Terrell was intensely grateful they’d worked out this routine last season, because the dudes were waiting in the lobby and they’d brought “friends.”
Maurice introduced him to at least a half-dozen people, including a tall man wearing a fashionable—and no doubt very expensive—sweater with an Athena logo on it.
The guy looked familiar. “Stan Montana,” he said, shaking hands with Terrell. “We met briefly in Jersey over the summer. I’m director of East Coast marketing for Athena. Great playing tonight, my man.”
Terrell remembered him. He had been the guy who had tried to get his cell phone number in the hotel lobby to pass on to “Chuck” Barkley. Terrell was about to say something about that when he heard Danny coming up behind him.
“Well, if it isn’t A-man,” he said, looking at Montana—who was a good eight inches taller than he was. “Where’s Chuck? You didn’t bring him? How about Mike? Or Kobe?”
Montana was looking at Danny with so much loathing that Terrell almost laughed out loud. He loved his point guard: fearless on the court, completely nuts off it.
“Oh, yeah,” Montana said, either remembering Danny or pretending he had just remembered. “You’re the point guard who has never had an assist passing the ball to anyone but Terrell.”
“Interesting,” Danny answered. “Terrell, how many baskets did you have tonight?”
Terrell had looked at a stat sheet so he knew the answer. “Eleven,” he said.
“Two off steals, right?”
“Right.”
“So, at most, I could have had nine assists throwing the ball to you, right?”
“Yup.”
“And yet I had sixteen assists,” Danny said. He turned to Montana. “What’s the deal, A-Man, they don’t value math skills at Athena?”
For a split second Terrell thought he was going to have to jump in between them.
Instead, Montana turned pointedly away from Danny back to Terrell. “Maurice tells me you have a great pizza joint in this town,” he said. “Why don’t we head there and let your little D-3 point guard go home and do his math homework.”
“He’s not a D-3 point guard, Mr. Montana,” Terrell said. “And if you watched the game tonight, you know it.”
Montana didn’t argue—not with Terrell.
Danny and Terrell had agreed that Danny should give him a hard time about going out with the dudes after the game, but this was even better. “I’m going, Terrell,” Danny said, looping his gym bag back over his shoulder. “Laurie and Valerie are working tonight.”
“I’ll probably see you there, then.”
Danny paused, looking genuinely pissed off at Terrell and the dudes and Montana. Then he shook his head and stalked off with James Nix.
Maurice, who had been strangely silent through the entire Danny-Montana exchange, finally spoke up. “Stan, don’t worry about the white boy—he’s always picking fights. Terrell, got a couple more people who want to meet you.” He turned to two men who had been talking to Chao and Anthony. “Dennis Murphy, Brad Burford, I want you to meet Terrell Jamerson.”
Terrell had grown accustomed to the gushing way basketball people greeted him. Murphy and Burford were no different.
Murphy, who was dressed in an expensive Athena sweat suit, looked to be about forty. He wasn’t very tall but had an air of confidence about him. “Always nice to meet the next great player,” he said, shaking hands. “I would have loved to have coached you this summer.”
“Coach Murphy runs the Total Hoops program in Hartford,” Maurice explained. “His summer team is New England Jam. You guys were in a couple tournaments with them but didn’t play them.”
“Lucky for me,” Murphy said with a fake laugh. “Hey, I talked to Coach H today. He’s up in East Lansing to play Izzo’s guys tomorrow night. He sent regards.”
Coach Hathaway and his assistant coaches had sent several texts making sure Terrell knew that Atlanta was playing at Michigan State and that the game was on ESPN Saturday night. Texting was the one way the NCAA allowed coaches to be in regular contact with recruits. Which suited Terrell, because if he didn’t want to respond—which was most of the time—he didn’t feel he had to.
“Brad’s also a coach,” Maurice was saying.
“Well, I’m a money manager in real life,” Burford said. “But because I’m still kind of addicted to the game, I take a couple of teams to play in Europe every summer. I’ve got a team for high school juniors and another for guys transitioning from high school to college.”
Guys who no doubt would be turning pro and making money pretty soon, Terrell thought. But he just nodded and said, “I’m starving. How about we go eat?”
Everyone seemed to like that idea, especially since Terrell’s attention kept getting pulled away by people offering congratulations and kids asking for autographs.
As they headed for the door, Burford, who was just about as tall as Terrell, fell into step with him. “Mind if I ride over with you? Give me a chance to talk to you quietly for a little bit.”
Terrell would have preferred to ride alone, but he couldn’t be rude. “Sure, no problem,” he said. “It’s only about five minutes away.”
“That’s plenty of time,” Burford said. “I can talk fast.”
Terrell didn’t doubt it.
By the time they arrived at Nettie’s, Burford had dropped the names of about half the players in the NBA and explained to Terrell why he was the one guy Terrell should trust, because being involved with him couldn’t possibly get Terrell into trouble with the NCAA.
“I don’t represent any school,” he said. “I played at Kentucky State twenty-five years ago, but I have nothing to do with them now. My business is helping kids who may need financial guidance. The coaching thing is just for fun. You want my advice on something, I’m there to give it. You don’t want my advice, I just shut up.”
If only, Terrell thought.
Nettie’s was packed, but Maurice had apparently made arrangements to get them the huge booth in the back. Danny was across the room with Nix and some other guys from the team. He was talking to Laurie and gave Terrell a thumbs-up—whatever that meant—as he walked by.
A moment later, Valerie appeared at their table. “Laurie made me switch so she could take Danny’s table,” she said, clearly addressing Terrell. “What can I get for you-all?”
“We’re more than happy to have you take care of us,” Dennis Murphy said. He was looking at Valerie in a way that made Terrell very uncomfortable. But if it bothered Valerie, she didn’t show it, and she took the drink orders—beer for the out-of-towners, iced tea for everyone else—and disappeared.
That seemed to be the signal for Montana, Murphy, and Burford to start their pitches. Montana wanted Terrell to understand that any Athena gear he wanted, all he had to do was ask. “No rules against it, in case you’re worried,” he said.
Murphy was so sad that Terrell wouldn’t be eligible for AAU ball the following summer. But then he had a brilliant idea. “You can come work for me at camp,” he said. “You won’t play forever. You might want to see if you enjoy coaching and get some experience.”
Burford thought Terrell might enjoy playing on one of his teams in Europe over the summer—it was a great way to keep up his skills and meet the guys who he’d be seeing soon in the NBA.
When the drinks arrived, they ordered pizzas. Maurice and the dudes kept telling Montana how much they admired Athena gear and how happy Terrell would be if his buddies were wearing Athena too. Terrell played along.
Valerie came back to check on them. The pizzas were half eaten and disappearing fast. “Anything else I can get you?” she asked. Terrell was hoping the answer would be no. He was ready to go home. But the dudes wanted more iced tea, and then Montana gestured for Valerie to come closer so he could talk quietly. “Why don’t you bring us another round of beers too. And bring me the check—with your cell number on it. I’m going to be back in town again soon.”
Terrell knew
Valerie must deal with this sort of leering all the time, but he still wanted to leap across the table and throttle Montana.
There was no need. Valerie gave Montana a look that could have frozen the sun. Then she pasted on a smile. “Iced teas, beers, and the check,” she said. “But I don’t give my number to idiots.” She looked at Terrell. “That includes you, BMOC.” She turned and walked away.
Terrell jumped up and followed her. “Hey, listen, I’m sorry about that guy,” he said, catching up to her just as she was about to go back into the kitchen. “I don’t know him at all. I’m sorry he’s such a lowlife.”
“If you don’t know him, why are you sitting with him? What are you doing with Maurice and that crowd? Why aren’t you sitting with Danny and the other guys?”
Terrell sighed. “It’s a long story.”
“Mmm-hmm, and I’m sure plenty of girls would like to hear it. But I’m not one of them.”
“Come on, Valerie, cut me a break,” he said. “It is a long story and I promise you I’m not the bad guy. Danny will back me up on this. Come to the dance tomorrow and I’ll explain.”
She looked at him, clearly trying to decide what to do.
He jumped on her hesitation. “I’ll pick you up at six thirty,” he said.
“I’ll meet you there at seven,” she answered.
He decided not to push his luck. “That’s great. I’ll meet you at seven in the lobby.”
Valerie headed into the kitchen, and Terrell walked back to the table. “I gotta get going,” he said.
“Come on, Terrell, don’t overreact,” Montana said, standing up. “I was just joking with her. I’ll apologize when she comes back.”
“You do that,” Terrell said stiffly.
“Man, I should have known the hottest girl in town belonged to you,” he said, laughing. “I didn’t mean to cross you up there. My bad, okay?”
He put out his hand. Terrell would have loved to walk away. But he had set this scene in motion for a reason.
“Yeah…okay,” he said finally, shaking Montana’s hand.
Montana leaned in for a hug. “I’ll leave a great tip. That should keep her sweet.”
Terrell bolted for the door. Of course Montana thought he could fix things with cash.… Money was what everyone wanted, right?
TWENTY-THREE
Valerie Dove proved to be a very good dance teacher. And a very good listener.
She had managed to keep Terrell from making a complete fool of himself on the dance floor for almost two hours, and then she and Laurie suggested that they all duck out to get something to eat. That sounded like a great idea to Danny and Terrell, who were eager to get the dance floor behind them and some food in front of them.
There was no chance they were going to Nettie’s. Valerie and Laurie made it clear that being anywhere close to that place when they didn’t have to work was out of the question. Carol’s was also out of the question because Danny’s dad might be there. So they went to a place called Burgers and Fries for, well, burgers and fries. Since it was already nine o’clock when they arrived, the place was relatively empty, which suited everyone fine.
They were a little overdressed, especially the girls, who were both wearing a dress and heels, but that somehow made them all feel festive. Once they were seated and had ordered something to drink, Valerie cut to the chase. “Okay, BMOC, why don’t you explain about that table full of lowlifes you were sitting with last night?”
This is not a girl who lets things slide, Terrell thought.
“You mean the dudes and their traveling circus?” Danny said, helpful as always.
“The dudes?” Laurie put in.
“That’s what Danny calls Maurice and his buddies—because they call everybody dude,” Terrell said.
“I’m more interested in the traveling circus,” Valerie said. “Everyone knows about Maurice and Anthony and those other guys. They’re just parasites, sycophants. You like sycophants, BMOC?”
Terrell wasn’t positive he knew what a sycophant was. He looked at Danny for help, but it was clear he was just as clueless.
“Yes-men, toadies, people who live off others’ talents,” Valerie said, slightly exasperated. “You guys are seniors, right?”
“But I’m not going to Harvard,” Terrell said.
“I’m not, either—not yet anyway,” Valerie said.
“Danny, I thought you said you might go to Harvard,” Laurie said.
“Not if I have to know what ‘sycophant’ means to get in,” Danny said.
“We’re off track,” Valerie said. “Tell us about the traveling circus.”
So they did. In detail. By the time they were finished, both girls looked shocked, even Valerie. “Okay. I understand how all these guys want a piece of you—I think. What I don’t understand is why you don’t just tell them to get lost.”
Terrell looked at Danny. They had left out one key element of the story: the time when Terrell had gotten high with the dudes and Eddie J.
Danny nodded encouragingly, so Terrell told the rest of the tale, and included the dudes’ implied threat to go public.
“Do you really think smoking pot once is going to change the way all those coaches feel about you?” Laurie asked when he had finished.
“No. But they might claim it was more than once. Or they might claim it was more than pot. Who knows? Plus, I want to help Bobby Kelleher with the story he’s trying to do. If I’m going to help expose these guys, I need to string them along and see what they offer me.”
“But say you manage to discredit these particular guys, aren’t there a million others?”
“Yeah,” Terrell said. “But maybe they’ll finally make some rules that affect the traveling-circus guys. And maybe players will be a little more skeptical when they start to suddenly have all these new best friends. It took me a while to figure it out. If I’d known more, maybe it wouldn’t have.”
“Skeptical. That’s a good word,” Valerie said.
“A Harvard word?” Terrell said.
“Maybe Yale,” she answered with a smile, and stole his last French fry.
He really liked this girl.
The first few weeks of the season were pretty close to perfect as far as Terrell was concerned. The team was winning easily, racing to a 9-0 record before they took their pre-Christmas break for finals. He was seeing Valerie on a regular basis when they both had free time—which wasn’t often enough for Terrell. Best of all, because the college coaches weren’t allowed to travel prior to semester break at their schools, the attention he had been getting had finally quieted down. The text messages still came daily, but he could handle that.
Even the dudes had backed off a little—though Terrell noticed they were now all decked out in Athena gear. Terrell suspected that the Athena guys, notably Stan Montana, were working as middlemen for the U of A and that if he committed to Atlanta, Maurice would make a killing. He had no intention of being delivered to anyone, but Maurice didn’t need to know that.
The Minutemen had been invited to play in a prestigious post-Christmas tournament that was being held just outside Washington, D.C. The trip down there would be interesting both for the company—Danny and Terrell were supposed to see Bobby Kelleher while they were in town—and the competition. Norwalk High School would be playing, led by their “old friend” Jay Swanson. Also in the field was Oak Hill Academy, one of the real power programs in the country. Oak Hill’s star was a last-second transfer from Mississippi named Michael Jordan. And then there was Starkville Academy, which was led by Alex Mayer.
“Be like old home week,” Danny said to Terrell when they looked down the list of teams that would be playing.
“Yeah, I’ll bet you can’t wait to talk to your pal Swanson about the good old days,” Terrell said, grinning.
“He got better as the week went on,” Danny said. “I was training him in the art of being a human being.”
“I’m sure he appreciated the help.”
With
so many powerhouse players, it was interesting that none of them had taken advantage of the early signing date in November to commit to a college. This was becoming something of a trend. A lot of players had been burned in recent years by committing in November and then finding out in March that the coach they thought they were going to play for—the coach who had said over and over that his life’s dream would be fulfilled if the player committed to play for him—was leaving for more money or more glamour (or both) someplace else.
Once you’d signed, that was it. You had to go—or sit out for a year. The NCAA insisted that a player was “committing to a university” when he signed a letter of intent. It was a nice thought, but there wasn’t an elite athlete alive for whom the coach he was planning to play for wasn’t the key reason he made his college choice.
The second reason a lot of star players waited to announce their college choices until the spring was publicity. Many made deals with ESPN to announce their decision during one of the high school all-star games that would be televised in the spring. Rumor had it that Michael Jordan had already told ESPN he would make his decision at the “Jordan Brand All-Star Game,” as long as he could do it with the man for whom the game was named standing alongside him. That fueled a lot of speculation that, in spite of what he had said during the summer, he was going to attend North Carolina, Jordan’s alma mater.
When he read that, Terrell laughed. Just as well he’d pretty much ruled out North Carolina himself. No way did he want to spend more time with Jordan than he had to.
The Minutemen flew to Washington on the day after Christmas. Almost all the big-time holiday tournaments were owned and operated by one of the shoe companies, and the teams had their expenses paid for them, allowing them to fly rather than drive and also to stay in a nice hotel. Not long after they arrived, they were on a bus heading for Georgetown Prep, where they’d be practicing and playing. Georgetown Prep had the look of a small college campus. They pulled in through the gates and saw tennis courts—indoor and outdoor—and both a football stadium and a baseball field nearby. The bus circled to the back of the gym, which was in a building that also housed a swimming pool.
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