Three-Point Play (12 page)

Meanwhile, Alston had isolated Goddard on the right wing. He jab-stepped left—and Goddard eagerly went for the fake, moving himself out of defensive position. Alston had a clear path to the basket. He didn't have to bounce the ball off of Goddard's forehead just to humiliate him further, but that's what he did.

Cody nearly spat on the court in disgust. He left Bart on the left wing and charged at Alston.

If Alston had shot a simple right-handed layup, Cody would have been too late to defend it. But Alston had decided to get cute, crossing under the basket for a reverse layup from the left side. That gave Cody the time he needed. He heard himself grunt with effort as he launched his body into the air. He extended his right arm and swatted the ball off the lower corner of the backboard.

But the ball wasn't all that Cody hit. He felt his right hip bone strike Alston in his exposed flank. The startled point guard stumbled backward, crashing into the padding on the wall behind the basket.

Cody raised his hand, acknowledging the foul. A hard but clean foul. A message foul.

Alston stood for a moment with his back plastered to the protective mat, blinking. Then he charged forward. His eyes locked on Cody. “That was a cheap shot, Martin! I mean, you wanna go, then let's go. But don't cheap-shot me!”

Cody stood his ground. “That wasn't a cheap shot,” he said, struggling to keep his voice from quaking. “That was a warning. Your second warning: Don't punk out my teammate.”

Alston raised his fists. “Enough with the talk, Martin!”

Cody swallowed hard and, tentatively, raised his fists too.

Cody winced as the shrill blast of Coach Clayton's whistle invaded his ears.

“Whoa there, Mr. Alston,” coach said, inserting himself between the two opponents, “you better lower those things unless you're really ready to use'em.”

Alston stared at the coach. “Are you
kiddin'
me?”

Coach Clayton smiled cryptically. “I never kid about player-on-player violence. I'm just recommending that you think about what you're doin.' You come into our house and keep goin' after a guy you got on the ropes. You think my captain is gonna stand for that?”

“Martin? A captain?” Alston snorted.

Coach Clayton nodded. “Yeah. Cody Martin—a captain. My captain. Mark Goddard's captain. And if you wanna scrap with my captain, I hope you brought a lunch,'cuz you're gonna be here all day. Ain't that right, dawg?” Cody looked at Goddard, then at Alston, and, finally, at his coach. “All day and all night, Coach,” he said.

Alston rolled his eyes. “Whatever. Let's just play ball.”

Cody nodded. “That's a good suggestion. But, Coach, I have a request: I'm guarding Alston now.”

Coach Clayton couldn't contain his smile. “That didn't sound like a request, dawg. That sounded like an order.”

Alston committed an intentional charging foul on Cody the first time he got a chance, lowering his shoulder for extra impact. Cody popped to his feet as quickly as he could, willing his facial muscles to register no emotion, no pain.

On Cody's next defensive sequence, Alston beat him along the baseline and bolted toward the basket. Cody quickly recovered and bore down behind the quick guard. Alston elevated for a soft floater, and Cody leaped up and forward to block the shot. As he sailed past his opponent, he thought he saw Alston flinch. He left the shot short. Goddard dashed in for the rebound, flashing Cody a quick smile.

“Terry Alston—intimidated,” he whispered. “I never thought I'd see the day.”

Alston's squad won the scrimmage, 20–14, but Cody didn't feel like a loser when it was over— especially because of the way his team scored its final two points. With only twelve seconds left in the scrimmage, Gannon tossed a lazy pass toward Alston. Cody deflected the ball away, then chased it across half-court for an easy breakaway layup. No one on Alston's team bothered to give chase.

One player did follow Cody: Mark Goddard. As was his custom, he refused to give up on a play. Cody risked a quick glance behind him as he angled in for a layup. When he saw Goddard trailing him, he stopped, waited, and dished the ball off to his teammate. Goddard missed his first layup, but he followed his shot and scored the scrimmage's final points as time expired.

Cody chest-bumped him as the ball trickled through the net. “Nice shot, dude,” he said.

“Thanks,” Goddard said, eyes grateful. “For everything. Man, I thought Brett and Bart's jaws were gonna hit the floor when you faced off with Alston!”

Coach Clayton waited until Alston's team trotted to the locker room before addressing Cody's team. “Good comeback, fellas. But a deal's a deal. It's suicide time. How many do you think we need, Captain Martin?”

Cody stroked his chin. “I'm thinking at least one, Coach.”

Coach Clayton bobbed his head. “That sounds reasonable. Just don't run it too hard, men. We got one more game before Christmas break, and I don't want anyone spraining an ankle.”

Chapter 8

Showdowns

U
n-beeeee-lievable,” Pork Chop said for the fourth or fifth time, as he wedged his foot into a size eleven Nike.

Cody tried to suppress a smile. “It was no big deal, Chop. I was just standing up for a teammate, you know.”

“Yeah, but standing up to Terry Alston? Bro, that's fierce! I'm surprised he didn't beat you down to the size of that Mini Me dude.”

“Well, after practice, he did get in my face—told me I was lucky to still own all my teeth.”

Pork Chop's mouth dropped open. “And?”

Cody shrugged. “I told him, ‘I know. But regardless of the consequences, a captain has to be down for his teammates. It's what Blake calls servant leadership.' I told him I would have done the same thing for him, if he were on my team. Then Alston looks at me like I'm crazy or something and walks away.”

Pork Chop appeared deep in thought. “Code,” he said finally, “I bet you blew Alston's mind with what you said.”

Cody frowned skeptically. “What makes you say that?”

“Because you just blew
my
mind. Anyway, I bet the team's gonna respect you now.”

“I hope so. We just can't go into the break with a big bagel in the win column.”

Pork Chop stood. “Well, have a good practice— over in the little baby gym.”

Cody chuckled. “Hey, I'm just glad that volleyball season is over so we can have the auxiliary gym after school now. Anything's better than practicing at 6:30 in the morning!”

After practice, Cody trotted toward the showers. He had promised his dad and Beth he would be in the parking lot no later than six o'clock. He almost collided with Robyn, which, given that he was dripping sweat, wouldn't have been a good thing.

“Hey, Cody,” she said. “Tough practice?”

He tried to will himself to stop sweating. “Yeah. Friday's the last game before Christmas break. Last chance to get a W this year. We're all feeling the pressure.”

“Yeah,” she said quietly. “I kinda get the feeling you're feeling the pressure over a lot of things.” Then she moved her right hand from behind her back and thrust it toward Cody's face.

“Here,” she said, holding a folded-up piece of notebook paper on her palm. “This is for you.”

Cody frowned. “For me? Why?”

She smiled at him. “Paul, our new youth pastor, gave us an assignment last week. He read Hebrews 3:13, you know, the verse that says ‘Encourage one another daily'? Then he asked us to think of someone who needed to be encouraged. And, of course, I thought of you.”

Of course?
Cody thought.
Of course she thought of
me?
Cool! Then again, maybe that only means I'm the most pathetic person she knows.

He heard Robyn clear her throat. “So, do you want it or not?”

“Oh, s-sorry,” he stammered. “Yeah, sure. Thanks.”

He plucked the paper from her hand. “So, this is, like, something you wrote?”

She rolled her eyes. “No, it's something I baked. Can't you smell it?”

He felt the urge to squirm out of his own skin and disappear down the nearest drain.
Good, smart question, Cody,
he scolded himself.
Way to think on your feet.

“Anyway,” she was saying, “it's kinda free-form poetry or whatever. It's not exactly Mother Goose. If you think it stinks or whatever, you can just throw it away and forget this whole thing ever happened.”

“No—I'm sure I'll like it, Hart. Thanks—again.” He turned and headed for the locker room. He pulled back his shoulders and straightened his spine as he walked. He wanted to make himself taller, just in case she was watching.

Cody held the folded-up paper against his leg as he entered the locker room.
Can't let anyone see this,
he thought.
Especially now that all the JV and varsity guys are here too. That's all I need is for one of them to notice. Chop will confiscate it, stand on a bench, and read it to the whole team.

Feeling a new sweat coming over him—a nervous sweat, not an athletic one—he fumbled with his lock, almost chastising himself out loud when his haste caused him to miss the third number in his combination.

He exhaled in relief when he felt the lock give way on his second attempt. He poked his hand in the locker and tucked the note into the back pocket of his jeans.

Man, I'd give anything to know what it says
, he thought as he unlaced his shoes. He tried to think of the last time a girl had passed him a note. To the best of his recollection, it was fourth grade, when Jill Keller had presented him with a homemade, one-question multiple-choice quiz:

Do you like me?

Yes____     No _____      Maybe _____

It was the hardest quiz Cody had taken up to that point in life. He had made up a fourth choice—“As a Friend”—then marked it and returned it to Jill via one of her friends. Jill didn't speak to him for two weeks.

But eventually she had turned her fourth-grade affection to Pork Chop. He checked “Yes” on
his
note, and Cody was forgotten, if not forgiven.

Pork Chop and Jill lasted about a month, until she grew tired of sharing him with half the girls in the grade.

Cody caught himself smiling at the recollection. Jill and Robyn were best friends now. He wondered if Jill had ever told Robyn about her brief infatuation with him. If she even remembered it.

“You forget how to get out of your gear?”

Pork Chop's voice invaded Cody's thoughts, and he hoped his friend didn't notice that he had startled at the sound of it.

“Oh, hey, Chop. Good practice?”

Pork Chop nodded. “Dawg, we are so ready for Claxton Hills. We're gonna put a whuppin' on'em— get revenge for football.”

Cody whistled through his teeth. “I hope so. But those guys are good.”

“So are we.”

Pork Chop paused for a few moments, then said, “So, Code, what's on your mind? You looked like you were contemplating the meaning of the universe just now.”