ALSO BY JOHN FEINSTEIN
THE TRIPLE THREAT
The Walk On
THE SPORTS BEAT
Last Shot: Mystery at the Final Four
Vanishing Act: Mystery at the U.S. Open
Cover-Up: Mystery at the Super Bowl
Change-Up: Mystery at the World Series
The Rivalry: Mystery at the Army-Navy Game
Rush for the Gold: Mystery at the Olympics
Foul Trouble
THIS IS A BORZOI BOOK PUBLISHED BY ALFRED A. KNOPF
This is a work of fiction. All incidents and dialogue, and all characters with the exception of some well-known historical and public figures, are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Where real-life historical or public figures appear, the situations, incidents, and dialogues concerning those persons are fictional and are not intended to depict actual events or to change the fictional nature of the work. In all other respects, any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2015 by John Feinstein
Cover photographs copyright © 2015 by Shutterstock
Cover design by Christian Fuenfhausen
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Alfred A. Knopf, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.
Knopf, Borzoi Books, and the colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.
Visit us on the Web! randomhousekids.com
Educators and librarians, for a variety of teaching tools, visit us at RHTeachersLibrarians.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Feinstein, John.
The sixth man / John Feinstein. — First edition.
pages cm.—(The triple threat ; book 2)
Summary: New kid Max Bellotti has the talent to lead the Lions basketball team straight to victory, but Max also has a secret that could disrupt their winning streak once it’s exposed.
ISBN 978-0-385-75350-0 (trade) — ISBN 978-0-385-75351-7 (lib. bdg.) — ISBN 978-0-385-75352-4 (ebook)
[1. Basketball—Fiction. 2. Coaches—Fiction. 3. Secrets—Fiction. 4. High schools—Fiction. 5. Schools—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.F3343Six 2015
[Fic]—dc23
2014045357
eBook ISBN 9780385753524
Random House Children’s Books supports the First Amendment and celebrates the right to read.
v4.1
ep
Contents
Cover
Also by John Feinstein
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
This is for Neil Oxman---underrated as a bag toter, never underrated as a friend
Alex Myers couldn’t believe how cold the ground was. He hadn’t noticed it all night, but now, as the finality hit him, he felt himself shivering in the frigid November air.
“Hey, man, great game.”
Alex looked up from his prone position and saw one of Beaver Falls High School’s massive defensive linemen leaning down, hand outstretched to help him up. He hadn’t seen where his last pass of the season had gone, but he knew it hadn’t connected. He could see the Beaver Falls players celebrating and his teammates standing around the field, staring into space or kneeling on the turf, hoping the scoreboard would change if they avoided looking at it.
But Alex looked, taking in the reality that Chester Heights High School’s dream of a state football championship had just died.
BEAVER FALLS: 28, CHESTER HGHTS: 24.
Alex and his teammates had come through in every do-or-die situation all season.
True to form, in the final minutes of this game they had driven the ball down the field, reaching the 13-yard line with four seconds left, giving them time for one more play.
There was complete calm in the huddle as Alex’s best friend, Jonas Ellington—who was also the Lions’ best wide receiver—brought in the play from the bench. It was exactly the play Alex would have called: all-stop.
There would be four receivers in the pattern. All would run straight into the end zone, strung out as far apart as possible, and then curl back to the goal line. Alex’s job was to find the first open target and get the ball to him.
“I gotta have time, guys,” Alex had said as he called the play.
“You’ll have it, Goldie,” center Steve Allison said, calling Alex by his nickname—as in “Golden Arm.”
“On three,” Alex said, and they came to the line. Alex had a vague sense that all thirty-five thousand people inside Heinz Field—the home of the Pittsburgh Steelers—were screaming, but he felt as if he were playing inside a cone of silence.
“Blue!” he barked. It didn’t matter what he said; his teammates knew the ball would be snapped on the third word he uttered. “Gold!” He paused a split second and then yelled, “Omaha!” It was his personal tribute to Peyton Manning, who had adopted the name of the Nebraska city as his signature snap call.
The ball had come back into his hands, delivered right where he wanted it from Allison’s shotgun snap. He retreated quickly, looking at all four receivers, but focused on Jonas, who was always a beat quicker than everyone else getting downfield. Sure enough, he saw him plant his foot about three yards into the end zone and spin back in the direction of the goal line.
Alex knew—knew—at that moment that they were going to make the play. But as he stepped up to throw, he sensed someone bearing down on him from the left side. He had to take a quick step to his right to avoid the rusher, and as the ball came out of his hands, he realized he hadn’t gotten everything behind the throw because of it. The Beaver Falls lineman piled into him just as he released the ball, and they went down in a heap together.
The season was over. And it didn’t have a happy ending.
The last thing Alex wanted to do the night after losing the state championship was go to the holiday dance. But he had asked Christine Whitford to go with him weeks ago, and it had taken him weeks before that to work up the nerve to ask her. You don’t blow off your first date with the prettiest girl in school because you’re sulking.
“It’ll be good for you,” his mom insisted when he came downstairs, feeling goofy in the blue blazer, white shirt, red tie, and khaki pants she had laid out for him. “You look very handsome.”
If being with Christine didn’t take his mind off the game, nothing would. She had texted him that afternoon to make sure he still wanted to go. Of course! he’d texted back, even though moping had become his favorite sport at that point.
Christine was waiting for him in the lobby just outside the gym, where the dance was being held. They had agreed to meet at school—the better, Alex thought, to avoid awkward parental hovering. Life would be much simpler in two years when he had a driver’s license.
> She looked spectacular in a black dress and low black heels. She smiled when he walked in—the smile he’d seen the first day of school in French class. Entire rooms, entire towns, lit up when Christine Whitford smiled.
“You clean up very nicely,” she said. “I’m impressed.”
“You mean surprised,” he answered.
“That too,” she said, taking his arm.
He realized as they walked in that he had forgotten to compliment her.
“Um, you look really good too,” he said. “I mean, better than good…Just, um, wow.”
Oh God, if only this were as easy as football.
She laughed. “Thanks, Alex—I get it.”
He took a deep breath. He appreciated the fact that she was trying to make it easy for him—and that she hadn’t brought up the game. Since she worked for the school newspaper, the Weekly Roar, she had been in Pittsburgh the night before too. He was about to ask her how the trip home had gone when, as the police would say, the trouble began.
“Hey, Myers, nice try. Too bad,” came one voice.
Then another: “Don’t feel bad, Alex; there’s always next year!”
And: “What happened on the last play? Sooo close.”
They were surrounded before Alex could even ask Christine if she wanted something to drink. Earlier in the year, when he was the new kid in school and surgically attached to the bench as the third-string quarterback, he would have adored the attention. Now he wanted to run and hide.
He looked up and thought he saw the cavalry coming in the form of Matt Gordon—who had been the starting quarterback and team captain until he had admitted to taking steroids just prior to the championship game. He’d been a good friend to Alex, though. A mentor and a supporter even though they both wanted the same spot on the team.
Now here he was, coming to Alex’s rescue as he had done so often in the past.
“Hey, Goldie,” he said. “You look busy. Mind if I dance with your date so she doesn’t get bored?”
Maybe, Alex thought, he was joking. Or maybe Christine would say no thanks.
No such luck.
“Do you mind, Alex?” she said. She leaned up and whispered in his ear, “I’ll be back by the time you get rid of all your fans.”
She was gone an instant later, leaving Alex with all his fans. He’d never felt more alone in his life.
It wasn’t until Sunday morning that Alex saw what had happened on the last play on Friday night. He was up early after a semi-sleepless night. He’d gotten to dance with Christine exactly once. As soon as other guys saw her with Matt, they had practically lined up to dance with her. She hadn’t seemed to mind the attention.
Alex fast-forwarded through the recording of the game until he reached the final minute and heard the breathless voice of the play-by-play announcer:
“The Pennsylvania state championship comes down to one final play! Myers is in the shotgun. He drops—Nichols almost has him! He dodges right and throws…! There’s Ellington in the end zone…! No—no! Knocked away by Kendrick Martin for Beaver Falls! It looked like the pass was there, but Martin got his hand on it at the last possible second!
“Beaver Falls wins! Beaver Falls is the state champion!”
Alex hit the mute button. He couldn’t bear to hear another word, although he did watch the Beaver Falls players celebrating. There was a brief shot of the lineman helping him up and his teammates coming to console him.
They showed a replay, and Alex could see that he’d thrown a good pass—pretty close to perfect—but the Beaver Falls defender had made a great diving play to get his hand on the ball. They had missed being state champions by about two inches.
He clicked the TV off just as his mother walked into the room.
“You watched it?” she said.
“Twice,” Alex said. “I needed to throw the ball about two inches more to the left.”
“But you couldn’t have known that….”
Alex held up his hand. “I know, Mom. I’m not beating myself up. It was a tough play and I just didn’t quite pull it off.”
“Next year,” his mom said.
Alex smiled. He’d heard that at least a hundred times the previous night. Next year was a long way off, and the team would be in upheaval. Several key seniors were graduating, and he wondered if Matt Gordon would be allowed to play after the steroid thing. Plus, there would be a new coaching staff. Matt’s father, who had been the head coach, was forced to resign after trying to cover up his son’s use of steroids by making it seem like Alex was the one using PEDs. It had been a mess. It would continue to be a mess.
“We’ll see,” Alex finally said in response to his mother. “Things will be a lot different.”
“They’ll be better,” his mom said, putting her hands on her hips in her I’m right, don’t argue with me pose. “At least you can rest a little bit now.”
Alex shook his head. “Not exactly,” he said. “I start basketball tomorrow.”
Basketball practice had started during the football playoffs, so Alex and Jonas were two weeks behind. But Tom Hillier, the interim head football coach, had pled their case with the basketball coach and had set up a meeting for them at the hideous time of 7:00 a.m. Monday morning.
Alex dragged into the gym, at 6:55. There were still remnants from the dance—extra chairs, strings of lights, and the podium where the band had been. Alex shuddered, and not just because of the cold, dark December morning.
The basketball offices were located right off the gym floor. Unlike the football offices, which were new and spacious, the basketball offices were dingy and cramped. There were two of them: one that said HEAD COACH and one across the narrow hallway that said ASSISTANTS.
Alex found Jonas standing in the hallway—there was no place to sit—leaning against the wall. Apparently Coach Archer hadn’t arrived yet.
“Thought you were going to be late, Goldie,” Jonas said sleepily. “It’s 6:59.”
“So I’m a minute early,” Alex said. “No coach?”
Jonas yawned and shook his head.
Jonas was a little taller than Alex, about six two, and had the wiry build of a wide receiver, which was what he had been all fall. Alex had played enough pickup basketball with him to know he was a very good shooter. Those long arms would serve him well.
Alex wasn’t the natural in basketball that he was in football. His “golden arm” wouldn’t do him much good on a basketball court. But his junior high coach back in Massachusetts had said he had a lot of court sense as a point guard, and Alex was hoping to move up to varsity here. Chester Heights had won only seven basketball games last year—clearly they could use some help.
He and Jonas waited in silence. Alex kept checking his watch. First period was seven-thirty and they still had to go to their lockers and make their way through the crowded hallways to get to class. If Coach Archer didn’t arrive soon, there wouldn’t be very much time to talk.
Evan Archer was new at Chester Heights. According to what Alex had read, he was thirty-six years old and had been hired from Bishop O’Connell High School in Arlington, Virginia, where he’d been an assistant coach for seven years.
The school’s website described Archer this way: “A fiery competitor throughout his playing days at Virginia Tech, he led the Hokies to postseason play in both his junior and senior years.”
Alex had looked up Archer’s college statistics. Apparently he had “led” the Hokies from the bench, because he had averaged four minutes per game as a senior and had scored a total of twenty-nine points in thirty-three games. Still, Alex thought playing for a coach who had gone to school in the ACC, one of the college basketball conferences, would be cool.
Jonas moved away from the wall he had been leaning on. There was a window that looked out on the gym floor, so he must have seen someone coming.
“About time,” Jonas mumbled, a moment before the door opened.
If Coach Archer felt any guilt about being late, he didn’t show it.
“Come on in here,” he said, unlocking the door to his office without so much as a hello, a good morning, or a thanks for coming in early.
Two chairs sat opposite Coach Archer’s desk. He gestured for Alex and Jonas to sit down.
“This won’t take long,” he said. “I know you guys have to get to class.”
Good, Alex thought, he’s at least aware of the fact that we’re expected to go to school.
“So. We’ve been practicing for two weeks and our first game, as you probably know, is Friday night,” he said. “I’m not inclined to disrupt the progress we’ve made by bringing two new guys in a few days before the opener.
“I know you couldn’t make tryouts or practice because you were playing football. And I know you were both team stars, but basketball’s a different game. So, here’s what I can do. I’ll put you with the JVs, who don’t start practice until tomorrow. That way we’ll get to see what you can or can’t do and you won’t interfere with our game prep for Wilmington North.”
Alex glanced quickly at Jonas to see his reaction to this. His face gave away nothing.
“You guys okay with that?” Coach Archer asked when neither Alex nor Jonas said anything. “If not, you can just be football heroes all winter and we’ll call it no harm, no foul.”
“I’m okay with the JVs, Coach,” Jonas said. “As long as we’ll get a chance to prove we can help the team.”
Coach Archer raised an eyebrow, then leaned forward and pointed a finger at Jonas. “Anyone who gives us a chance to win will be given a chance, Ellington. Including football heroes.”
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