All In (Changing Hearts Book 2)

by Yesenia Vargas

  “Yes, sir.” I turn back towards the guys. They’re all on their feet and walking out as well.

  We head back onto the court, but before we all head to our spots, I call everyone over.

  “Let’s do this. I don’t know about you, but I’m ready to win. Bobcats on three,” I say, putting my hand out. Ryan smiles and is the first to put his hand on top of mine. Then Philip and everyone else. “We can do this! ONE, TWO, THREE.”

  “Bobcats!” we yell over the sound of the cheerleaders, the crowd, and the other team.

  I finally walk out onto the court. My time is now. I don’t know if the scout is watching or not. Or if he will watch this. But I need to prove that I need to be on that college team.

  By the end of the third quarter, we’re finally tied, and the crowd is going wild. It’s like we’re a machine that clicked back into place, the gears working flawlessly together to produce something unstoppable.

  The other team is getting tired. Their coach hasn’t subbed them out at all. They work well together too, and he must not want them to lose their mojo. But we’re using their tiredness to our advantage. Henry is back in, and now Philip is resting on the bench.

  Henry dribbles the ball down the court, and Ryan runs to his spot. The rest of us open up. The ball is thrown to Ryan. He’s behind the three-point line, but instead of driving in or passing, he shoots. In. That’s his third three-pointer in the last ten minutes. The crowd cheers, and we finally breathe a small sigh of relief. We’re finally ahead. We need to keep getting the ball to Ryan while he’s hot.

  “Keep that up,” the coach calls out. “Good job, boys.” He claps his hands as we run back to our side of the court and defend. I’m shooting guard. I keep my hands up and keep my eyes on the ball, making sure no one drives in, and if they shoot, I’m ready for the rebound or a pass.

  I feel so good so far. My ankle isn’t bothering me. We’re playing good. We have a chance now. I just need to make sure their shots don’t go in.

  I watch the ball get passed around the court. Our defense is working because that’s all they can do for now. They’re staring to get desperate. The third quarter is almost over, and they’re not seeing a way in right now.

  Ryan stumbles as the guy he’s defending receives a pass and pretends to go one way. He goes the opposite way, right at me from the corner of the court. He’s gonna go for a layup around me. Good luck, buddy. I’m tall, but I’m not as slow as you might think.

  I bend my knees and put my hands up, jumping as he jumps. My hand slams into the ball. Block. Yes.

  Ryan comes out of nowhere and grabs the ball, making a run for the opposite side of the court. Henry is already down there. Ryan lunges it. Henry catches it even though a defensive player has caught up to him. The rest of us run, not far behind. But he runs and does a layup, leaving the guy behind, and the ball goes in.

  He heads back. The whistle blows. One quarter to go. Eight more minutes.

  I try not to think about the fact that the block I made last quarter was about the only good thing I’ve done the whole game. I’ve made one shot, and that’s it. I had missed three more, and now we’re only up two points. With two minutes left in the game.

  I play my own game inside my head. One voice telling me I shouldn’t be out here. Someone should sub me out because I’m not doing much to help the game. That voice is doubting my every move, making me second-guess myself. I have no idea where it came from, but I don’t like what it’s doing to me.

  Another voice is telling me there’s less than two minutes to go now, and I need to focus on winning. On the good. On the team and helping the team to victory.

  I’m not sure which voice is gonna win out. And I’m not sure if I want Coach Rogers to leave me in or take me out.

  The guy I’m defending gets the ball. I stick with him, but it’s no use. He shoots and it goes in, and suddenly, we’re tied again.

  The whistle blows, and Coach Rogers calls us over. It’s a time out. I’m doubting myself, and I’m probably not the only one. I felt so confident, so ready, just a little while ago, and now I’m just feeling completely deflated because my shots are not going in.

  We run over to the coach. “They’re starting to come back, and with a minute to go, we just can’t have it. You’re playing well out there. Don’t give up now.” His voice is hard and firm, but it’s like we’re not listening. Our heads are down, and we can’t even bring ourselves to look at each other or the coach.

  “Do you want this or not?” he asks, his voice harsher now. Louder. We finally look up. “For many of you here, this is your last year.” He looks at me. At Ryan. At Philip. And the others. “Is this how you want to end it? With not even the opportunity to make it to finals? I’ve seen what you can do.” He points towards the score. “It’s a hell of a lot better than this. So either get out there and show me what you can do or go ahead and take a seat on the bench right now.”

  We’re finally looking at Coach Rogers. At each other. Nodding. Wiping sweat away. Murmuring. We can do this. He’s right. It doesn’t matter what happens with the scout, if I get recruited or not. I need to focus on the now. I need to leave my best on this court tonight. We all do.

  The referee blows the whistle. We run back out. If we can hold off the other team for just one more minute, we can win. If we can do that and make another basket or two, we can win.

  I look at the clock. Twenty seconds left. We’re up three points. I had finally managed to put in a basket. Now the other team’s point guards are coming at us. Fast.

  I’m so happy, but I have to be careful. They can still win if we let our guard down.

  I switch my gaze between my guy and the guy with ball. No way is he gonna pass over here. But all of a sudden, the guy I’m defending cuts and breaks left. The sounds of sneakers and haggled breathing and yelling fills my ears.

  I sprint to stay with him, but the point guard’s already thrown him the ball. He shoots. I jump to block him, and I feel my hand hit his wrist. Damn. His shot goes in, and the referee’s whistle sound throughout the gym, and a second after that, it’s the buzzer.

  I look at the scoreboard. The numbers switch from 54-51 to 54-53. And they get a free throw.

  A few people in the crowd yell out at the referee, but it was the right call. Because of me, they can still win. The players on the other team yell and jump. The referee makes us all go behind the half court line as the guy lines up at the free throw line to take his shot.

  The cheerleaders are loud and so is the crowd, anything to break this guy’s concentration, but the rest of us are watching, silent. Hoping it’s not over already.

  The guy, number thirty-three, dribbles the ball. He takes it in his hands, and the pit in my stomach grows bigger, and he releases the ball into the air.

  It makes a perfect arc towards the rim. I can’t tell if it’s going in or not. It looks like it is.

  It bounces on the rim, hangs precariously for a split second, and falls out.

  I can’t believe it. Number thirty-three has his head in his hands. Meanwhile, I breathe a sigh of relief, my mouth forming a smile. The other team walks off the court. We’re jumping up and down. Ryan is yelling beside me, but I feel deaf. We’re that much closer to the finals.

  “Jimmy, get over here,” the coach says to me after practice the next week. We’d had one more game, an easy one, and won. But I still hadn’t heard from the scout.

  “Yes, Coach?” I jog over as everyone else heads back to the locker room.

  He takes a deep breath, and I wonder what he’s going to say.

  He finally looks at me but still doesn’t say anything.

  “Is it about Coach Blair?” I ask.

  He’d come to the last game and spoken with me and Coach Rogers. He’d mentioned that he’d know soon if I would get an offer or not. The spring signing period is in a few weeks. Which made me question if I was gonna be chosen or not. All the top picks were already signed in the fall. Spring is my chance. I just thou
ght they needed more time to see me play, but now I’m not getting a good vibe. I should have heard by now.

  “The scout gave me a call last night. They’re just not sure right now. He’s noticed a difference…in your abilities ever since you got hurt.”

  I sigh and look down. And nod. “I’m playing the best I can. I just need a little more time to get back to where I used to be. I know I can be even better.”

  “I don’t doubt that,” the coach replied. “But they don’t know you like I do. I think someone else has caught their eye. But it’s not too late. Keep practicing. If you want this as much as you say you do—“

  “I do,” I say.

  “Good. Then practice like your life depends on it. Because it does. The next few weeks will dictate where you’ll be six months from now.”

  I nod several times, not really listening anymore.

  I am not going to give up.

  I will do whatever it takes to play.

  That day and the rest of the week, I don’t stop practicing when practice is over, not wanting to break focus to go all the way home. I stay at the school gym and don’t stop until I’ve shot a hundred free throws in a row. Or until the coach kicks me out because he wants to go home.

  Some days, Ryan stays with me and we play one-on-one or try some drills. Other days, he goes home, too exhausted to keep playing.

  My parents finally get me a car. Or actually, a truck. It’s a red ’99 Ford F250, and I’m pumped about it, but I only take it out for a test drive. I keep practicing my shots in the driveway at home. Then I start driving to school, and I’m surprised when Ryan rejects my offer of driving him home.

  “Dude, come on. I know you’ve gotta be sick of riding the bus.” We pull into his driveway after practice

  “It’s okay. I don’t mind. I usually take a nap anyways.”

  I try to see if he’s just trying to not be a bother or something, but he turns away, and I shrug. “Suit yourself, man.”

  I start to joke that he’s probably the only senior still riding the school bus, but he’s already out of my car and walking down his driveway.

  After I get home every night, I turn on the light outside the garage that my dad uses when he’s working on a car or something. And I keep practicing until my mom finally makes me come in for dinner and a shower.

  As I’m falling asleep, I do the math. I’ve been practicing over four hours a day, almost five.

  But I don’t care. As soon as Mr. Blair sees how much better I’m getting, I can cut back. And see Mayra again.

  The next morning, I notice all of Mayra’s text messages. Five of them. Asking what I’m up to. When I’ll be able to see her.

  Sorry, babe. Love you.

  Then I notice the time, that I’m gonna be late if I don’t leave in ten minutes. I’m not sure if I hit send. I’m already getting ready for another day of practice.

  Basketball season will be over soon. And while I’m finally back to playing how I used to—no, better—Ryan seems to be doing the opposite. He’s way off during games and practices. And he misses another practice.

  I keep looking towards the gym doors, wondering if he’s gonna walk in any minute.

  “Where the hell is Ryan?” coach asks. He looks at me again. And I lie. I have to.

  “I think he’s sick, Coach,” I say. Then I remember. “He wasn’t in school.”

  “Unless he’s in a coma, the rules still apply. He has to let me know before practice that he won’t be here. So you tell him he’s benched tomorrow.”

  “Yes, sir,” I say, ignoring the stares of everyone else. They know what I do. Ryan might be sick, but the odds are that something else is going on.

  I wonder what it is this time. And why he didn’t mention anything. To me or the coach. He should have told me if something was going on with his parents again. Maybe his dad is in jail again. Or his mom is having one of her days. But he would have told me. Why didn’t he say anything?

  I push it out of my mind, though, and get back to practice.

  I dribble the ball down the court and go in for a layup. I grab the ball and dribble back.

  I wanted to stay and practice again today, but it looks like I’ll have to see what’s going on with Ryan instead.

  The first place I head to after practice is Ryan’s house. It’s already dark outside on my way there. And cold and wet. I put on my team hoodie as I get out of the car. I wonder if I should leave the car on, if this is gonna take long. But I decide to turn off my truck. This might be a while.

  I take the keys out of the ignition and put them in my pocket. I run up the driveway and to his front door. I see a couple of lights on. Somebody’s home.

  I knock a few times, hoping he hears me. I try to listen for footsteps or any kind of movement, but nothing.

  I take out my phone and text him.

  Hey, I’m outside. Open the door.

  I stare at the screen for a minute. Nothing. Is he asleep or something?

  I knock again, this time a little harder.

  I look at the doorbell, but I don’t want to ring it. I know it annoys the hell out of his dad.

  I knock one more time, again a little louder.

  Two more minutes pass by, and now I can’t feel my fingers. Nothing.

  I finally jab the doorbell, hearing it ring inside.

  I finally hear some footsteps coming to the door.

  And the door opens.

  “Hey—” I freeze. “Mrs. Hart. How are you? Is Ryan home?” I stare between Ryan’s mom and the inside of the house. She looks ten years older than the last time I saw her, last summer, when I went to visit her and Ryan at the hospital. She’s wearing sweatpants and a huge t-shirt. It looks like she hasn’t even used a hairbrush in ages. Her eyes look tired and glazed over and red. And I can smell it from here.

  She’s high.

  “Oh, Jimmy. Hi. How are you?” She smiles at me, but I can’t really smile back.

  “I’m doing okay.”

  “Oh. Ryan.” She looks around, remembering my question. “Um, he was here this morning. But he hasn’t gotten home from school.”

  I look to the side and back. He clearly should have been back. “Did he say if he was going anywhere? Maybe meeting someone?”

  I see her think. “No, I’m not sure. He was upset about—well, he should be back soon. I’ll tell him you came by.”

  I hear a cough from down the hallway, and she closes the door a few inches. “Bye, Jimmy.”

  “Bye.” She shut the door the rest of the way. So his mom and dad were home. Getting high. His dad was probably too out of it to even get mad about the noise.

  Where had Ryan gone?

  I get into my car and quickly turn it on, putting my hands in front the air vents for a few seconds before backing into the driveway and turning around.

  Then I try to think of where Ryan would go.

  I head into town, but I decide I need to figure some stuff out first instead of driving randomly around town, hoping I’ll run into Ryan. I drive into a small gas station near my house and park.

  I check my phone’s contacts, looking for people I know from school, and start texting them, asking if they’ve seen Ryan.

  A couple of text messages get responses in a few minutes, but one says they haven’t seen him, and the other person is asking who I am. Changed number, I guess.

  I wait a few more minutes.

  And think. I don’t think he’d go to the mall or anything like that. He must be at someone’s house.

  I get a couple of more notifications.

  No one’s seen him.

  I drive back towards my house, towards the neighborhoods around it. I know he hangs out with people who live in some of those neighborhood sometimes because they’re within walking distance for him. I stay on the main road and drive slowly, scanning the sidewalk. I go into the first neighborhood on the right and drive around, feeling like I’m wasting my time, like I’m not going to find him. I’m starting to get frustrated. I
don’t see him anywhere.

  I go back to the main road and drive into another neighborhood. Still nothing.

  For some reason, I decide to drive all the way down the road, passing neighborhoods left and right, including ours.

  That’s when I see him.

  Walking into the neighborhood. His back is to me, but I’m pretty sure it’s Ryan from the way he walks and the clothes he’s wearing. That looks like his basketball hoodie.

  I turn at the last second and stop right beside him.

  It’s him, all right.

  He keeps walking, though. He must not recognize my car or something. I open the window of the passenger side and drive a few feet until I’m caught up with him again.

  “Ryan!” I call out. He turns to me and walks over. “Get in.”

  He jogs over, opens the door, and slams it behind him.

  His hood is on, and I can’t really see his face in the dark, but he reeks.

  Of marijuana and alcohol.

  “Hey,” is all he says. I don’t go anywhere.

  “What are you doing?” I ask. “Where were you?”

  “With Preston. At his house.”

  I finally press the gas and head towards his house. “Why weren’t you at practice? Coach says you’re benched tomorrow.”

  He shrugs. “I don’t care. I just didn’t feel like going.”

  He rests his head back and closes his eyes.

  “What happened?” I ask. “You said you weren’t going to do this anymore.”

  Silence. Then he replies, “I lied, I guess.”

  I’m looking between him and the road. “I can’t believe you, man. This isn’t helping you. You’re just making everything worse. At least with basketball—”

  “What?” he asks, looking at me. “With basketball, what? I can go somewhere? Like you? I don’t think so. Just face it. I am. I know I’m going to be stuck here forever. In some crappy job like my dad and the rest of my family. Might as well escape it from time to time.”

  “Ryan, don’t do this,” I say. We’re in front of his house now. I park the car, but I’m not about to let him leave yet.