Pull (10 page)

Now it's my turn. We don't flatten out like they did, but after a few ball reversals I get some space on the wing. Kernantz comes at me a little hot. I blow by. But when he turns his hips, I throw a nasty move on him—just rip it back between my legs and plant my feet behind the stripe. Then I launch a trey that's wet the moment it leaves my hands.

Timeout Evansville Harrison. Their crowd sits, stunned, while
ours goes over the top. I don't showboat, but I take my time walking back to the huddle, soaking in the sound. Every soul in this gym knows who the best point in the state is. As if there's any doubt left, Murphy rushes five steps onto the court to greet me. He stomps his foot for emphasis, yells, “That's the
truth
, D! Nobody gonna check that!”

Bolden hollers for us to quit celebrating and get in the huddle. There's still a lot of time left, he reminds us, and he gets down to business. He draws up the play he thinks they'll run and then gets in our faces. “No let down!” he screams. “Stay focused!” We all put our hands in and he smacks the top of the pile with a little extra
oomph
. “Team!” we all shout.

Evansville Harrison has no chance. It's like Coach is in their heads. Just like he said, they run a double-screen to get the ball in to Kernantz on the wing, then set up a pick-and-roll toward the middle. Fuller's ready. As soon as Kernantz comes his way he gets chest-to-chest. I trail to clamp the double team on him hard. Kernantz does the right thing—he locates his forward rolling toward the hole and zips it to him. But that's where Bolden's got us a step ahead. Reynolds, sagging off his man, steps in and picks the pass clean.

An outlet to Fuller. A throw-ahead to me. Kernantz takes a futile leap at Fuller's pass. And now there's nothing but me and open court. This time the crowd
knows
the kill shot's coming. And I'm not going to disappoint. I take a power dribble to the block, getting ready to cock it back and rip. But as I rise I feel a
pop
. I mean, I can
hear
it, even over the crowd. And then the pain shoots up from my left calf—a violent, immediate agony.

Then I'm down.

PART II

12.

The hospital reminded me of last year. All of it came flooding back. Uncle Kid driving me there. Mom explaining to me and Jayson that my dad had been in a bad wreck. And then seeing Dad in that bed, his leg elevated, monitors beeping and pulsing in the dark.

At least they took me to the Sports Medicine wing this time. Different walls, different nurses, a different doctor. Then, with Dad's help, I made it back to the examination room. “You want me to stay?” he asked. I didn't answer, because the truth is I didn't know. I wanted to man up and face it alone, but if it was
real
bad news I knew I'd need someone. “I'll stay,” Dad decided.

It took the doctor an eternity to get there, but once he did the diagnosis didn't take long. I explained to him what I'd heard and felt. He gingerly pressed up and down on my calf. He had me flex my knee and ankle, checking those joints and my Achilles as I did. Then he put it on me. “You've got a torn calf,” he said, “which you probably knew the moment it happened. The good news is it's not a complete rupture. The muscle shape is still intact, so you won't need surgery.

We could do an MRI to be sure if you'd really like, but I've seen enough of these to know.”

I sighed in relief. Even managed a smile at Dad, who was standing at attention in the corner. Then came the bad news. The only way to heal it was ice and elevation. And rest. Lots of rest. “You try to push it too soon and you'll pull that thing in two,” the doctor said.

When we got back to the waiting room, at least Uncle Kid had some more good news. He'd just got off the phone with one of his boys, who said we'd hung on to win. Even as I lay on the baseline I saw Fuller, forever hustling, clean up my miss and get fouled by Kernantz. After that, I was on the way to the locker room and then the hospital.

And so that—as I ride back home with Mom and Dad in the front—is where we stand. I'm squeezed between Kid and Jayson in the back, my leg stretched into the front seat for some relief. As we cross over Central, I try clicking down the schedule in my mind. At least with Christmas coming things ease up a little. But if I'm not back for three weeks, that's six games I'll miss—including real tough match-ups with Lawrence North and Muncie Central.
Just when we were crushing it
, I think,
this has to happen
. It seems a grave injustice. We're 7-1, fresh off a win against the defending state champs. But we're looking straight at a month of whippings unless I can get back on my feet faster than the doctor thought.

When I sigh, Jayson elbows me in irritation. “Come
on
, Derrick,” he says. “It's not like you tore your ACL. Don't act like you're dying or something.”

Mom whips her head around to give him a look. She's never pinned too much on hoops, but she hangs quite a bit on the
expectation that Jayson and I act like civilized and kind people. “Some
sympathy
, Jayson,” she says.

He looks out the window and mutters, “I'm just sayin'.”

My mom hates that phrase almost as much as she hates a tired
whatever
. “You know,” she says, “that attitude isn't getting you anywhere, Jayson. You're getting grown enough it's not cute anymore.”

“Ain't about
cute
,” he pops back. I see Mom's hands clench on her purse. A chill settles over the car.

“I swear, Jayson,” she says, but lets it drop for now.

At least Uncle Kid knows where I'm at. Anyone who's really played knows. He leans over to me as we turn onto Patton, trying to get my head right and change the mood in the car. “Just listen to the doc, D. Get better. These games coming up? They ain't a thing.
Regular season
. Get healed up. Get strong. Get things rolling come playoff time.
That's
what matters.”

I nod in agreement. In some ways, he's right. But no baller wants to sit in street clothes.

Dad pulls into the driveway and everyone spills out. It takes me some time, sliding across the seat until Uncle Kid can help me out into the cold night air. It feels like it should be two in the morning, but the sound of Saturday night traffic and the houselights up and down the street tell me that it's really not that late. Around me, the city is still enjoying its weekend.

Kid offers to help me to the house, but I wave him off. He tells me to hang in there, then heads to his car, probably eager to catch April when her shift's over. I limp across the lawn, trailing my family. Mom and Dad stand by the door, waiting, but Jayson just cruises on in like
nothing's the matter. I can walk as long as I don't push off that left foot at all. Still, I want to try—just test it. Maybe this has all been a mistake, a bad dream that I need to wake from. Or maybe there's no muscle pull, just the worst cramp ever. Every so slightly, I push up on my left toes. Instant daggers. Mom sees me wince and stumble. She rushes to me like I've been shot.

“I'm okay, Mom,” I say.

“No you're not.”

I have to tilt down awkwardly so she can wedge her shoulder under my arm. I know she's not letting me do this on my own so I accept her help. We hobble together to the door.

At last I get inside and collapse on the couch. My parents keep offering me things—a chance to talk, something to eat, a pillow to prop my leg on. They keep hovering there like drones, watching my every move. All I want is to be left alone in the dark so I can click on the tube and zone. But I know they're not going away that easy, no more than that throb in my left calf will. Dad gets me a bag of ice and Mom sets me up on the couch, propping my leg on a pillow and covering me up like I'm a baby. Even though I was fighting it, I kind of like the treatment.

As soon as I get settled, there's a ring at the door. I figure it's Kid coming back for something, so I don't even budge. But when I hear Dad get the door, it's a female voice that responds. And before I can react, standing there in front of me is Lia Stone, a couple pizza boxes in hand.

I scramble off that couch in a flash, calf injury be damned. Truth is, I'm embarrassed for her to see me lounging like that. I feel as
vulnerable as if she'd walked in on me changing clothes. “What are you doing here?” I ask.

She raises her eyebrows. “That's how you greet me?” Then she laughs. “I figured you could use some company,” she says. “Besides,
nobody
stands me up. We're having that date.”

Meanwhile Mom and Dad are in action. They pull the old T.V. trays out from the kitchen and set us up with drinks and plates for the pizza. I shove that ice bag and pillow over to the corner of the couch and make room for Lia. As she squeezes in beside me, she reaches over and massages the back of my neck. There's still some chill from the night on her fingers, but I don't care. Feels good. And when I cut my eyes her way, see her smooth cocoa skin and her curves in that sweater, it feels even better. “You okay, D?” she purrs.

“All good,” I say. Mom and Dad disappear down the hallway as silent as smoke. Just us now. “I'll be back balling out in no time,” I say. I give her my best meaningful look.

Lia tilts her head back and laughs a little. “Whoa. I'm just here to hang and find something to watch with you. I'm gonna need a bigger night than this before you start running game at me.” She snatches the remote from my hand and starts clicking, bypassing a few good games as she does. I don't dare protest. Then, when she lands on what she wants—some romantic flick, but I'm so dizzy with Lia fever I can't even figure out what it is—she curls her legs up and then stretches them across my lap. She leans back, slice in hand, and makes herself at home. Instinctively, I drop my hand to her knee, then edge it up an inch or two on those fine legs. She swats at me. “You're injured,” she says. “Save your strength.”

Talk about
game
. Girl's got it.

I just chill then, trying to pick up the thread of the movie—and trying to ignore that pulsing pain in my calf. Later, Jayson walks in. He stops when he sees Lia. He sneers at me. Shrugs. Then he poaches a couple pieces of pizza and heads back to his room. The kid's getting some serious attitude, but at this point I don't care. Lia doesn't seem to mind, and she's about all I've got going right now.

13.

The texts stream in. It started last night and cranks up again as soon as I turn on my phone in the morning. They're all variations on the same thing, a million different ways of telling me to hang in there. They're from teammates, sure. And friends. Even Wes and Jasmine chime in, though their names on my screen just serve as reminders that they're all but gone from my life. But the flood comes from assistants all over the country. Indiana, Michigan State, Wisconsin. Kentucky, Tennessee, Mississippi State. Clemson, Duke, Virginia. Even schools that haven't been after me that hard, like Kansas and Oklahoma.

In a way, it's nice. I mean, a pulled muscle on Indy's near East side is somehow news now in Lawrence, Kansas. At the same time, it's
crazy
. It's a reminder that, as a recruit, I'm part of a blood supply to them—they
need
me. Or, really, guys
like
me. So the cynical side of me knows this is all show. They're just scrambling to be first in line to text me, to seem like the good guy in case that gives them some slight edge come decision time. Probably some of these guys aren't even mashing out the texts, getting some secretary to do it instead. But if something
were really wrong? If I were going under the knife for a surgery that might affect my game? They'd find plenty of other point guards in that supply that wouldn't be damaged goods.

So the only two I text back are Jasmine and Wes. Times like this, it's good to stick to your roots. And Jasmine hits me back pretty quick with a request to hang. I bounce off my bed—as much as I can with a bum leg—and get cleaned up. When I hit the living room, everyone else is already well into their Sunday. No church today, I guess, since last night was rough. Mom and Dad start to stand from the kitchen table, where they're sipping coffee and sharing the newspaper. Jayson is already checking Sportscenter, which is busy hyping a Syracuse-Duke showdown. He nods at me, but he kind of looks annoyed at my presence.

“Can I borrow the car?” I ask.

Even Mom says yes. Maybe they're amazed that I don't want to just mope around the house feeling sorry for myself. As I scoop the keys from the counter, she remembers her duty. “Where you headed?” She tries to sound casual, but she can't quite pull it off.

I don't dare make anything up. “I'm hanging with Jasmine for a while.”

“Wait a minute,” Dad says. He doesn't have that edgy tone like Mom, but he loops his arm over the back of his chair so he can twist to see me. “Why Jasmine? What about that girl that was here last night?”

“Lia?”

“Yes, Lia. She seemed nice.”

Nice is one way to put it,
I think. But I know this is still an aftershock from last year. My dad doesn't want me getting my head
mixed up with girl trouble again. And he sure doesn't want me doing another girl wrong. So I have to put him at ease about Jasmine like I had to for Mom about Wes. “Dad, Jasmine and I are—” I start, but even I have no idea how to finish that sentence.
Friends
isn't quite right. “Jasmine and I aren't happening,” I say at last. “We gave it a shot. Like, twenty shots. But at this point it is what it is.”

Dad lets it go at that. Even he isn't up for pressing me about my sex life on a Sunday morning before he's finished his coffee.

With Jasmine, it's push and pull. One moment we're back in our old groove. She's flirting with me, babying me over my injury, touching my arm. The next she folds her arms across her chest and seems a million miles away. She wanted to meet at a bookstore on the far Eastside. It's tucked in a neighborhood that's a weird mix of Mexican groceries and dollar stores and old two-stories getting revamped by young white couples with some scratch. It's an independent place with a sort of thrown-together look. There are magazines spilling out of racks, paperbacks piled high near the register, signs taped to the shelves telling you what section you're in. Basically, it's the kind of place I'd never set foot in if it weren't for Jasmine. It seems like, sometimes, we live in different Indys. But it's cool. I don't mind browsing with her.

“Come here,” she says, holding up a book.

The wood floor creaks under me as I limp. I put too much pressure on my left side and have to reach out and grab a shelf for balance. I stop to gauge the pain, and Jasmine comes over by me. She stands real close so I can look over her shoulder. I get a whiff of her perfume. My head reels with it.

“Remember?” she asks.

All I see is the heavy work in Jasmine's hands and a somber-looking author frowning in her photo on the jacket. I have no idea what Jasmine's talking about. My silence clues her in.

“The author!” she says. “Remember? We were flipping channels that night at your place and we saw her being interviewed? She was talking all that radical stuff about the government owing reparations, and we just cracked up. This little white lady getting all fired up over it.” Jasmine looks up at me expectantly, but I'm blank. What I remember from all those nights cozied up on the couch with her isn't what was on the tube. Now she cocks her head at me and narrows her eyes, disappointed that I don't have perfect recall about every second we spent together. “Well,” she says, “
I
remember.” She slaps the book down in my hands. “It's probably an interesting read,” she says.

Jasmine walks further down the row and I flip through the pages in front of me. My eyes settle on phrases here and there, but nothing sticks. Ashamed a little that I forgot, I want to get into it now. But it's not happening. Sure, it might be
about
people like me, but that doesn't mean it's
for
me. I gaze around at the endless stacks. All those books and it doesn't seem like any of them are for guys like me. I know that's not true. I can hear my mom's voice in the back of my head—
Derrick Bowen, when you put down a book it says more about you than it does about the person who wrote it.
So I try again, digging through stacks to try to find something that fits. I scoop up a collection of sports writing from a few years ago. It doesn't have any athletes on the cover. It looks like serious literature instead so it won't automatically get dissed by Jasmine.

Outside, we stand by our cars. I parked right behind her on a side
street, the houses sitting on a little rise so they seem to tower over us. The wind kicks up, some real bite to it. You can just feel a winter storm on its way. Jasmine shivers in her coat then looks to her car like it's drawing her away. She tells me it was good to see me. She starts to say something else, but a big gust of wind kind of rips her breath away. She smiles, gathers herself.

“I'm not gonna see you much more, am I?” I ask.

That smile vanishes. She hugs her bag of books to her chest. Behind us, I hear the bells on the bookstore door jangle as someone else goes in. Right then I decide that when Jasmine takes off, I'm going back in to buy that book she dropped in my hands. A Christmas present for her. It's not much, but then again it's not like we're a couple who has to hook each other up with something fancy. And it might make her smile and think of me on Christmas morning.

“Not really,” Jasmine finally answers. “Not at school. And my new classes are going to be a load. And I've got to keep trying to get a better ACT score. And—” she trails off. She looks around at the houses, the row of stores, the traffic on Washington Street—anything but me. Then she sighs and gives me another half-smile. “This isn't
goodbye
, Derrick.”

“I know,” I say. Then I say something ridiculous, this thing my grandpa used to say. “See you ‘round the campfire.”

“What?”

“I don't know,” I say, laughing. “It just popped into my head. It just means I'll check you later.”

She sets her bag of books down on the ground and steps across the distance between us. She buries her head in my chest and hugs me, squeezing tight. We stay like that for a while, our body warmth
shielding us from the cold. I imagine someone looking at us from one of those houses and seeing a glow around us, one bright bubble against the cold December day.

“Take care of yourself,” she says when she pulls away. “Take care of that leg.”

“It's nothin',” I say, trying to act tough.

Then she's gone and it's not my leg that hurts.