Last Shot (27 page)

“But
shouldn’t
he go to jail?” Stevie asked.

“They should all do time,” Applebaum said. “But we have the least firsthand evidence against Koheen. We probably need Whiting’s testimony.”

They were all led to a room that had been set up for a press conference. Before they went in, Stevie asked if Agent Applebaum could send someone to find out if Bill Brill and Dick Weiss were there, and if so, could they see them before they had to go inside. When Brill and Weiss were brought back, Stevie and Susan Carol told them that they would tell them everything after the press conference was over.

“Bill and I have talked,” Weiss said. “We have a better idea. Why don’t you two guys write your own story and we’ll run it in our newspapers under your byline.”

Stevie and Susan Carol looked at their dads. “I’ve already changed our flight to tomorrow morning,” Bill Thomas said.

“Same with me,” Reverend Anderson said.

“Then let’s do it,” Susan Carol said.

Stevie turned to Chip. “So are we on the record
now
, Chip?”

Chip laughed. “Completely on the record. The whole story. You guys are the only ones who know it all.”

Alan Graber looked at Chip. “You ready to go in there?” he said.

“Ready if you are,” Chip said.

“You two kids ready?” Applebaum asked.

“Reporters aren’t supposed to be part of the story,” Susan Carol said.

Stevie laughed. “At least they won’t call us student-athletes,” he said.

“You know what?” Alan Graber said. “You guys shouldn’t just write a story about all this,” he said. “You should write a book.”

Susan Carol nodded, grinning. “What do you think, Stevie, should we do a book together?”

“I think we should probably get good at writing newspaper stories first,” he said.

She leaned down and said softly, “But you’re
already
good at that.”

“Don’t start with me, Scarlett,” he said.

She gave him the smile. “Let’s go get this over with so we can write.”

That sounded good to Stevie. Just about perfect, in fact. They followed Applebaum and the Grabers onto the podium and into the glare of the TV lights.

Stevie knew he had been right about one thing from the beginning: this would
not
be his last Final Four. And now he knew one other thing for sure: there would
never
be another one quite like this one.

At least he hoped not.

D
ON
’
T MISS BOOK 2 IN THE
S
PORTS
B
EAT MYSTERIES!

Stevie and Susan Carol cover the U.S. Open tennis tournament in

V
ANISHING
A
CT
.

Excerpt copyright © 2006 by John Feinstein. Published by Alfred A. Knopf, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books, a division of Random House LLC, a Penguin Random House Company, New York.

1:
IM FROM SCDEVIL

STEVIE THOMAS
knew he needed a shower but, as usual, he couldn’t resist sitting down at his desk to see if any of his friends had e-mailed while he had been out playing golf with his dad. It was a hot, humid August day, and walking eighteen holes had worn him out.

“You aren’t even fourteen yet,” his dad had said as Stevie slowly climbed the last hill on the eighteenth hole at Bluebell Country Club. “You aren’t supposed to get tired.”

Stevie would be fourteen in September. But he
was
tired. He had played pretty well—breaking 90 always made him happy—but a hot shower and a nap before dinner was all he wanted right now.

First, though, he would check his e-mails. He signed on to his computer—his sign-on was “kidwriter”—and had begun trolling through the spam and notes from friends when he heard a ringing sound that told him he had an Instant Message coming in. When he saw who it was from, he smiled.

“Wht R U up to?” was the opening question from “SCDEVIL.”

“Just played golf w/my dad,” he answered. “2 hot.”

The response came back almost before he had sent his reply. “It is a balmy 99 here—heat index much worse than that.”

Stevie could imagine what it was like in Goldsboro, North Carolina, given how hot it was in Philadelphia. “Wht R U doing?” he asked.

Susan Carol Anderson—aka SCDEVIL, because she was a fanatic fan of Duke, a basketball team Stevie had only recently learned not to hate—was a month younger than Stevie but, at least the last time he had seen her in April, a good four inches taller and much older-looking too. Still, not long after they had met in New Orleans during the Final Four, Stevie had conceded to himself that he had a crush on her. He told no one, not even his dad, in part because she was too tall for him, in part because he wasn’t going to admit a crush on
anyone
at this point in his life.

Stevie and Susan Carol had been the winners of a writing contest that had earned them each a trip to the Final Four, complete with press credentials. It was the most unbelievable thing that’d ever happened to Stevie. Literally. Soon after arriving, they had stumbled across a plot to blackmail Chip Graber, Minnesota State’s star point guard, to throw the national championship game. They had managed to foil the plot, allowing Graber to dramatically hit the winning shot in the championship game against Susan Carol’s beloved Duke Blue Devils. Even she had admitted to being happy with that outcome.

Stevie and Susan Carol had gotten a lot of media attention for their involvement—what his father called their “fifteen minutes of fame.” They even got to go on Letterman together. That was the last time he had seen her, but they IM’d all the time.

Now she was typing a long answer to his question about what she was doing, and Stevie could almost see her smiling at him through the computer screen.

“Really exciting news,” she said. “I convinced the spts. ed. at the Fayetteville paper to credential me to go to U.S. Open tennis next week. School doesn’t start until week after. Dad and Mom said I can stay w/my uncle in Manhattan!”

Stevie stared at the screen, instantly envious of the Instant Message. He knew Susan Carol loved tennis almost as much as she loved basketball. He was more into golf than tennis, but he did follow it, even though his father insisted the game hadn’t been the same since the retirements of John McEnroe and Jimmy Connors. He was too young to remember either of them as players, but he thought McEnroe was good on television. His favorite tennis player, by far, was Nadia Symanova. He had a poster of her hanging over his bed to prove it. She was another in the recent line of gorgeous Russian players—following in the footsteps of Anna Kournikova and Maria Sharapova, among others—who had shot up the world rankings. She was sixteen and had been the talk of Wimbledon after getting to the semifinals, only to lose in three sets to Venus Williams.

Stevie did
not
have a crush on Symanova. That would have implied that he knew her or might somehow have a chance someday to even meet her. What’s more, if Susan Carol was too tall for him at five foot eight, then what was Symanova, who was six feet tall? Besides, every time Stevie picked up a magazine he saw Symanova walking into or out of a party with some movie star or famous young athlete. Now Susan Carol was going to get to go to New York and see Symanova and the rest of the U.S. Open from up close.

“Great news,” he finally typed. He thought for a second and then added, “I’m jealous.”

Susan Carol’s answer came flying back. “U shud go 2.”

He was baffled by that one. “How?” he answered.

“EZ. Write to Kelleher. I still have his e-mail if U don’t. Ask him to help U get a credential. U can help him or something. He knows everyone.”

It wasn’t a bad idea. Bobby Kelleher was a columnist for the
Washington Herald
who had helped Stevie and Susan Carol immensely in New Orleans. The chances were good he would be covering the Open. “Worth a shot,” he wrote back. “What’s his e-mail?”

She sent it to him: “[email protected].” He actually knew what that meant because Kelleher had told him that when he played basketball at the University of Virginia, his career scoring average had been 0.9 points per game. “I’ll let U know,” he said.

“Tell your parents U can stay with me at my uncle’s apartment,” she wrote back. “He’s divorced so he has lots of room.”

Another good idea. His parents certainly wouldn’t let him go to New York for a week and stay in a hotel alone. And he knew neither of his parents could take a week off from work since they had just gotten back from vacationing at the beach. Staying in Susan Carol’s uncle’s apartment had one other benefit: he would get to spend more time with her.

He just hoped she hadn’t gotten any taller.

Stevie sent the e-mail to Kelleher, asking him to write him back whenever he got a chance. The Open started in five days. He was afraid he might be asking too late. A couple of hours later he was sitting on the family room couch watching his favorite TV show,
Daily News Live
. The show aired on weekdays and featured Michael Barkann and three sportswriters—different ones each day—from the
Philadelphia Daily News
. Stevie liked the show for two reasons: First, the
Daily News
guys always had opinions and were very willing to share them, even to the point of occasionally shouting at guests while asking them questions. Second, he knew several of the show’s regulars: Dick Jerardi had been the first reporter to help him out when he began trying to go to local sporting events and learn about journalism. Through Jerardi he had met writers he had read locally for years, including the deans of Philadelphia sports journalism: Bill Conlin and Stan Hochman of the
Daily News
and Bill Lyon of the
Philadelphia Inquirer
. Jerardi had even invited him to sit on the set during the show once and introduced him to Barkann.

Conlin and Jerardi were having a heated debate about whether or not baseball players who used steroids should be in the Hall of Fame when Stevie’s mom walked into the living room carrying the phone. He had been so caught up in the show he hadn’t heard it ring. “It’s Bobby Kelleher,” she said.

Surprised, Stevie took the phone. “Let me guess,” Kelleher said without saying hello. “Susan Carol figured out a way to get to the Open and you want to come too.”

Stevie felt his face flush. “How’d you know that?” he said.

“I remember how my mind worked when I was a teenager,” Kelleher said.

“Actually, it was her idea that I contact you,” Stevie said. “I didn’t know you had my phone number.”

“You gave it to me in New Orleans, remember? Anyway, she’s a smart girl, because not only can I get you in, but I’d be happy to have you come up and give me some help the first week.”

“Wow!” Stevie said, forgetting for an instant that he was trying very hard to remove that word from his vocabulary. “You’re sure you can do that?”

“Easily,” Kelleher said. “The guy who runs public relations for the USTA is an old friend—Ed Fabricius. In fact, he’s a Philly guy—worked at Penn for years. I’ll bet he knows just who you are. It won’t be a problem at all. My guess is Fab’s only condition will be that he gets to meet you guys.”

Stevie had been amazed after the Letterman appearance how often people recognized him. He had become an instant celebrity in school. Even Andrea Fassler, the eighth-grade girl every eighth-grade boy wanted to go out with, had started being friendly to him. But a lot of that had faded with time, and he heard himself laughing at the notion that the USTA’s public relations honcho would want to meet him. “Well, if you really can get me in …,” he said.

“Consider it done,” Kelleher said. “I’ll send you an e-mail with my cell phone number and all the details, since my guess is you’re watching
Daily News Live
right now and you don’t have a pen.”

“How’d you know that?”

“Because whenever I’m in Philly I watch it too. I’ll see you Monday.”

Stevie’s mom walked back in, a quizzical look on her face. “Why was Bobby Kelleher calling you?” she asked.

Stevie hadn’t said anything about the possibility of going to New York—he figured there wasn’t any point until he heard back from Kelleher. Now he told his mother what was going on.