True Legend (12 page)

TWENTY-FOUR

T
his was one of the days when the girls got to practice first.

So Drew had to wait a couple of extra hours to get back in the gym the day after the Conejo game, get back out there, start putting the ending to the game behind him. And when he finally did, Drew Robinson was on fire, playing the scrimmage at the end of practice like it was the state finals, even getting into it with Lee under the boards one time when Coach put Lee with the second team to give them more offense.

They both had their hands on a rebound, both were fighting for it, and even after Coach blew the whistle, they
kept
fighting. Drew, who was stronger than he looked, finally ripped the ball away, sending Lee flying into the basket support, a surprised look on his face.

But he didn't say anything. The look on Drew's face must have told him all he needed to know.

Even when practice was over and Drew should have blown off enough steam, he couldn't let go of last night's game, the humiliating way it had ended for him, the way he had to watch helplessly as the kid's shot was tracking for the basket.

He hadn't just let his team down, he'd let himself down. Listening to Mr. Gilbert like he had, Mr. Gilbert telling him to be careful, not get himself hurt. Only you couldn't play basketball careful. Or afraid.

He should have listened to himself, and he hadn't.

When everybody else left the court, a couple of minutes after eight o'clock, Drew stayed out there, shooting at one end of the court, then dribbling to the other as if he were on a breakaway, throwing the ball down, then shooting at that basket for a while.

Lee came back out from the locker room looking for him, asking if he wanted a ride home.

“I'm good,” Drew said.

“I can wait,” Lee said.

Friend to the end, even after practice was over.

“Nah,” Drew said, trying to sound casual. “I got some things I need to work on by myself. And I don't want to wait to go over to Morrison at midnight.”

“You sure you're good?”

“Don't worry about me,” Drew said. “I'll call you later.”

When he had the gym to himself again, he pushed himself even harder than he had in practice. Ran the court more, made pull-up J's. Still on fire, wanting to dunk the ball tonight.

He'd dribble as fast and hard as he could, stop at the free-throw line, breathing hard, pretend the ref was handing him the ball like it was a game, knock down two free throws.

Then go to the other end and repeat the drill. Then again.

Until a voice stopped him.

“I can't tell—are you winning or losing?”

Callie.

TWENTY-FIVE

A
s usual, he didn't know what to say to her.

He just stood where he was at the line, dribbling the ball, as if somehow that could pass for conversation.

Basketball,
he thought.
The only language I'm really fluent in.

He saw that Callie was in basketball shorts, a pale blue UCLA T-shirt, some really fresh kicks, white Nikes with a blue swoosh on them that matched her T-shirt.

Finally Drew managed a “hey.”

Tool.

Power
tool.

“Hey, yourself.”

Drew nodded at her. “You look like you're fixing to play. But you guys finished a while ago.”

“My shot needs work.”

Drew said, “No, it doesn't.”

“How do you know?”

Drew, feeling himself relax just a little, said, “You know what they say about me. I see things.”

He hadn't watched a lot of women's basketball, not even college, even when that one team, the University of Connecticut, was winning what felt like a thousand games in a row. But he couldn't imagine there could be a high school girl anywhere—or college, for that matter—who had as much game as Callie Mason did.

“Ten for twenty-four our last game,” she said. “I'm better than that. But I kept putting it up there, like Kobe on a bad night.”

“If you want the gym to yourself,” Drew said, “I can leave.”

Another brilliant move,
he thought.
Give her the chance to bounce you.

“No, you don't have to leave,” she said. “I was just surprised to see you, I thought everybody was gone. Though you looked as if your own practice was still going on.”

“How long have you been here?” he said.

“Long enough to see you stepping on it as if you had Coach in your ear.”

“I didn't like the way last night ended.”

“Not diving for that ball, you mean?”

Getting right to it.

Before Drew could respond, Callie smiled again, put out her hands. “Sorry,” she said. “Sometimes my mouth says something before my brain gets a chance to stop it.”

Drew didn't care. Didn't even mind what she'd said. They were talking. Just the two of them. Nobody else around.

“You don't have to apologize for saying the truth,” Drew said, realizing as soon as he did that he sounded a little like Legend. “I should have been on the floor for that ball.”

“It's like my dad says,” Callie said. “Woulda, coulda, shoulda. Next time will be different. Now, pass me the ball.”

Drew did.

“You sure you don't want to shoot around by yourself?” Drew said. “I was about to pack it in.”

Callie was walking toward him, dribbling as she did, right hand, left hand, back and forth, saying, “Hey, if you want to leave—”

“No,” Drew said, way too fast.

Callie said, “I mean if I have to work out with somebody, well, I
guess
you'll do.”

Drew felt himself relax a little more. All of a sudden, something that had seemed harder to him than speaking Spanish in Spanish class—speaking to this girl—wasn't.

Drew told Callie he was plenty warmed up already, so he stood under the basket and rebounded for her while she started taking shots from outside, missing her first one and then making so many in a row Drew lost count.

Her shot was as pure as Lee's, her form perfect, as far as Drew could tell. Drew felt himself smiling again, this time to himself, thinking,
Yeah, Callie Mason's form is pretty much perfect in all ways.

“What are you smiling at?” Callie said as Drew threw her a two-hand chest pass at the top of the key.

“Nothing,” Drew said. “Maybe just thinking basketball is back to being fun today.”

“Every day,” she said, and made another shot, nothing but string. She seemed happy, too, showing off her game to Drew this way.

“You could play on the boys' team,” he said.

“They have a decent point guard,” she said. “And, what, girls' basketball isn't good enough for me?”

“You're just too good, period.”

Callie stopped now, out on the left wing, ball cocked on her hip. “You think a girl will ever play in the NBA?”

Drew hadn't ever thought about it much, but he saw her looking at him.

“Within ten years,” he said. “Sooner, if it turns out to be you.”

“Suck-up,” she said.

“I mean it.”

Callie said, “I'm not one of those people you have to say what you think they want to hear.” She hadn't moved, was still staring at him, intent. Like she knew things about him, even though this was the longest they'd ever been together.

“I mean what I say,” Drew said.

“Okay,” Callie said and drove the ball to the basket now, drove right past Drew, kept going underneath the basket, made a sweet little reverse, lots of spin.

“I'm ready,” she said.

“For what?”

“To play you in H-O-R-S-E.”

TWENTY-SIX

Y
ou
want to play
me
in H-O-R-S-E?” Drew said.

“Don't sound so surprised. You see anybody else around here for me to play?” she said.

“Okay, then,” Drew said. “I guess it's on.”

“
So
on,” Callie said.

Drew tossed her a bounce pass, like she was supposed to go first. The ball came right back at him, almost like it hadn't touched her hands.

“No favors for the girl,” she said. “We shoot for it.”

They both stepped to the free-throw line. She missed, Drew made.

“You sure you don't want to go first?” he said. “Early lead might be the only one you get.”

“Maybe,” Callie said, “since you don't have to dive for any balls in H-O-R-S-E.”

Drew, who had been ready to take his first shot, a jumper from the left side, stopped. “Don't you usually have to wait for the game to start before you start trash-talking?”

“Trash-talking is what you and Robbie did at the party,” she said. “This is just me setting you up.”

The girl looking for an edge. Drew knew the best players were always looking for an edge, whatever they could get, even in a pickup game like this.

Drew missed the jumper.

Callie collected the rebound, dribbled outside to the three-point line, turned, and made her first shot.

Now Drew had to match. His shot felt good when he released it, tracking on the basket all the way. But it was just a little too hard. Bounced off the back rim.

“H,” Callie said, no change of expression, getting to the rebound before Drew could. She dribbled into the lane, called “lefty, bank,” and put up a teardrop from about ten feet away that caught nothing but net and would have made you think she was left-handed if you didn't know better.

Drew tried to look casual as he dribbled in now, but went off his wrong foot, his right foot, and released the ball too soon, knowing he looked clumsy and hating it.

Missed again.

“H-O,” Callie said and then, as if she couldn't help herself, added, “Ho, ho, ho.”

She laughed, so did Drew. But he didn't really mean it. Even here, with a girl he liked and wanted to like him back—he still couldn't believe it was just the two of them—he could feel another Drew showing up in the gym.

The one who hated losing, pretty much at anything except schoolwork. Might even hate losing more than he liked Callie Mason. His mom liked to talk all the time about people having good angels and bad angels. All in their own selves. And when it was time to win the game, when it was what Reggie Miller called “winning time,” he'd always thought of the Drew Robinson who hated losing as a good angel.

But was it that time now?

He remembered this movie he'd seen on ESPN about Reggie. His sister Cheryl was in it, too, because when they were growing up, Cheryl had been more of a basketball star than Reggie was. Cheryl went to the Olympics way before Reggie did.

Cheryl had grown up giving it to her little brother good at the family hoop, every chance she got.

Callie was acting like Cheryl Miller today, not missing until she'd made her first eight shots in a row; Drew felt lucky to hang with her on each one. Like she'd turned into the Cheryl Miller who'd scored a hundred points in a high school game one time.

When she finally missed, Drew took control and sank a deep three.

Callie missed again.

“Knew it probably wouldn't be a shutout,” Callie said.

Drew didn't say anything, just went to the other side and made another three.

Callie missed again.

Game tied.

Drew tried to go lefty now, prove to her that she wasn't the only one who could make shots with her off hand. But he missed.

Now Callie walked to the free-throw line, turned her back to the basket, bounced the ball once, took a quick look over her shoulder, put the ball up.

Nothing but string.

Like it was no thing.

Drew tried the same shot and missed everything.

“H-O-R,” Callie said. “Not a real horsey yet. Maybe a cute pony.”

She was as good as he thought she was from watching her in games, maybe better.

Annoyingly good.

In a way girls could be, whether they were basketball stars or not.

When Callie missed again, Drew went a little deeper into his bag of shots, into his own game. Went on a drive from the right corner, up in the air, looked like he would shoot it on the right side, pulled it down, glided to the left, made the reverse with his left hand.

As good as Callie was, she didn't have hang time like that—few
guys
did, truth be told—and she ended up shooting the ball too soon. It was like the rim blocked it.

They were even again, three letters apiece.

Then they both made five shots in a row until Drew missed a jumper.

Callie went
back
to the line, made
another
over-the-head blind shot.

“You fixing to beat me with your trick shots, instead of straight up?”

“How'm I tricking you, if it goes in?” Callie said, putting a finger to her cheek, like she was confused.

Drew missed again. Now he was at H-O-R-S. It meant she was a letter away from beating him.

And in that moment he knew how much he didn't want her to. Didn't want to lose to a girl.

Even
this
amazing girl.

There was no conversation now. Drew couldn't help himself. The bad angel was in the gym. He knew it was dumb-guy stuff happening here, he really did.

He just couldn't stop it.

He could see Callie wanted to win as much as he didn't want to lose. But she missed a twenty-footer. Drew went and got the ball, took it out to a distance he knew by now was beyond her range. Pointed to the spot where he was standing. Called “no dribble.”

Drew had always had strong wrists. The kind baseball sluggers had, the ones who could yank a ball out of the park without even swinging hard. Drew was like that. Could flick the ball a long way, no sweat—it was another reason he was such a sure passer. He stood there now, flat-footed, like he was at the line, even though he was nearly thirty feet from the basket, and calmly buried the sucker.

She went and got the ball, staring at him again, both of them knowing she couldn't reach from here.

But she didn't complain. Too proud. As proud as Drew. The ball didn't come close to the basket.

They were both at H-O-R-S.

And just like that, the air in the gym had changed, they both knew it. Both of them wanted a silly game of H-O-R-S-E. Maybe it wasn't dumb-guy stuff after all.

Just jock stuff.

Neither one of them talked. There was just the bounce of the ball and the sound of their sneakers on the floor.

• • •

Drew's shot. One more letter for the game.

And now he really couldn't stop himself, his bad self, even with this girl he'd waited the whole school year to spend this much time with. Wanting her to like him.

He still did. Want her to like him. He just liked winning a whole lot more.

There it was.

Like it or not.

He went to half-court, threw the ball out ahead of him, high in the air, so he could get the bounce he needed. A show-off shot even if he'd been playing against Lee or Brandon.

The great passer throwing himself a perfect pass.

Caught the ball in perfect stride on his way up. Then showed the girl what he hadn't shown her yet. That once he took off like this, he could just keep going up, all the way through the roof if he wanted. And right now he wanted. In the worst way. Like he was being propelled into the air and into the moment by some jet engine inside him. Like he had that kind of roar inside him now, one he had to let out when he caught the ball above the rim and threw it down.

“Come
on
!”
he screamed.

When he came down, he gave his chest a hard pound, surprised at how good the dunk had felt. Thinking that even Callie had to be impressed by a throw-down worthy of the Slam Dunk competition on All-Star Saturday Night.

But when he turned around to see, throw her the ball, all he saw was her back.

She was already walking out of the gym.