True Legend (10 page)

“What promise?” Lee said.

“I used to tell him that he'd hear my voice in his ear, no matter which one of us died first.”

Just like that, he stood up.

“Nice to meet you boys,” he said.

He was telling them that the interview—not that it had been much of one—was over. Like class being dismissed.

Drew stood up, too. He was close enough to reach out, offer the man his hand. But didn't.

He just looked at him and said, “Not that you care. But I'm not him.”

“Didn't say you were, son. I'm just trying to tell you I see a lot of him in you. Or vice versa.”

“You don't know me,” Drew said, standing his ground.

“Better than you think.”

“Off a handful of games?”

“No,” Fred Holman said. “Off all the games I've ever seen.”

One last time, Lee tried to lighten the atmosphere on the deck. “You know, we really didn't get a lot out of you about Urban Legend.”

“Nobody ever really has,” the old man said, and led them back to the front door.

Neither one of them spoke until they were on the freeway, when Lee reached over and turned down the volume on the satellite radio.

“Don't let him wreck your whole day,” Lee said.

“I'm not.”

“What you said to him right before we left is right,” Lee said. “He
doesn't
know you.”

Drew had been staring out the window. Now he turned and faced Lee.

“Why do you suppose so many people think they do all of a sudden?” he asked.

NINETEEN

H
is mom was in the sunroom at the front of the house on Forest Cove Lane when he came in. She asked him how it had gone in Santa Monica.

“Learned some stuff,” he said, “even if it was from a mean old man.”

“No love?” she said, grinning at him over her reading glasses.

“Hey, Mom,” he said, knowing he sounded testy, “I don't need the whole world to love me.”

“Easy there, tiger. I was just playing.”

“Sorry.”

“My boy home for dinner?”

“Probably not,” he said. “No school tomorrow, remember?”

“You have plans?”

He took a deep breath, let it out slowly, knowing she wasn't going to like the answer to that one any more than she usually did. But he knew better than to lie. Doing that with Darlene Robinson was a way of opening himself up to house arrest, no matter how big a basketball star he was.

“Robbie's throwing a party.”

“You don't even like Robbie.”

“Make my life go easier, 'specially with his dad, if he would like me a little more. Lee's gonna pick me up in a while.”

“Lee's going to a party at Robbie's? I thought Lee
really
didn't like Robbie.”

Over his shoulder, not wanting to talk about this anymore, he said, “Who's researching a paper today—me or you?”

The last thing he heard from the sunroom was the sarcastic voice of his mom, saying, “Party at Robbie's. Good times.”

Drew hoped.

He hadn't told his mom that the real reason he was going to Robbie Gilbert's party wasn't to get Robbie to like him more, just Callie Mason.

• • •

Robbie Gilbert was tall enough to be a basketball player, taller than Drew, and had played some with Lee growing up in Thousand Oaks. But he'd stopped when he got to Oakley.

“Sports have rules,” Lee said on the way over to the Gilbert house. “And Robbie wasn't much better at rules than he was at basketball. He's always sort of known his best talent was being Mr. Gilbert's son, from the time I first met him, in first grade.”

“You know the deal,” Drew said. “I just don't want the guy hating on me.”

“You ever think there's some things you can't control?” Lee said.

“Nah,” Drew said.

When they arrived, Drew was surprised to see there were more people tonight than there had been for Mr. Gilbert's party after the Park Prep game. But that was Mr. Gilbert's show, not Robbie's. Drew knew from previous experience that if this was anything like Robbie's other parties at the house, Mr. Gilbert was probably upstairs in his soundproof study, hiding.

Robbie spotted Drew and Lee from across the swimming pool when they had made their way out back. He was wearing what he usually did, a black T-shirt and old-looking jeans with holes in the knees. Drew knew the jeans cost a couple of hundred dollars at least to look that way.

“Hey,” Robbie said to Lee, without even looking at him, as he gave Drew a lean-in hug.

It was then, over Robbie's shoulder, that Drew saw Callie, in a crowd of girls near the diving board, looking back at him.

“What's good?” Robbie yelled at Drew over the music
.

His mood seemed different, better than it had been at the breakfast table the other day. Maybe he was trying to make things better with Drew. Or maybe it was just part of the show. It was hard with Robbie sometimes, trying to figure out what was a pose, what was real, when he was messing with you, when he was just having fun.

“Check you out later,” he said to Drew. “Right now, gotta go do my host
thang
.”

Drew watched him make his way to the end of the pool where Callie was and put his arm around her shoulder. Watched as Robbie leaned over and said something into her ear that made her laugh.

Lee saw, too.

“Funny guy, that Robbie,” he said.

“Just doing his host
thang,
” Drew said. “Like he said.”

“Really?”

Drew's eyes were still on Robbie and Callie, on Robbie's arm around her shoulder.

“They're just talking at a party is all.”

“Really.” Lee drew the word out, not even trying to make it sound like he was asking a question this time.

As if Robbie could feel them staring at him now, he looked across the water, smiled and waved with his free hand.

Lee said, “He's using Callie to mess with you.”

“I got no claim to Callie Mason,” Drew said. “Dude, you're reading way too much into it.”

Lee said, “Sometimes I think you forget how well I can read
you
.”

They walked around a little bit after that. The party was catered—of course, it was the Gilberts'—and Drew and Lee found the stations where they were serving cheeseburger sliders, filled a plate with those, found an empty table, and ate. Some other seniors from Robbie's rich-boy crowd spotted them, pulled up chairs for a while, talked basketball with them like they actually cared.

Beyond where the DJ was set up and a temporary dance floor had been laid down, Drew saw the lighted basketball court, nobody on it tonight, not even fooling around. For a second, even on a night when he'd said he wanted to get away from thinking about basketball, Drew imagined himself out there by himself, the party over, everybody else gone.

Maybe just Callie watching him shoot around.

He got up from the table, walked around the edges of the party, trying to see where she was, if she
was
still with Robbie. Wanting somehow to get a few minutes with her, find a way to act as comfortable with her as Robbie had.

He had made it look as easy as Drew made things on the court.

When Drew couldn't find her in the crowd or on the dance floor, he went to get himself a soda at the bar next to the cheeseburger station.

He waited to get to the front of the line.

When he had his drink, he turned around and there she was. Startled, Drew nearly spilled his soda on her blue shirt.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey, Drew.” She looked around. “Where's Lee? I never see one of you without the other.”

He didn't know whether she meant it as a dig or not, but he took it that way.

“Where's Robbie?” he said.

Idiot,
he thought as soon as he said it.

“No clue,” Callie said. “Why would you ask me that?”

“You look nice tonight,” Drew said.

She was wearing a white dress that showed off her figure, her long legs.

“Not lookin'
fine
?” But she was smiling as she spoke. No harm, no foul.

Drew put out his hand, saying, “Peace?”

She shook it.

“Peace,” she said.

“Thank you
so
much.” He felt like you do when you get a do-over on the playground. “You want me to get you something to drink?”

“I'm fine.”

They both just stood there, Drew not knowing what to say, hoping Lee would come back and rescue him, start talking so he didn't have to.

Except it wasn't Lee who showed up.

It was Robbie.

Robbie with his loud voice, like he was trying to be heard over Kanye, over the whole party. No volume switch on his voice you could turn down, ever.

“Wait a second. You trying to hit on my date?”

Drew knew he was imagining it, but felt all the eyes at the party on him, just like that.

“Just saying hi,” Drew said.

Which was about all he really
had
said to Callie.

“I don't know,” Robbie said. “I heard you might be sweet on Miss Callie.”

Callie said, “Robbie, mind your own business.”

He does know,
Drew thought. He didn't know how. But Robbie knew.

“I should've seen this coming,” Robbie said, not letting it go. “The two best basketball players in the school, like, in the same backcourt”—turning to the crowd—“if you know what I mean.”

Drew said, “C'mon, man, give it a rest, okay?”

But Robbie was enjoying himself. Like he was on stage, just without his band. Drew noticed that there were more kids in the immediate area than there had been a couple of minutes ago.

“Wow,” Robbie said. “My man True has a freak on for Callie.”

He was trying harder than ever—trying too hard, Drew thought—to be the show at his own party. Or just trying to show Drew up.

“Shut it,” Drew said.

Drew was tired of this. Robbie Gilbert didn't get to embarrass him, not even at his own house, at his own party.

“I'm just having a little fun.”

“Maybe you are,” Drew said. “I'm not.”

“If you can't take a joke—”

“Shut it now,” Drew said.

“And I'm going to do that . . .
because
?”

“Because I'm telling you to.”

“Oh, I
forgot,
” Robbie said. “Everybody's supposed to do what True Robinson wants. Did you know that, Callie?”

“Leave Callie out of it,” Drew said.

This was another way of looking bad in front of her, Drew knew it. But couldn't stop himself. A bad day that had started with the mean old coach was ending worse.

“I can speak for myself, thank you,” Callie said. “Though I can't imagine why I'd want to speak to either one of you at this particular moment.”

She was the cool one, even now.

“I didn't mean it that way,” Drew said. “I just . . .”

It was like his words just dropped out of the air.

“Can't talk to the girl?” Robbie said. “I thought you could do anything.”

Was he drunk, acting this way?

“This is the last time I'm going to tell you to shut it,” Drew said.

“Or what?” Robbie said. “You gonna take me to the basket?” For some reason, Robbie laughed now, like he'd cracked himself up.

Drew took it as if he were laughing at him.

He stepped forward, but that was as far as he got, because Lee was there now, a death grip on Drew's right arm.

It had turned into a scene, and Lee was trying to get him out of it.

“Hey,” Lee said, “I thought parties were supposed to be fun.”

Robbie said, “Looks like the only one not having fun here is Number One.”

Before Drew could respond, Lee was walking him away, back toward the main house, keeping that firm grip on his arm.

Drew didn't turn around all the way to the house, but he didn't have to. He could feel Callie's eyes on him the whole time.

TWENTY

D
rew was tired of listening to people who thought they were experts on him or his game, as if they thought looking at him on a basketball court gave them the ability to see right inside him.

The season had been going along fine; everything had been going along fine. But now, just like that, he was sick of just about everybody: old coaches, dead legends, ghosts in the park.
Girls.
And especially guys like Robbie Gilbert, who thought his daddy liked Drew better. Boo hoo.

Drew was just going to tune out all the noise and play his game. What, there was a problem with it all of a sudden? Really? If there was so much wrong with it, if he was such a bad guy and a bad teammate, then why did everybody in the world want him to come play his one-and-done year of college basketball for them?

How many other
juniors
in high school who weren't even sixteen years old yet, who didn't even have their driver's license yet, could say that?

So he made up his mind: in two nights, he was going to take everything out on Conejo Valley Christian, Oakley's next opponent.

Let his game do the talking, like always. Let his
game
answer
all of them. Coach Holman acted like numbers didn't count in sports?

Then tell sports to stop keeping score.

• • •

Drew was still mad at the world the next day at practice.

He was guarding Ricky Colson, the sixth man for Oakley, a guy who could play both guard positions if he had to, and small forward. He was playing point for the second team at the end of a scrimmage, and Tyler was playing with him, to make the sides more even.

And even though Ricky hadn't called out a play, Drew knew what was coming just by his eyes—a high pick-and-roll. Trouble was, Drew read it too late.

Drew bounced off Tyler's pick and landed on his left shoulder. Hard.

When Tyler offered a hand to help him up, Drew snapped at him. “You're supposed to set screens in practice, not make me feel as if I just got hit by a car.”

Tyler kept his hand out, like he couldn't believe Drew was really mad.

Drew ignored it, got up on his own. It was the same as slapping Tyler's hand away.

“What,” Tyler said, “nobody's supposed to touch you? Maybe we should put a different uniform on you, like they do with quarterbacks in football.”

Tyler was also a tight end on the Oakley football team.

“Maybe you should just focus on basketball,” Drew said, “and think what this team would look like if I got hurt.”

It ended right there. Coach D came running in from half-court, blowing his whistle like a ref, saying practice was over, telling them that was about enough fellowship and bonding for one afternoon.

Drew iced the shoulder as soon as he got to the locker room and again when he got home. It was still sore, but not nearly sore enough for him to even think about sitting out the Conejo game. No way.

What had happened with Tyler just made him more chafed at the world.

Mr. Gilbert figured it out, though. Drew was out on the court earlier than everybody else before the game, shooting around by himself, one of the managers feeding him the ball. Just trying to see if the stiffness in his off shoulder was going to affect his shot.

“Hey, you okay?” Mr. Gilbert said when Drew came off the court.

On game nights, a seven o'clock game tonight, he was at the gym earlier than Coach DiGregorio was sometimes. Like the gym was just an extension of the man's office.

“Good to go,” Drew said, just wanting to get back inside the locker room, get his headphones on, listen to some tunes, change out of his T-shirt and sweatpants and into his uniform. “Looking to have a big night,” he said.

“You look like you're favoring your left side a little bit.”

Sometimes the man's eyes were better than a zoom lens on a camera.

“Got a little stinger at practice yesterday. Wasn't no thing.”

“Just remember, rule number one is don't get hurt.”

“I forget, what's number two?”

“See rule number one.” He put his hand on Drew's right shoulder. “So let's not be rolling around the floor tonight, got it?”

“Got it.”

“I'm serious.”

Drew grinned, wanting to get out of there. “Don't I know.”

“I
am
serious,” Mr. Gilbert said. “Nothing's going to happen to you, not on my watch. From now until you pick your college, we want them to keep talking about you, not somebody else. Might even get the next game against Park Prep—your chance for redemption—on ESPN2.”

Last game of the regular season.

“Cool,” Drew said, then told Mr. Gilbert in a nice way that he needed to go get ready for the tip and pulled away, wondering what it was going to be like, having the man in his ear the rest of his life.

• • •

The Conejo Valley Wildcats had made it to the semifinals of the league tournament the last two years, losing to Park Prep both times. But they had graduated most of their best players last season and now were starting three sophomores and two juniors. They had only managed to split the six league games they'd played so far.

Not only were the Wildcats inexperienced, they weren't particularly big. Oakley had a size advantage at every position on the court, including Drew's at point, something that didn't happen all the time.

On paper, the game should have been easy.

It wasn't on the court.

With four minutes left in the half, Oakley was down fifteen points. The Wildcats—they just had “Cats” on the front of their uniform—wouldn't miss, Tyler was on the bench with two fouls, Lee had missed all six of the three-pointers he'd attempted, and Brandon was in the locker room having a twisted ankle looked at by the trainer.

As loud as the gym had been for the Park Prep game, tonight all the noise was coming from the one pocket of the place where the Conejo fans were sitting, yelling their heads off, stomping their feet, sometimes making it sound as if this were a home game for them, as badly as they were outnumbered.

The Oakley fans seemed too shocked at what they were seeing to do anything but sit on their hands and hope things got better.

Drew was the only one keeping the Wolves in it, despite the fact that, with no one else hitting the shots, he often found himself double- or even triple-teamed on defense. There always seemed to be a crowd in his face every time one of his teammates would swing the ball back to him.

But somehow he kept finding ways to create space for himself and get his shot. The only help he was getting on offense was from Ricky Colson, who'd replaced Brandon at power forward and managed to get some easy baskets inside when Drew wasn't firing away from the outside.

Drew looked up at the clock and did what he always did in a game, whether his team was winning or losing: imagined the next four minutes as a game all by themselves. Told himself that all Oakley needed to do to
make
this a game was win these four minutes, see if they could win it by enough to cut the Conejo lead under ten going to the locker room.

He pulled Ricky aside and told him his plan.

“We just have to stop the bleeding for now,” Drew said. “Because if we're down twenty at half, we're not winning tonight.”

Ricky grinned. “I'll hang with you,” he said, “just like always. Know why?”

“Why?”

Ricky said, “'Cause it's been working for me, that's why.”

From there to the end of the half, Oakley went on a 12–2 run. Drew scored the first ten points, but on the last play before the horn, three guys on him, already up in the air, the whole gym sure he was going to score one more time, Drew passed.

Ricky came off a back screen just in time, and what might have looked to be an air ball from Drew turned out to be a perfect lob pass that Ricky—who had serious ups—caught off to the side of the rim and threw down.

Highlight reel dunk.

Now there was some Oakley noise in the gym.

They were still down five points; the scoreboard said so. But Drew could see in the faces of the Conejo Cats, just the way they walked off the court, that they felt as if they were behind now.

Drew would have been happy to start the second half right then. He'd taken one spill early in the game, drawing an offensive foul but paying full price for it, landing on his sore shoulder. But for now, he was feeling no pain because of the rush of the last four minutes.

He wasn't the one in the hurting now. The guys on the other team were. And he wanted to make it worse for them once the second half started. He wasn't losing this game now, no way.

No excuses.

On his way back onto the court for the second half, Drew noticed Callie sitting with some friends about halfway up the bleachers, across from the Oakley bench. He made sure he didn't make eye contact with her.
What did she say the other night? I can speak for myself?
Drew wondered what she had to say about the way he was playing tonight.

Not that he was going to ask.

He didn't need her or anybody else to tell him what they thought about his game tonight. He was doing what he'd always done: trying to win the game.

Only the Cats wouldn't go away. Hadn't given up because of the way the first half had ended. Even after Oakley took an eight-point lead with about seven minutes to go, and Drew thought they had to be done
this
time, they came back with eight points in a row and tied the game again.

Coming out of a time-out, Lee said, “Shouldn't they have realized by now that we're better than they are?”

Drew said, “Maybe we could text them.”

With twenty seconds to go in the game, Lee's man made a crazy three to put Conejo up by three. But Drew, who had forty points by now—out of the seventy Oakley had scored—pulled up on the break even though he could have driven the ball all the way to the iron, totally feeling it by now, and made a three of his own.

Game tied again, 70 all.

Fifteen seconds left.

Conejo was out of time-outs, but it didn't matter. Everybody in the gym knew what they were going to do, run the clock down as far as they could for the last shot, so that even if they missed, Oakley—which meant Drew—wouldn't have time for a last shot of their own.

But Lee had his own idea about how the game should end, and it didn't include giving Conejo a shot.

He knocked the ball away from his man without fouling him, a clean steal. The ball ended up loose near half-court, Drew the closest player on their team to it.

Drew saw the ball, saw Lee streaking toward their basket at the same time.

Because he could see everything.

Including the clock. Ten seconds left.

All Drew had to do was dive to get the ball. Dive and slap it in Lee's direction for the game-winning layup.

Only Drew didn't dive.

Instead, he pulled up, thinking about his shoulder, remembering how much it had hurt when he landed on it in the first half, hearing Mr. Gilbert's voice in his head, telling him to let somebody else roll around on the floor tonight. Telling him not to get hurt.

Rule number one, for Oakley's number 1.

He would tell himself later that he really thought he had enough time to pick the ball up and pass it to Lee.

Didn't matter.

Because Lee's man appeared out of nowhere, not chasing Lee the way he should have been, chasing the ball, flying past Drew like he was launching himself into a racing dive in swimming.

He
was
the one who
saved the ball from going out of bounds, slapping it to Drew's now-open man.

Who caught the ball in stride, turned, took one dribble and buried a three.

Conejo 73, Oakley 70.

The horn sounded.

Game over.