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21.

There are a million bad things about seeing Wes turn. But maybe the worst is seeing him in the Marion East hallways—on the days he decides to show up, that is. He struts like some pimp, this fake hitch in his stride, his pants sagging just as far as he can let them before Principal Markey will call him out. He'll give a fist bump to all the guys people know to avoid—young guns who have the same rumors swirling around them as JaQuentin—but he ignores everyone else.

It's the only time I see him. And even then, it's not like we hang. “'Sup, D,” he says to me this morning. Then he just keeps slinking down the hall, on his way to a class he's probably failing.

“Come on, Wes,” I say. “I rate more than a
‘sup
, don't I?”

He stops mid-step and turns. He smiles and doubles back, then throws his arms wide. We clasp right hands and pull into each other. “Sorry, D,” he says. “I didn't mean disrespect.”

I just laugh it off. There's too much to tell him and no way to fit it in before the first bell. How do I explain that it has nothing to do with
respect
? That instead, every time I see him, it feels more and more
like I'm looking at a stranger. Like some alien came down and took over Wes' body. And that half the time I want to cry and the other half I want to jack him in the face just to knock some sense into him. Instead I say, “Aw, it's good. It goes both ways.”

We idle in the hallway for a second. I know I've got to split for class, but what I'd rather do is just cut out with Wes. “Heard you been hitting it pretty good,” he says.

For a second I think he's talking about me and Lia. I immediately wonder how word got out. It's not like I'm trying to hush things up—most guys hook up with a girl like Lia and it's all they can do not to tweet the details as soon as it's done—but it still surprises me. Then I realize he's talking ball. “On the court?” I ask.

“Yeah,” he says. He cocks his head to look at me sideways. “What you think I'm talking about?”

“Nothing,” I say.

“Oh,” Wes says. He reads it all over me. “You broke yourself off some, didn't you?”

I wince. I don't care about keeping things a secret—back in the day, Wes and I would have told each other first thing if a girl even
looked
at one of us—but it's the way he talks about it.
Broke yourself off some
. That's straight JaQuentin. No way Wes would have talked about a girl that way a year ago. “Just drop it,” I say. “It's no big thing. What about you and Norika?”

His whole expression shifts. It's the same look he gets when he talks about yet another way his dad let him down. “Ain't happening,” he says. “Using me to get in with JaQuentin.” I know that stings. Especially since last year he lost Iesha—a girl he actually cared about—
to JaQuentin too. But maybe this will finally snap him out from JaQuentin's dark spell. “Whatever,” Wes says. He throws himself back into his tough pose. “Ex to the next, right?”

The bell sounds. We're late, but that's not what's bothering me. I can handle a disapproving look from a teacher. But when Wes mumbles a
Catch you later
and struts on down the hall, I finally put a finger on what troubles me most about him. That attitude—the sneer, the shrug, the false bravado—is the same thing I see bubbling up in Jayson. Sure, Jayson's a long way from getting in the kind of trouble that Wes is in. With my brother, it's all talk. A pose. Part of the daily game for a young pup. But that's how it started with Wes.

Wes disappears into his classroom. I get my feet shuffling toward mine. I think again about what Dad said the other day. He was supposed to watch after Kid. I've got to watch my brother.

I'm in early, making sure to loosen up my calf. It's not bad, just some tightness. But I want to stretch it out before Bolden gets in so he doesn't think I need more rest. I'm done watching games from the sideline.

Practice gear on, I put my hands on my locker and press back into my calf. I start gently, and then keep working back further as I feel the muscle respond. But when I hear that locker room door swing open, I spring out of my stretch and sit at my locker. To look busy, I re-lace my kicks.

It's Bolden and Murphy both. They're in mid-conversation.

“Haven't had to deal with this in a while,” Bolden says. “But you get those big dogs after a kid and it's a mess if you don't handle it.”

They see me and stop. It's clear that I was the subject of their conversation. At least they don't try to hide it. “Speak of the devil,” Murphy says.

Bolden can tell I'm on high alert, so he slides a chair over in front of me and sits. “Don't worry, Derrick,” he says. “This isn't one of those talks where we team up on you. But we've got an issue.” He looks at Coach Murphy and then makes a sweeping gesture with his hand as if to say
It's all yours.

Murphy doesn't waste any time. “I got offered cash from a school to get you to go there,” he says. “I'm not going to say which school because the guy who called me was a friend from back in the day. He's a college assistant now.”

This kind of stuns me. Schools aren't subtle. When a coach gives me the number of a guy to call if I “need anything at all,” I know what it means. But trying to lure me through Coach Murphy? I didn't see that coming. “I swear I haven't taken a thing from anyone,” I say. “And I'm not looking for anything. We talked about that already.”

Bolden nods. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, and rasps away. “We're not saying that, Derrick. I know where you're coming from. But this is only going to get crazier unless we head it off some.”

Crazy talk
, I want to say. If there was a way to get schools to stop cheating, then the NCAA would have done it a long time ago. “I don't see how we do that,” I admit.

“Give us a list,” Murphy says. “Five schools. Hell, you can still change your mind down the road if you want. But right now every school in the country thinks it's open season on you. Hell, a lot of juniors have committed already. You haven't even narrowed it down.
But if you do, maybe there will be a few guys like my old buddy who will spend their energies on other recruits.”

“Okay,” I say, “but I don't have a list of five. God, I don't have a list of fifteen.”

“We don't need it this minute,” Bolden says. “And it's not like five is some magic number. Just think about it. Then we'll help you set up some official visits. Let the press know where you're considering. Keep it all organized. Good?”

“Sure,” I say. Then Bolden and Murphy stand. They've still got to get ready for practice. It's insane. I've wanted this—to be a prized recruit—since the first time I touched the leather. And everyone knows this is how that plays out. But somehow having that talk with my coaches—so businesslike, so matter-of-fact—makes it seem like I'm getting myself involved in a pretty dirty game, even if I'm not the one cheating. Then again, it makes you wonder. “Hey, Coach Murphy,” I say. “Out of curiosity—how much they offer you?”

He smiles. “You really want to know?” he asks. But he doesn't even wait for me to answer. He
wants
to tell, because deep down it's a little bit of a thrill. “Ten grand,” he says. “It's enough to make you think,” he says. It's a joke, but we all know there's some truth to it.

“So if we win State, you want to call him back and see if you can get twenty?” I say. We all laugh then. But it flashes through my mind—Kid. Money problems and a money solution. I extinguish that as quick as it pops up. We decided a long time ago we weren't playing it that way.

“You know the thing that burns me?” Bolden says. He gestures toward Murphy again. “They called
you
instead of me. They don't think
I could use a little money too? I mean, I'm the head coach, damnit. Historically speaking, I should be first in line on dirty money.”

We all laugh again. Then Reynolds comes through the door, followed closely by Stanford and Fuller. Just like that, the conversation's over and we're back to business. Even that amazes me—Coach Joe Bolden, the straightest shooter that's ever been, cracking jokes about guys cheating. I guess he's been around so long it doesn't faze him. Maybe Bolden's like the one honest man at a card table full of cheaters—all he can do is play his hand the best he can and laugh off all the dirty tricks around him.

We rattled off two more after the Bishop Chatard win, bringing us to 11-4. But even with the boost we've got from a four-game win streak, it's still that late January grind. All the shine of the new season is worn off. And we've got more than a month to the excitement of Sectionals. It shows in practice.

Stanford half-asses it in the early drills, then sulks when Bolden calls him out on it. It escalates until Bolden puts us into a set of suicides.

Then we run our sets against full- and half-court traps. It's prep for Cathedral on Friday, since they've been jumping people with their press all year. “They turned Lawrence Central over twenty times last week,” Bolden snaps. “You don't get your heads in it, they'll make you look foolish.” Only this time it's Fuller and Reynolds who can't get straight. The idea is to always have someone cutting middle so if a trap comes, we can hit the cutter and attack. But the first time Fuller's slow in recognition. Then he mishandles the pass. The next time, Fuller makes the right cut, but the defense takes it away. Jones pops out. I shout for
Reynolds to hit him—an easy pass that would give us numbers—but either he doesn't hear or doesn't care. Instead he tries to lob it all the way across the court to me. It sails a good four feet over my head. I make a leap for it but all that does is tweak my calf. It's minor, but I know I've got to ease off—ratchet it back during practice so I can go full-tilt Friday.

“Get with it now, boys,” Murphy shouts. He tries to sound upbeat, but really he's just addressing the situation so Bolden doesn't have to.

We finally get it figured out after a few more tries, so Bolden lets us run five-on-five. It would be a rout under normal circumstances. With the second team pressing—opening up all kinds of space on the floor—we should rip it past them. Not today. The first time we face the press, Stanford inexplicably throws the in-bounds to Jones—he's got no idea what to do with it. Turnover right away. The next time, Fuller forgets his cut again and Reynolds tries to beat the trap on his own. Rider—playing with a chip on his shoulder since he's been exiled back to second team—swipes it from him. And the next time we can't even inbound it cleanly.

It adds up to a lot of frustration. And a lot of extended time on D. I can check Rider, no problem, but the longer I'm in a defensive stance the more I feel that calf flare up. When Reynolds gets beat baseline for an easy deuce, I've had it. Bolden's already putting the whistle to his mouth to stop the drill, but I beat him to it. “Damnit, Reynolds!” I yell. “That's our second team beating you. Get your head out of your ass.”

This is what leaders do—call teammates out when they're not giving their best. I guess nobody's explained that to Reynolds, because he gets his back up. “Why don't you just step the hell off,” he says.

I roll my eyes. This team. Leading it is like trying to pull a brokedown car up a hill. No way one man can do it. Bolden doesn't offer any help on this one, instead going over to Fuller to instruct him on our press offense again. That's Bolden's way—unless guys are about to come to blows, he lets us settle our own static. Meanwhile Reynolds has sulked off the court to get a swig of water, turning his back on me as if he's too angry to even look. It reminds me of last year when his wiry ass quit on the first day of practice. And who was there to talk him back onto the team?
Me
. And now he's gonna act like this?

“Fine, Reynolds,” I say. “I'll just let you get embarrassed against Cathedral.”

Reynolds spins around and slams down his water bottle. The water sloshes onto the sideline and the bottle rolls toward the bleachers. From thirty feet away, Reynolds has all kinds of courage. “Someone really needs to knock you on your ass, Bowen,” he shouts.

I take a couple steps toward Reynolds, hands out at my sides to say
You wanna go?

“Easy, easy, easy.” This is Murphy, all good cop again. He steps between us even though there's no real chance of us throwing down. Everyone in the gym knows Reynolds isn't going after a guy with twenty pounds on him. He's being a little punk, but he's not dumb.

With Murphy between us, Reynolds gets brave again. “You think you're better than the rest of us,” he says. “Like we're just a bunch of scrubs who ought to ask you permission to put on a jersey.” He takes a few more steps toward me, but gets stopped abruptly by Murphy's big paw square in his chest.

“That's
enough!
” This is Bolden, finally. The veins in his head pop
like they're about to burst. “Grow up! Both of you.” He spins to the rest of the players. “All of you, in fact! Grow the hell up.” It's been a while since Coach has whipped himself into a top-notch frenzy, but now he lets it loose—stomping his feet, shaking his fists, throwing his head back as he screams. The works. “You show up to practice not ready to go! You loaf through drills! You forget basic sets! And now you start this! You know who does those things? Do you?!” He waits for an answer, but the gym is as silent as a graveyard. “Children do those things! And I am not about to spend my time babysitting a bunch of kids. Grow up or get the hell off my court!”

He storms toward the baseline then. His shoulders heave with his breaths. He veers left, then right, like he's so worked up he doesn't know what to do with himself. Then he finds his target—a stray ball by the baseline. Bolden takes two quick steps, plants his left foot, and boots that thing with a
thwunk
, rocketing it toward the concession area, where it ricochets around like a pinball. Frankly, it's an impressive show from an old man.