“Like I said, everyone liked him,” Don said with shrug. “He’d played here himself as a kid. To be perfectly honest, I don’t think anyone but Curtis ever had any real expectations for the team.”
“Including the players themselves.” Dillon had already figured that out for himself.
“Yeah. It wasn’t that they didn’t try,” Jim said. “But they weren’t getting what they needed to succeed. And I seriously doubt there was a guy on the court who ever worried about pissing Pete off.”
“I’m not a hard-ass,” Dillon said. “But I was hired to do a job. And I’m damn well going to do it to the best of my ability.”
“I doubt there was a person who was in the gym earlier who doubts that,” Don said.
“What are you doing about Templeton?” Jim asked.
“I met his mom before school and got a good vibe about his home situation.” Dillon saw no reason to mention that he hadn’t been thinking about Claire Templeton’s maternal vibes the entire time. “So I’m going to take a chance and try him on varsity.”
“As much as I’d love to have him on JV, I can’t argue with that decision. The kid’s going to have college coaches drooling all over him for the next three years.”
“True. And we need to be prepared for that.” He turned toward Don. “We also need to assure the other guys that each and every one of them is vital to the season’s success. Because jealousy could end up tearing the team apart before we have our first game.”
Which was something Dillon was determined to avoid.
Somehow.
13
They were f
reaking freezing him out. A couple of kids, including Johnny, had complimented him on his shooting, and the one who’d thrown the French fry at lunch, then made a joke the coach hadn’t appreciated, had even asked him about how he managed to switch hands like that on the run, but then Dickhead Dirk had shot them all the evil eye, which shut them up.
Shields had immediately gone up. Leaving Matt on the outside.
There’d been a few minutes, when he’d been flying around the court, when he’d felt back in the groove. As if, just maybe, this move might work out.
Yeah. Right.
He was—no big surprise—the last guy to get called into the cluttered broom closet Coach Slater called an office. He’d done the math, and from the results, he knew there was one spot left on the varsity team. Which meant, Matt thought with a burst of the first excitement he’d felt in weeks, he was in. Not that there’d ever been a question.
After telling him to sit down in the chair on the other side of the desk, the coach tilted back in his chair, rested his elbows on the wooden arms, folded his hands beneath his chin, and gave Matt a long, thoughtful look.
“So,” he finally said, just when Matt was about to burst out of his skin, “how are you liking the Northwest so far?”
Matt shrugged. “We only got here this weekend. But it it’s okay.”
If you like rain and trees.
“But quite a change for you.”
No shit, Sherlock.
“Yes, sir.”
“You did well in lab today. I can see why you were named an athlete-scholar back at your old school.”
“I lucked out with a good lab team today.”
When the coach’s lips quirked, Matt realized that Slater knew he was saying what
he
knew the coach wanted to hear.
“Right answer . . . I’m all about teamwork. In class and in life. I’m also not a believer in sophomores playing varsity.”
Matt’s heart plummeted like pelican diving for a fish in the surf at the same time his temper shot up. He’d done the research, and last season the team had twelve players. Six starters, and another six to come off the bench. Only eleven guys had come out of this office to high fives for having made varsity. Which meant that last remaining slot belonged to him.
“I’m a lot better than the other guys you picked for the team.”
“You’ve got talent; I’ll give you that. And skill that obviously comes from a lot of practice.”
“Until we moved here, I’d shoot three hundred shots a day.” Something he’d started doing in fifth grade and intended to start again. As soon as he got a basket up at the wreck of a house his mother had blown her inheritance on. “Every day.”
“Good for you. . . . I was EOD in the army. Whenever I went out to take care of an IED, I never went in a straight line. Want to know why?”
Having no idea why this conversation had suddenly turned to something he didn’t give a shit about, Matt said, “Yes, sir.”
“Again, that’s the right answer. I did that because the bad guys could be watching me and figure out my moves, so next time they could place an IED right where they knew I’d be. And if that had happened, I wouldn’t be here right now talking with you because they’d still be picking up pieces of me downrange. . . .
“You’re damn good, Templeton. But you’re predictable.”
“Predictable?”
No way.
The coach shrugged. “It’s natural. Everyone tends to get into a pattern when they play. Even the pros. The great ones will surprise you, and their opponents, but for the most part, all players have certain things they’ll do over and over again.”
“And you’re saying I do?” He’d been playing since he was eight years old, half his life, and no one had ever said a frigging word about him being predictable. The coach was probably just looking for any lame excuse to keep him off varsity. Maybe most sophomores couldn’t hack it. But they weren’t him.
“Yes. You do.” He turned the laptop on his desk so the screen faced Matt. It was a YouTube video of the final five minutes of the game against Santa Monica where he’d broken the school record of points scored in a single game.
“When you’re going to your left, you cross-dribble three times. Then you keep going in the same direction. A good player, or a good coach, is going to catch that and predict your next move.”
Damned if he hadn’t done that. But it didn’t mean he
always
moved the same way. Did he?
“So you’re saying I should go right instead?”
“Yeah. Every once in a while. Especially if your defender’s watched you go left enough times. He’ll get comfortable thinking he’s reading your play. That’s when you change things up, catch him flat-footed, and slip right past him to score.”
Matt hated to admit that the coach had caught such a lame mistake, but it made sense. “I’ll work on that.”
“That’s the idea. Because if we’re going to shoot for a winning season, every member on the varsity team’s going to have to bring their A game.”
“So I
did
make varsity?”
“You did.”
All right!
“But you won’t be starting.”
WTF?
“Although it wasn’t your fault, you missed summer camp. Which is when the rest of the guys started learning to use all the tools in our toolbox. So, as good as you are, you don’t know my set plays.”
“I’m a quick learner.”
“Having watched you in class today, and seen you play, I’ve no doubt of that. But coming in from the bench will give you a chance to get your sea legs. So to speak.”
“You do know I was number one freshman in California last year, right?”
“Yeah. So Mr. Curtis told me. But it was a different team. And a different coach. Now you’re on my team and, like I already said out on the court, we’re doing things my way.”
Matt could tell there was no point in arguing. But that didn’t stop him from shooting this guy who was standing in the way of his dream a hard glare.
Then, knowing he might be risking being kicked off the team entirely, he stood up and walked out of the office before he started shouting.
The coach didn’t follow.
1
4
Dillon had read the letter Matt Templeton’s mother had written to explain his recent problems with his grandmother dying, so he was tempted to cut him some slack. Within reason. And not just because he was undoubtedly one of the most natural players to ever dribble a ball down the court. But because Dillon knew firsthand the anger, frustration, and pain he was feeling. If he hadn’t been forced to try to fill the huge gap in his family left by his father’s death, there was no telling what might have happened to him.
Shelter Bay’s basketball team needed Matthew Templeton the player.
But, more important, Matthew Templeton the
boy
needed the team.
To Dillon’s mind it was as simple as that.
He stood at the window of his office, watching as the kid climbed into the passenger seat of Aimee Pierson’s ancient blue Volvo. The girl was not only as smart as a whip; she had a good, logical head on her shoulders. No way would she be foolish enough to be drawn into trouble by a kid with a juvie rap sheet who looked as if he should be modeling underwear.
Would she?
“Hell, she’s a sixteen-year-old girl.”
Which meant that Dillon didn’t have a clue what the hell Aimee might be thinking. What she might do.
Deciding to tackle one problem at a time, he left his office, turned off the lights in the gym, walked out of the building to his Jeep, then headed out of town toward the coast.
* * *
“So I guess you made varsity?” Aimee asked Matt as he came out of Slater’s office.
“Yeah. But I still haven’t decided if I’m going to play.”
Her eyes widened behind her glasses. “Why not? I thought that’s what you wanted.”
“I wanted to be a starter.” He
should
be a starter, dammit! He’d watched some Dolphins game videos on YouTube. There wasn’t a player on the team as good as he was on his worst day. “He’s got me coming off the bench.”
“Maybe he wants to ease you into the system,” she suggested, walking faster to keep up with him. “Get you used to the different plays before he throws you into the deep end of the pool.”
Her words brought up his mother’s idea of him being the big fish in a small pond again. So much for that dumb idea.
They walked out into a cold, drizzling rain.
He so hated Oregon.
“I don’t know all the rules of the game, but you didn’t foul Dirk,” she said.
“I know. So does he, but he’s too much of a major tool to admit it. And what kind of name is Dirk, anyway?”
“Linguistically, it means a small dagger.”
“Yeah. I’ll bet his dagger’s like minuscule,” Matt muttered. “Dirk the Dickhead.”
“He can be full of himself,” she allowed. Which Matt figured was the major understatement of the century. “Are you in any hurry to get home?”
“Not really.” Not that the old house his mother had bought would ever be home. “Why?”
“I thought maybe you’d like to drive over to the beach.”
“I live at the beach.”
“Technically you live on a cliff
above
the beach. But there’s this neat cave in the cliff you might like. It’s got all sorts of quartz and mica that makes it look like diamonds.”
Matt hadn’t found anything to like about this place so far. But it beat going home, where he’d be grilled about every damn minute of his damn day.
“What about your project you’re working on?” he asked. “The Sacagawea report?”
“There’ll still be time. I’m having dinner with Jenny. We can work on it afterward.”
Matt wasn’t in the mood to be with anyone right now. But he had three choices. He could call his mother to come to get him, which was no choice. Or walk two miles in the rain. Or check out some stupid cave with Science Girl Aimee, which would probably involve being subjected to a geology lecture. Which, he decided, was the least objectionable of the three.
“Sure.”
She stopped next to a blue Volvo station wagon that was beginning to show some rust along the wheel wells. None of the girls at BHHS would be seen dead in a car like this. Speaking of dead, if it were black, it could probably pass as a hearse. Which fit his mood perfectly.
Matt was grateful when she didn’t say anything as she drove through the town, which had all of one stoplight. Since there was hardly any traffic on the road, he wondered why they’d bothered putting one up at all.
The fishing boats were starting to come in from the sea, which had the ancient iron bridge opening up, leaving Aimee and Matt stuck on the town side.
“I hadn’t thought about it before,” she said as a blue boat chugged through the waves beneath them, “but the physics of basketball is pretty cool.”
“Yeah?” He’d been playing ball for as long as he could remember, but he’d never thought of it as science.
“Everything around us has to do with physics,” she said. He might be in a sucky mood, but he couldn’t help noticing she was kind of cute when she got all serious about science stuff. “It’s the most basic of all the disciplines, which is what makes it fun. What makes lightning, why the waves go in and out, how you can still hear a band when you’re in the very back of a rock concert, even why you spin a basketball when you shoot. They all come down to physics.”
“I spin a basketball because it affects air resistance and slows it down so I’m more likely to make a shot.” The gesture had become as natural to Matt as breathing. He didn’t even have to think about it.
“The ball’s too heavy and moves too slowly to affect air resistance in any real way,” she argued. “Once it leaves your hand, it travels in an unchanging parabolic path. What your backspin does is help the ball bounce into the net when it hits the rim.”
One thing he’d learned early on was that you didn’t question coaches. When he was in fifth grade, a coach had told him to stop pushing the ball and told him about air resistance and taught him to put backspin on it. Right away his shooting percentage had improved.
“Why wouldn’t it be just as likely to bounce away from the net?”
“Because the velocity change is opposite to your spin direction, which causes an equal-angle rebound and velocity that tilts more toward the net, making it more likely that you’ll score.”
The horn on the bridge sounded as it began to lower. “I guess that makes sense.”
“Of course it does.” Her smile was quick, revealing that she was pleased he’d agreed. “It’s physics.” She resumed driving. “We have to write a term paper for Mr. Slater’s class. Maybe you should write yours on the physics of basketball. Since you’re a player, and he’s a coach, it would show him another positive side of you besides just playing.”
“You’re suggesting I need to suck up to Coach Slater?”
“No. I was merely making a suggestion regarding your term paper. And I’ll bet he understands the physics of basketball.” Her tone had suddenly swung toward cool. As if he’d hurt her feelings.
“I appreciate the help,” Matt said. “But I want to prove myself on the court.”
“So how’s that working for you?”
Okay. The snark was a surprise. “What happened to ‘let’s welcome the new kid to school’?” he asked.
“I believe I’ve already done that,” she pointed out as they came off the bridge onto the coast side of the harbor. “It’s after school. I’m off the clock.”
The rain had stopped. For now. She turned off the raggedy wipers that had been screeching across the glass of the windshield, then shot him a look that wasn’t in the least bit welcoming. “In fact, if you’d like, we can go back to the original plan and I can just drop you off and go straight to Jen’s house.”
“No.” He raked a hand through his hair and wondered if all females were so damn changeable. “I’m sorry. I acted like a douche. . . . I’d like to see the cave. Really,” he insisted as her expressive eyes narrowed.
It was her turn to shrug. When she turned on a narrow road before they reached his house, he figured she’d taken him up on his offer. But that didn’t stop her from giving him the silent treatment.
“Tell me more about basketball physics.”
“Why would you care? Given that you intend to prove yourself on the court.”
“Because I still intend to earn a starting position with my skills, but it sounds like I’m also going to have to write a paper for Slater’s class. Might as well be about something I know. And care about.”
“That’s always best,” she agreed. The edge had left her voice, revealing that unlike a lot of girls, she didn’t hold a grudge. “I’m writing mine on the physics of babies.”
“What’s the premise? That the amount of food that goes in is directly proportional to the amount of spit that comes out?”
“Ha-ha.” Her tone was dry, but the smile had returned to her eyes. “I’ll have you know that by two months, infants already show signs of expectations in their physical world, and by five months they understand that liquids and solids have different properties.”
“No way.”
“Way. There are studies proving it. They’re fascinating.”
“If you say so.” They were driving along the coast road. The sun set early this time of year and it was already turning the choppy gray sea to a deep, dark blue. No way did he want to be down in some cave after it turned dark. “How much farther?”
“We’re right here.” She pulled off the road into a small gravel parking area. “And lucky us, we have a sunbreak.”
She pointed up to the stuttering sun, which had managed to break through the clouds. Matt suspected that the Pacific Northwest was probably one of the few places on the planet where the word
sunbreak
even existed.
But since it beat going home and facing his mother’s inquisition, he climbed out of the car and walked through the drizzling sunshower, which was another lame word, toward the beach.