat. I waited. "Teammates help each other out, both on and off the court. That's true, don't you think?"

  "Sure, Coach," I answered.

  He drummed his fingertips on his desk. "So, that brings us to Trent Dawson."

  "Trent Dawson?" I stammered.

  "You live across the street from him, don't you?"

  "Yeah, but I don't see him much. He keeps to himself."

  O'Leary nodded. "What I'm going to tell you now is confidential. I can trust you, can't I?"

  "Sure, Coach. You don't have to worry about me."

  "Okay, then. I talked with the cop handling Trent's case. They've charged that brother of his with eight counts of animal cruelty." O'Leary scowled. "Killing little baby ducks and geese, for God's sake. They should lock the S.O.B. up and throw away the key, but they won't, of course. I had him in gym class two years ago and..." He stopped midsentence, waving his hand above his head. "Listen to me, I'm rambling on like a crazy man. The important thing is that Trent had nothing to do with it. He's been released from the juvenile detention center. He's home now, or at least he should be. That's where you come in. I want you to check on him."

  I flushed. "I'm glad he's not in any trouble, but Trent and I aren't exactly friends. In fact, I think he half-hates me."

  O'Leary smiled. "I've looked through Trent's school records. If he only half-hates you, you're not doing bad. It looks to me as if he completely hates just about everybody else." He stared at me. When I didn't speak, he went on. "I'm not asking you to marry him, Nick. All I want you to do is knock on the door and see if he's there."

  I swallowed. "I'll check on him, Coach. But what do I say if he is home?"

  "Tell him to be at our game tomorrow, and at practices next week. Tell him the team is counting on him for the second half of the season. Tell him we need him."

  "You want me to tell him that?"

  O'Leary caught the disbelief in my question. His eyes honed in on me. "I certainly do. Because we do need him. We need his toughness, his aggressiveness. I've been coaching a long time, Nick, a long time. A team is like a jigsaw puzzle. Trent is one of the pieces. Just as you are. We need all the pieces."

  I nodded. "I'll tell him."

  O'Leary stood. "All right. That's it, then."

  It was a simple request. All I had to do was walk across the street and give Trent's front door two raps. If Trent wasn't there or didn't answer, then I'd just walk back to my house. If he did answer, then I'd tell him what Coach had said. Either way the whole thing wouldn't take more than two minutes.

  Still I put it off and put it off. I ate dinner and afterwards returned to my room to listen to the Sonics game. But I couldn't concentrate. I flicked off the radio and went downstairs. "Where are you going?" Mom asked when she saw I was heading outside.

  I explained.

  "Well, you deliver the message and then you come right back. I don't want you spending any more time with him than you have to."

  "Don't worry about that," I said, laci
ng up my shoes. "This isn't my idea."

  Rain had started to fall. I crossed the street quickly, climbed his porch steps, took a deep breath, and knocked. I could hear voices inside, Ericka Dawson's and Steve Clay's. They sounded hateful, the way Mom's and Dad's voices had sounded just before Dad moved out. I thought about knocking again, but decided against it. I'd turned and was heading down the stairs when Trent opened the door.

  He looked terrible. He had on a ripped T-shirt, dirty sweats, and no shoes. His hair was sticking up as if it hadn't been combed in a week. "What do you want?" he muttered.

  "I don't want anything. I'm just here to deliver a message."

  "What message?"

  "Coach O'Leary sent me. He wants you to know that you're still on the team, that he's counting on you for the second half of the season. He wants you at the game tomorrow and at school and practice next week."

  From inside the house I heard his mother's voice. Her words were slurred, as if she'd been drinking. "Trent. Who is it? Is that the police?"

  "It's nobody," he called back to her.

  "Then close the door. You're letting the heat out."

  "Yeah, yeah," he answered. He looked back to me. For a moment I thought he might say something.

  "Trent, close the damn door!" his mother shrieked.

  "All right!" he shouted back, and then he did close it, right in my face.

  When I returned, Mom wanted to hear what had happened. "What do you think he's going to do?" she asked when I'd finished.

  "I don't know."

  "Steve Clay? Was he there?"

  I almost told her about the shouting in the background, but decided to let it drop. "I didn't see him, but I heard his voice."

  She pursed her lips. "At least he's still living there. He's the only stable influence in that house." I headed toward the stairs and my room. "Nick," she called after me, "I forgot to ask how practice went."

  "It was fine," I said. "No problems."

  Around ten o'clock I heard it, the sound of a basketball on concrete. When I looked out the window, there was Trent, in the night rain, playing basketball. He was alone, but he played with the fire you bring to a championship game: driving the lane, pump faking invisible defenders, snatching rebounds, whirling this way and that.

  Most people would have thought he looked ridiculous, and I guess he did. But I knew what he was doing. He was playing imaginary games in his mind, the same way I had on many a summer afternoon at Canyon Park. Only for him it was different, because when I'd played my imaginary games, it was only Scott I destroyed. Trent was taking on the world.

  Chapter 4

  When Trent, neatly dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, entered the locker room before the Eastlake game on Saturday, I was the only one who wasn't stunned. Even O'Leary looked as if he'd seen a ghost, though he recovered fast. He went over to Trent and shook his hand. "Good to have you back, Son."

  After that, the normal locker-room noise slowly returned. Or almost returned. Guys would talk about the game coming up, but out of the corners of their eyes they'd glance at Trent, wondering if he'd really killed those birds, and what it was like to spend time in jail.

  Then there was no time to worry about Trent. O'Leary called us together for the final chalk talk. He repeated everything he'd said at practice. We were going to the set offense. No fast breaks unless we had clear numbers. A game plan perfect for Fabroa.

  As we went through the warm-up drills, I looked up into the stands. I spotted my father right away. When our eyes met, he made a fist to encourage me. My stomach turned over. What was I going to say to him if I ended up riding the bench for the whole game?

  I moved to the front of the lay-up line. The ball came to me, and I took a couple of hard dribbles, rose, banked in a lay-in, then jogged to the end of the line. That's when I saw the band.

  Scott was in the center; Katya right next to him. My mother was sitting a few rows above them, swaying back and forth, clapping her hands, totally caught up in the music as Scott pointed his trumpet right, left, up, down, playing "YMCA" better than I've ever heard it played, making the whole gym rock. The horn sounded. Game time.

  In the opener I'd had Luke next to me, but now I was alone. While I sat on the bench, he was out on the court, running the lanes and hitting the pull-up jump shots. After a hoop he'd smile at Fabroa, and Fabroa would give him a little nod, and it was as if I didn't exist. Carver was hitting his shots, too; in fact the whole team was clicking. We jumped off to a 6–0 lead, then 12–5. We were up 16–11 with a minute left in the quarter before Fabroa finally came out and I stepped onto the court.

  "Be patient," I whispered to myself as I took the court, and I was. We had two possessions in that minute. On one we scored, on the other McShane turned the ball over. I was back on the bench when the second quarter started, not a drop of sweat on me. Killing time, not making mistakes, filling in so Fabroa could rest—was that going to be my season?

  Eastlake pulled even as Fabroa struggled through the second quarter. He threw the ball away twice and missed all three shots he took. I could do better. I knew it, and I wanted to show it. Still I heard O'Leary's voice. Don't force things. Let the game come to you.

  Right before halftime I got the call again. And again I played it safe. I passed up a jumper on the fast break only to see Markey miss a sweeping hook in the key. I had a chance for a steal, but held back, and Eastlake eventually scored on a drive to the hoop by their shooting guard. When the horn sounded I had no turnovers, no assists, and no points.

  When the third quarter started, I was riding the pines again. The lead seesawed back and forth. Time after time I saw fast break opportunities, opportunities that Fabroa passed up. I wanted to burst. If I'd been on the court playing my game, we'd have pulled away from them.

  I got my minute at the end of the quarter. One lousy, useless minute. Eastlake had the ball when I came on, and they held it for about thirty seconds before they scored on a bank shot by their center. I brought the ball down, passed to Markey, who backed the ball in before missing a turnaround jumper. The Wolves came back, ran more clock, and scored with three seconds left. As the horn sounded ending the quarter, I was throwing up a wild air ball from half court. It was my first shot of the game.

  For a while I didn't think I would play again. Luke caught fire and drained back-to-back three-pointers, giving us a four-point lead. But with about four minutes left, Fabroa stopped looking for Luke or McShane, and instead dumped the ball into Carver time and again. Eastlake's defense double-teamed, then covered his passing lanes, shutting us down completely. Just like that, the Wolves went on an 8–0 run to take back the lead.

  O'Leary called time out. His eyes were like lasers. "Don't force it!" he shouted at Fabroa. "If Darren is covered swing it to somebody else." But the next time down Fabroa tried to dump it into Carver again. Eastlake tipped the ball free, and they were off to the races for another easy bucket. Worse, Fabroa fouled after the shot.

  O'Leary grabbed the top of his head with both hands. I thought he was going to pull out the little hair he had left. "Abbott! Get in there!"

  As I stepped onto the court, my heart was pumping blood by the gallon. It was the home opener, the league opener. The gym was rocking. My mom, dad, and brother were watching.

  The Eastlake player swished the free throw. I took the inbound pass and raced the ball up the court. The guy guarding me backed off, looking to clog the passing lanes. I rose for the three-pointer. It felt good when I released it, but I must have been too pumped, because it clanged long. That's all right, I thought to myself as I back-pedaled. You'll make the next one.

  But that miss took away my confidence. My man gave a simple head fake. I bit, and he blew by me for a lay-in. As I brought the ball upcourt, I saw O'Leary pacing in front of the bench, his hands behind his neck, dark half-moons of sweat showing on his light blue shirt. He had the same look on his face that he'd had just before he yanked Fabroa.

  I picked up my dribble at the top o
f the key. I faked a pass to Carver; Luke flashed into the key. I fed him a lob pass that he took at the free-throw line. My guy dropped into a double-team, so Luke whipped the ball right back. I was open for the three-pointer, but my hands were so sweaty the ball slipped, and my shot was ugly—a low-liner that sailed under the backboard and out of bounds.

  "Air ball! Air ball! Air ball!" The mocking chant rose from the Eastlake fans. I felt my face go red as Eastlake quickly in-bounded the ball. As my man raced up the right side of the court, I reached in, tipping the ball free. I barely nicked his arm, but the whistle blew and the ref's finger was pointing at me. A second later the horn sounded. Fabroa raced onto the court, and he was pointing at me, too.

  O'Leary didn't even look at me as I came off the court. I grabbed a towel and, totally dejected, walked all the way down to the end of the bench. I dropped my head and covered it with a towel. That's when I felt the pat on the back, and the low, whispered words: "You'll get 'em next time."

  We lost by ten. After the game my father took me home. I didn't want to eat anything, but he insisted we stop for pizza. While we sat waiting for our food, he let me have it, telling me everything I already knew: that I'd played like an idiot, that I was too tentative in the first half and too wild in the fourth quarter. "You've got to think when you're out there. You understand? You've got to think."

  He reached over and rubbed the top of my head. He did that all the time when I was little, and I'd always liked it. But now he rubbed too hard, so that it hurt. Besides, I wasn't little anymore. I pulled away.

  My mother had waited up. "You did your best, Nick. That's all you can do. No one can be great every time, not even Michael Jordan." Scott had the sense not to say anything.

  Upstairs, staring at the ceiling, I kept seeing my mistakes. It was as if I were locked in a movie theater and were being forced to watch a gruesome clip from a horror film over and over. Then, just before I fell asleep, I let the film run a few seconds longer in my mind. I saw myself after I'd been taken out of the game. I was at the end of the bench, a towel over my head. Then I felt the pat on the back, and the words of comfort. You'll get 'em next time.