Playing The Game

by Jeff Shelby

  He had been unusually optimistic since we'd moved, even after his initial job fell through and money got squeezed and I knew he was worried. So what he was saying sounded like the truth.

  “Being mad wasn't good for me or for you,” he said. “Or for anyone around me. I don't know if I've forgiven her yet for going that route, but I know I let go of the anger. Because it was the right thing to do.”

  I closed my eyes. “Doing the right thing sucks sometimes.”

  “Amen, dude,” my dad said. “Amen.”

  FIFTY FOUR

  The speaker crackled as I sat down in history, avoiding looking in Amy's direction.

  I had no idea if she was pissed at me or how she felt about me, but I'd tossed and turned all night, wondering where she was at and what was going to happen. By the time I'd finally started to fall asleep, my alarm blared in my ear and I hit the snooze button three times before finally pulling myself out of bed.

  “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,” an all too happy voice said from behind the speaker. “It's time to announce our royal court for this year's annual Winter Ball.”

  I slunk down in my desk, ready to fall asleep and wondering how I was going to stay awake, not just for my classes, but for the game that night. Scouts were still coming, as far as I knew. I was not in great shape. I needed to get my act together.

  The all too happy voice read some names belonging to freshmen and sophomores. Then she got to the juniors.

  “Our junior prince this year is...Brady Mickelson,” the voice said.

  Jake turned and looked at me, then chuckled and shook his head. “Fucking royalty.”

  I couldn't think of anything I wanted less right at that moment than to be some goddamn royal figurehead at a stupid dance.

  “And our junior princess is...Amy Mitchell,” the voice said.

  Jesus fucking Christ.

  I twisted in my seat to look at her. She was leaning forward, staring down at her desktop, shaking her head, a weird smile on her face, like she wasn't surprised in any way.

  I heard Derek's name and Ty's name as the voice announced the senior court, then encouraged us all to make our plans to attend the dance, tickets would be on sale at lunch, blah blah blah.

  As if life wasn't already fucked up enough.

  Our teacher started in on a lecture about World War I, but I only half-listened, occasionally jotting down something he said in my notebook. I couldn't concentrate, couldn't focus. Halfway through the class, he stopped lecturing, giving us time to read and answer some of the study questions at the end of the chapter. I was no more successful at answering those than I was at taking notes.

  “Hey,” a voice whispered from my left.

  I turned.

  Amy was looking at me.

  “I'm not going,” she whispered.

  “Not going where?”

  “To the stupid ass dance.”

  “Uh, okay.”

  She waited for me to say something else.

  “We're supposed to go together,” she said.

  “Okay.”

  “But there's no way I'm going.”

  “Okay.”

  She frowned at me, like I wasn't getting it.

  “They're going to expect us to go,” she said.

  “Who?”

  “Everyone,” she said, exasperated. “They are going to act like we have to go. And I'm telling you right now, I'm not.”

  “Yeah, I heard you,” I said. “I got it.”

  “So you'll have to find someone else to go with you,” she whispered.

  “Why the fuck would I go?” I asked.

  “Because you have to.”

  “But you aren't.”

  “That's different.”

  “How?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Because it is.”

  I looked around the room. Nearly everyone had their heads down, working on the assignment. Our teacher was staring at the monitor on his laptop.

  I looked back to Amy. “That's a stupid answer.”

  Her mouth puckered and her hand balled into a fist on the desktop. “I'm just telling you. I'm not going.”

  “I heard you the first time,” I said. “I'm not going, either.”

  She went back to reading the textbook, shaking her head.

  She was crazy if she thought I was going to stand on some podium, pretending to be something I wasn't. Even if my life had been perfect at that moment, I would've balked at doing the whole royalty thing. It wasn't me. But now, given everything that had happened, there was no way in hell anyone was going to tell me I had to go put on a plastic crown and wave to the crowd.

  Especially if Amy wasn't doing it.

  FIFTY FIVE

  “I assume you're thrilled,” Cam said.

  The entire day sucked. Half the people I knew were congratulating me on something I didn't give a shit about, and the other half were watching me out of the corners of their eyes. Jake and I sat down with Amy at lunch and she promptly stood and moved to another table. Jake informed me that my teammates were watching me the entire time we ate, lasers shooting out of their eyes. So having Cam show up at my locker after school just really put the cherry on top of a really shitty day.

  I pulled the books from my bag and slid them into my locker. “What?”

  “With the results,” she said. “The Winter Ball.”

  “I can't think of anything I care less about, Cam.”

  “Right,” she said. She ran a hand through her hair and I hated that I remembered what it smelled like, what it felt like. “I'm sure you're really disappointed that you and Amy both got chosen.”

  “Again,” I said, arranging the books in my locker, “I don't give a shit.”

  “Her election was a joke,” she said. “You know that, right?”

  “Are you deaf?” I asked, frowning at her. “I don't care.”

  “Her starring role in that movie pushed her over the top,” she said. Her eyes glittered. “Everyone can't wait to see what she does next. Maybe she can add a couple guys at the dance in the bathroom or something.”

  I slammed the locker door shut and it echoed down the hallway. Cam took a step back.

  “I don't care about the fucking dance and I don't care about your commentary and I don't care about you,” I said, staring at her. “Can you hear what I'm saying?”

  “I'm going with Derek,” she said, smirking. “He asked me today.”

  I started laughing, then shook my head. “That is absolutely perfect. You guys are perfect for one another.”

  “Fuck you, Brady,” she said, clearly pissed that I wasn't pissed.

  “Just make sure you make it clear to him,” I said, slinging my bag over my shoulder.

  “Make what clear to him?” she asked.

  I walked over to her and she took another step away from me so her back was against the chain link fence that separated the hall from the grass.

  I leaned down over her. “Make sure you're clear with him on whether or not you'll fuck Ty and Blake, too. I know you said you weren't down with that, but make sure he's clear on it.”

  She reached up to slap me, but I raised my arm and her hand glanced off my forearm.

  “Dick,” she hissed.

  I pointed at her. “Yes. Be clear on those.”

  I laughed again and stood straight so I wasn't right in her face.

  “Why the hell are you so hung up on her?” Cam asked, and it almost came off as a whine. “What’s so special about that foul little slutbag? What the hell do you even like about her?”

  I couldn't believe I'd slept with Cam. It had been great in the moment, but I'd missed all the signs of what she really was: a petty, snotty little high school social climber who totally wanted to use me, in a number of ways. I'd gotten sucked in. Pretty girl at the party pretending to be interested in me, then me trying to convince myself that she was more than the hot girl who was interested in me. She'd never been interested in me. She was interested in who everyone else thought I w
as. It made me nauseous to think that I'd given so little thought to sleeping with her. I felt so stupid.

  “What do I like about her?” I repeated. I clutched at the strap over my shoulder. “For starters, I like that she's not you.”

  FIFTY SIX

  I didn't go home because Coach was requiring us to watch the sub-varsity games before our team meal. So I pulled on my sweats, climbed up to the last row of the bleachers, yanked my hood over my head, and gave off the general impression that I wanted to be left the fuck alone. The guys were spread out in the bleachers, barely paying attention to the games on the floor, most of them with headphones on and their phones out. Derek glanced in my direction once, but quickly looked away. No one else bothered me and no one spoke to me during our team meal, which was mostly quiet anyway as people stuffed food into their mouths.

  I went through my usual routine in the locker room. Put on my uniform. Pulled on the socks and shoes. Puked in the toilet. Washed my face. It felt like every other game I'd played in the last few years.

  But there was also something gnawing at me, telling me it was going to be different. I wasn't sure if it was because I knew scouts would be there or because of the tension that seemed to be rising by the second with the team, but I just felt a little off.

  We did our warm-ups. The gym was full and hot and loud. My dad was by the door in his usual spot, leaning against the wall. Jake was up with a group of guys. Cam had red cardinals on her cheeks, wearing a white t-shirt with Derek's jersey number carefully printed on the front. Amy wasn't there. I couldn't identify the scouts for sure as I scanned the faces in the bleachers, but I saw a few guys in golf shirts and wondered if they'd be watching me closely.

  The horn blew, the anthem played, and we were introduced. Coach gave his rah-rah talk and we spread out on the floor for the opening jump.

  And I didn't touch the ball for almost five minutes.

  It was subtle at first. Derek was driving a lot to the basket, taking advantage of a defender who was probably half a step too slow to guard him. He scored twice and was fouled twice. Then he kicked the ball to Blake's side. Then he found both Ken and Ty down low for easy baskets. Then he drove again, even when they switched a better defender onto him and he dribbled the ball off his leg, out of bounds.

  While I was standing wide open on the wing with his old defender now trying to guard me.

  We were down four and I hadn't touched the ball yet.

  I kept moving, easily separating from the kid that was on me. And Derek kept making sure the ball went somewhere else. Blake missed two jumpers from his side. Ty airballed a four-footer from the block. Ken nailed a short jump hook from the key.

  And I was invisible.

  Derek fed Ken the ball again next time down and the defense collapsed on him. I flattened out to the three-point line and called for the ball. Ken fired the ball at me and I caught it on balance, launching an easy twenty-footer.

  It clanged off the back of the rim and the other team rebounded and took it down and scored again.

  The buzzer sounded, ending the first quarter. I looked up at the scoreboard. We were down eight.

  I sat down on the bench and waved off the water that was offered to me. I was seething. Not only was I not seeing the ball, but we were losing, too. Because my teammates were assholes.

  Coach knelt in front of us, barking out instructions about spreading the floor and playing smart and getting back on defense. He didn't mention getting the ball to me.

  The horn sounded and we stood, then walked out onto the floor.

  I sidled up next to Derek. “Don't be stupid. The kid guarding me can't hang with me. Blake can't make shit. Get me the ball.”

  Derek sniffed, stared straight ahead. “I got it.”

  It was our ball to start the quarter. Derek brought the ball up the floor. I feinted like I was going to float out to the three-point line and my defender bit, overplaying me all the way out to the line. I planted my foot, cut hard to the basket and raised my hand when no one was within five feet of me.

  Derek looked at me.

  Then looked away and passed it to Blake, who launched a shitty sixteen-footer that banged off the rim and into the hands of the other team.

  They were freezing me out.

  They cared more about making me look bad than winning the game.

  I don't know why that came as such a surprise, but it did. Maybe I'd convinced myself that no matter all the shit that had gone on, they still wanted to win games. But it was just talk, and I should've known it. They wanted to win, but it had nothing to do with basketball games.

  The half ended and I'd touched the ball two more times, both on passes from Ken.

  I missed both shots.

  We were down twelve.

  As we walked off the floor, my dad was in his spot and I could see the tension in his shoulders. He raised his eyebrows at me.

  I shrugged and shook my head.

  Then I saw one of the guys in the golf shirts stand and descend the bleachers. He had an iPad in his hand and an Arizona logo on his golf shirt. He stopped to talk to my dad and they shook hands. My dad gave the guy a shrug similar to the one that I'd given him.

  Shit.

  I was the last one in the locker room, and Ken was already screaming.

  “What the fuck are we doing?” he yelled, slamming his hand against his locker. “Jesus fucking Christ!”

  “Calm down,” Derek said, sitting on the bench and toweling off his face. “We're fine.”

  “No, we are not fine,” Ken yelled. “Blake's a goddamn black hole who can't hit shit, and Ty's taken more shots in the first half than he's taken in two years.” Then he pointed at me. “And the one guy who should be shooting the fucking ball has barely touched it!”

  Derek looked down the room at me, his hair slicked with sweat, his eyes impassive. “He hasn't been open.”

  I laughed and shook my head, sitting down in front of my own locker.

  “On what fucking planet?” Ken said, wide-eyed. “The kid guarding him can't even find him!”

  “He's oh for four,” Ty said, glancing down at me. “He's not hitting shots, either.” He paused. “Probably the pressure of all those scouts watching.”

  And there it was. Derek had said he could make it worse for me and he was proving it. They knew the game mattered for me, and they were making sure I couldn't do anything. Total payback.

  Coach burst into the locker room and went nuts for a minute, calling us losers and pathetic and telling us how embarrassing it was to be losing to an inferior team. There was no strategy, there was no game-planning, there was no adjusting. Just yelling at us and telling us to get our shit together before we came back out on the floor. He stormed out and said he'd be waiting.

  Derek stood. “You guys heard him. Let's get it together.”

  I stood. “Get me the fucking ball.”

  Derek's face screwed up with irritation. “Easy, superstar. We play as a team around here.”

  “No, you don't,” I said. “You play like assholes.”

  “Hey, fuck you,” Ty said, stepping up next to Derek.

  “You play like assholes who think you're the kings of this school who can do whatever the fuck you want,” I said. “You're pathetic.”

  The crowd roared on the other side of the wall, like they were a mile away.

  Derek pursed his lips and looked around the room before settling his gaze on me. “You're just pissed because you can't score tonight and the scouts probably already left.” He shrugged. “Happens, man.” Then he gave me a little smile. “Told you. Sucks when things go from bad to worse.”

  He looked around the room. “Let's go.”

  Every single guy followed him out of the room, even Ken, who at least hesitated before shaking his head and heading back out.

  I stood there for a minute, totally alone in the locker room, as alone as I'd ever felt. I could feel my future slipping through my fingers, and there was nothing I could do to stop it.
>
  I'd picked a fight that I couldn't win. Or maybe there wasn't anything to win.

  Either way, I knew I was screwed.

  FIFTY SEVEN

  We lost by twenty-four.

  They continued to act like I was invisible, and the only times I touched the ball were when Ken passed it to me or when I got a rebound. Coach screamed and stomped on the sideline, but it didn't change anything. I finished with three points, and I didn't see any of the golf shirt guys after we shook hands with the other team.

  My dad gestured at the floor, wanting to know if I wanted him to stick around. I shook my head. He nodded and then gave me a look that told me he thought he understood my frustration and he was sorry.

  If he only knew.

  Coach spoke to us in a hoarse voice in the locker room, at a complete loss for what he’d just witnessed. But if he realized that his captains froze out the best player, he made no mention of it. He told us to take the weekend off and to come back on Monday ready to work.

  Whatever.

  I stripped out of my uniform and fired it into my locker. The others headed for the showers. I wanted no part of spending any more time with them than I had to, so I pulled on my sweats, bagged up my gear, and slammed my locker.

  “I told you,” Derek said.

  I turned around. He was standing by the door, a towel wrapped around his waist.

  “I told you I could make it worse,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “You get me now?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I get you now.”

  He studied me for a moment. “So can we put all this shit behind us and get back to winning games? Are you ready to get back with the program? And put all this shit with Mitchell away and keep your mouth—”

  “I already told him,” I said, picking up my bag.

  Derek stood rock-still, blinked a couple of times. “What?”

  I slung the bag over my shoulder and walked over to him. “I already told Coach. About Amy.”

  He laughed and shook his head, like he felt sorry for me.