Three-Point Play (13 page)

Cody tried to laugh nonchalantly. “Oh, it's nothing, Chop. I'm just kinda tired, I guess.”

“Yeah, I'm
sure
that's what's up.” Chop was smiling like he knew a secret
.

Man
, Cody marveled to himself
. This guy reads me like Elway used to read defenses.

Cody tried to keep from tumbling into his locker when Chop clapped him across the back. “Anyway, dawg, if you wanna kick it, you know where to find me.”

Cody took the shortest shower of his life. He studied his watch, which read 5:56. Only four minutes to find a private place, read Robyn's poem, then sprint to the parking lot so that he wouldn't be late and suffer his dad's glaring at him all the way home—and all through dinner.

He bolted from the locker room and into the large restroom in the gym lobby. He locked himself in a stall and retrieved the paper from his pocket.
Well
, he thought as he unfolded Robyn's handiwork,
this isn't the most artistic setting in which to read poetry
,
but at least it's
way
private.

The piece was titled “For a Friend.” He hoped it wouldn't make him cry. It had been at least three days since he cried—when the Martins had dinner guests and his dad happily announced Beth as “my wonderful wife.” The same way he used to introduce the first Mrs. Martin.

Cody took a deep breath and began reading Robyn's carefully rendered lettering.

You've seen things that most can't see, done things most can't dream.

You have dreams you fear won't last, because you fear you won't succeed.

But you already have.

You keep looking back, into the past, at what you've lost—reliving old pain.

Turn around, look ahead of you, and you'll see how much you've gained.

I know that you still have some wounds that only hope can heal.

I know it's hard to open up and tell me how you feel.

I'll remember to be patient, if you'll hold on to hope, and remember, too, you're in my prayers no matter where you go.

“Wow, Hart,” he whispered. “No one's ever written a poem for me. Guess I'll have to keep runnin' with you in the mornings—no matter how cold it gets.”

“Did practice go okay, dude?” Beth asked, studying him in the rearview mirror.

“Yeah, it was pretty good.”

“Really?” Beth's voice was tinged with suspicion. “Because you look like you just scarfed some bad egg salad or something.”

Cody forced a smile. “Is there such a thing as
good
egg salad?” he asked.

Beth giggled, perhaps a bit too hard. “Point taken,” she said. “But, Cody, I can tell you're carrying a lot of weight inside. If you need someone to help with the heavy lifting, I am here for you. I'm always gonna be here, you know?”

Yeah,
Cody thought.
And that's the problem. Well, not THE problem, but it's definitely in the top ten.

The rumor began spreading, like smoke, through the freshman team at Thursday's practice. Central's frosh team, which was 5–0 on the young season, was serious about going into the holiday break with its perfect record intact. And as insurance, Rick Macy would be making the trip to Grant.

“Well, there goes our chance of getting a W this year,” Gannon grumbled as he stood behind Cody in a layup line. “Macy scored fourteen for the
varsity
a couple weekends ago. I can't believe they're gonna let him go against us.”

“Well,” Cody said, “it's only a rumor.”

“Yeah,” Gannon countered, “like Pork Chop's moving away is just a rumor. But that's true, isn't it?”

Cody felt pressure on his chest, as if someone were bear-hugging him. “Chop doesn't like to talk about it. But, yeah, after the school year, he could be gone.”

“There you go,” Gannon said as he took off toward the basket. “Sometimes rumors are true.”

Gannon proved prophetic. As he led his team onto the court to warm up, Cody looked to the opposite end of the gym and saw Macy launching long-range jumpers from the baseline. His baggy shorts hung so low on his hips that Cody wondered what held them up.

Coach Clayton wasn't fond of loose-fitting uniforms. He didn't make his team wear old-school John Stockton short shorts, but he insisted, “None of my players are gonna be running around in drawers ten times too big. This is basketball, not some hip-hop fashion show. You keep them drawers pulled up, jerseys tucked in.”

Cody almost shuddered as he and Macy met at half-court for pregame instructions from the lead referee.
It's like shaking hands with a Komodo dragon
, Cody thought.

But while his handshake was creepy, Macy's face bore a smile. “I thought you'd be playing JV at least, Martin,” he said.

Cody shrugged. “Not ready yet, I guess.”

“You gonna be guarding me?”

“Trying to, anyway.”

Macy nodded approvingly. “And so it begins again—”

Cody chuckled to himself as he jogged toward Coach Clayton and the team. “‘And so it begins again?' Macy's been playing too many medieval video games,” he said.

Grant started fast. Cody sensed that Miller, Central's six-three post man, would outjump Slaven, so he leaped in front of Macy and stole the opening tip. His pass to Gannon was a bit long, but the freckle-faced guard chased it down and scored on an uncontested layup.

Neither team led by more than four points in the first half. Cody attached himself to Macy like a leech as he darted all over the court, trying to free himself for a clean look at the basket. Macy finished the half with six points, on three of nine shooting, staking Central to a 24–22 lead.

Central stretched the margin to four as the third quarter ended, with Miller doing most of the damage close to the basket.

Slaven picked up his fourth foul early in the final period, then fouled out at the 5:51 mark. Coach Clayton called time-out and put Brett Evans on Miller. “Y'all are gonna have to box out,” he told his team, “or Miller's gonna gobble up every stinkin' rebound.”

On Grant's next possession, Gannon narrowed Central's lead to 38–36 with a three-pointer from the top of the key.

The teams traded baskets and free throws for the next two minutes, but in the process, Brett Evans was tagged with his fourth foul.

With just over three-and-a-half minutes in the game and the Eagles trailing 43–41, Coach Clayton called another time-out.

“Listen, fellas,” Cody panted, injecting his voice with as much authority as he could muster. “If Macy gets into the lane, don't be afraid to foul him.”

Brett stared at Cody in disbelief. Cody knew what his teammate was thinking—Macy was almost automatic from the free throw line.

He nodded toward Brett. “I know it's a risky strategy, but I've been watching him. On his last two trips to the line, between shots, he leans forward, his hands pulling on the bottom of his shorts. He's dead tired, and his form is breaking down.”

Cody paused and looked to his coach. Coach Clayton didn't return Cody's look, but he did say, “You heard your captain.”

After Berringer missed a long baseline jumper, Macy snagged the rebound and charged downcourt. Cody scrambled to stay with him, but he fell for a hesitation move and Macy knifed toward the basket from the left wing. “Help!” Cody called.

Goddard left his man and turned his attention to Macy, slapping him across the forearm as he released the ball. Macy left the shot short but smiled as he strutted to the line for two free throws.

He drank in a deep breath and released his first shot. Cody smacked his hands together as Macy short-armed the attempt. He pounded the ball angrily against the hardwood as he prepared for try number two. Overcompensating for the first miss, Macy clanged this one off the back iron. Leaping quickly, Brett snagged the rebound and fired the outlet pass to Gannon.

Gannon took the ball down the middle, where Tucker, Central's hulking power forward—fouled him before he could get off a shot.

Gannon missed the front end of the one-and-one, and Macy walked the ball upcourt after Miller's rebound.

“They're gonna take the air out of the ball,” Cody barked to his teammates. “Get up on'em! Pressure'em!”

The Eagles' ball-hawking defense forced turnovers on two of the next three Central possessions. However, it also earned Brett Evans his fifth foul and a seat on the bench next to Slaven.

The scoreboard stood frozen at 43–41 as the game entered its final minute. Macy posted up Cody in the low block and fired up one of his patented jump hooks. The ball was halfway through the hoop when it popped back out, as if regurgitated.

Berringer darted back and forth across the baseline on Grant's ensuing possession, finally freeing himself for a jumper from the left side. But his shot rattled out.

Tucker got free on a back pick and could have put the Grizzlies up by four, but he missed a point-blank layup. Hooper screened out Miller, who, in frustration, swatted the ball out of his hands.

Cody studied the game clock. Only eighteen seconds remained, with the Eagles still down by two.
Gotta end this thing now
, he thought.
With Matt and Brett gone—and Hoop carrying four fouls—we'd probably get killed in overtime
.

He stood on the end line waiting to inbound the ball to Gannon. It looked like Central was going to pick up their defense at half-court. “G,” he said, “look for me on the left wing. My guy's been giving me some room.”

Gannon nodded. Cody could only hope it wasn't an obligatory nod—and that Gannon didn't plan to launch a three-pointer from deep downtown and make himself the hero.

As soon as Gannon got the ball, Macy sprinted across half-court to pressure him. Cody swallowed hard. Gannon wasn't the most careful ball handler, and Macy had been playing like a wildcat the whole game.

“You got help behind ya!” Cody called.

Gannon wheeled and lobbed an underhand pass to Cody. Cody looked ahead and saw nothing but open court in front of him. He pushed the ball up the right side of the court, waiting for a defender to pick him up. But Tucker sagged off of him, daring him to shoot.

Cody stole another look at the clock. Eleven seconds left.
Well
, he told himself,
here goes nothin'
.
A three-point play would be nice.

He veered toward the basket at a forty-five-degree angle. Tucker stood planted in front of him like a tree. Cody moved around his defender, disappointed that he couldn't bait him into a foul. Still, if he hit a layup, there would be time to—

Cody was unable to finish his thought, as Miller, rumbling across the lane, slammed into him. Falling backward, Cody tried to compensate for the contact and lofted a looping right-handed scoop shot toward the hoop.

From a seated position on the floor, he watched the ball circle the rim once—then curl out.

“Good hard foul!” Macy said, slapping Miller across the rump. “So much for their three-point play.”

Goddard grabbed Cody by the wrist and pulled him to his feet. “Almost, man.
Almost
,” he said.