Devin Heiner twists his ankle during a rebounding drill and is sitting on the sidelines, looking all too happy to be getting his ankle wrapped by Monica Dunlap, our student trainer, who’s holding an ice pack to his foot and laughing at some story he’s telling her.
It’s not a huge loss.
Instead of subbing me in for Devin, Coach Langley slides me out to the three-spot in his place and tells Tyler Forry, one of the senior varsity backup big men, to change his jersey around and fill in down low for me.
And suddenly shit gets real. Trip’s at the top of the key, the ball against his hip, taking stock of his new cast before checking the ball back to Elijah Leppo, and the intensity ratchets up a notch.
Now we have DeAndre Miller and Tyler both down low, and while neither is nearly as good as Lighty, neither one has any problems banging around with Lighty on the blocks. Tyler is essentially a clone of DeAndre Miller, just a year older—not very skilled, but huge nonetheless and willing to work hard. Plus the added benefit that he’s clearly pissed about his sudden demotion—even if only temporary—to the JV squad, and he’s more likely to bang harder than he is to pout. I’ve held my own against Lighty in scrimmages, but he’s never really had to worry about being put on his ass from a box-out.
And moving outside to the wing means I’m finally matched up against Branson.
Heartbroken Branson.
Whom the entire school mourns for as though he’s the one who died.
As though he’s the one who’s lost everything.
When Coach gives the green light, Trip checks the ball back to Leppo.
And we go.
For almost an hour, we go.
At first, I forget how fast Branson is, and he knocks down a jumper on their first possession—one fast dribble to his left and a quick pull-up from the baseline—and my head nearly explodes.
He will not take any more away from me.
He makes a few baskets, but none without my hand in his face, and after a few minutes, he’s missing a lot more shots than he’s making. And every time—the second the ball leaves his hands and clears my outstretched fingertips—I’ve got my back slammed into him, boxing him out, relishing watching his shot bounce off the front rim and hearing him start to swear under his breath when Coach yells for him to follow his shot.
When I knock down two straight jumpers on the next two possessions, I can tell he’s starting to get pissed. DeAndre and Tyler are both setting brutal, borderline illegal screens for me, both seeming to relish the chance to stick it to the varsity starters for once. Plus it helps that Trip, after each of my baskets, knows to give them the props for it, calling them out and smacking them on the ass on the way back up the court—made better by the fact that those asses are nearly eye level with Trip.
When it happens the third time and I bury another jumper from the elbow, Coach finally blows his whistle and stops us. I assume he’s going to get on Tyler for sticking his elbows out on the screen, but instead, Coach yells, “Liam! You’ve got to do a better job slipping those screens!” After which, Coach grabs my jersey and pulls me back down to the block to demonstrate: Tyler jogs down to set another screen on Coach—much narrower than the ones he’s been setting, I notice—and I start to move to go off Tyler’s screen. As soon as I move, Coach drives his bony elbow into my sternum and doesn’t let me anywhere near Tyler’s shoulder, and I’m stuck looping out around him. Trip completes the demo by attempting to pass it to me, even though Coach is clearly between me and the ball, and Trip would get benched immediately if he made that pass during a game. Coach easily swats the pass away and returns to the sideline.
“Gotta fight through,” he says again. “Trip, take the ball out top. Again.”
I refuse to go back to being practice dummy. This feels too good.
So when Tyler Forry barrels down to the block again, elbows out, I can sense Branson ready to nail me in the chest, ready to use me to get back into Coach’s good graces. I take one step out—and see Branson’s elbow coming up—before cutting underneath and popping into the middle of the lane. Dirty, but Trip seemed to already know exactly what I was going to do: he swings a perfect bounce pass around Elijah Leppo and hits me right as I get to the foul line, and I’ve buried another short jumper before Branson can begin to recover.
I expect the whistle again, but Coach’s face is expressionless as we run up the court.
Branson’s face is bright red, and he’s breathing heavily when I meet him out on the wing on defense at the other end of the court.
“What the fuck was that?” he says.
“Fuck you.”
For a second, he’s stunned—looks at me, blinks a few times—then sets his jaw and the intensity goes up yet another notch.
He comes into the block, and I’m ready for a back screen from Lighty, but instead Branson gets me in the chest with his shoulder—hard—and cuts back out, where Elijah gets him the ball. I’m back out on him, my hand already up, before he can get off an open shot. Instead, he pump-fakes and does another lightning-fast dribble to his left, and my head’s about to explode again, because I will not concede another open shot to this fucker. As he’s about to blow by me, I’m barely able to catch him with my hip, and I shove him in the direction he’s heading, sending him and the ball sprawling out of bounds. It’s an obvious foul, but hopefully not an obvious flagrant foul.
As Branson pops up to his feet and slaps the ball in his hands, Coach blows the whistle.
“All right, men. Bring it in. Nice work.”
My heart is pounding so hard I can hear it inside my head—only partly from how hard we’ve been running—and I can’t focus on anything Coach is saying during our end-of-practice huddle. Though I’m getting the impression he was pleased with the intensity of our scrimmage. And oblivious to the fact that Branson’s probably thirty seconds from removing my head from my body.
Well, fuck him. He can have it.
Branson won’t look at me. He won’t look at anyone, actually. He’s fuming, staring only at the floor in front of him or the door to leave. When our huddle breaks, he heads straight to the locker room without a word to anyone.
By the time Trip and I make it to the locker room after gathering up all the balls, Branson’s already on his way out. In fact, he almost knocks me down when he comes out the door, still wearing his sweat-soaked practice jersey, his bag and coat slung over his shoulder. Despite plowing straight through us, he doesn’t look up.
Fuck him.
As Trip and I watch him stalk away, I catch sight of something familiar. Tabby’s earflap hat—the one Mom crocheted—is tied to the strap of his gym bag.
I’ve heard people say that something feels like being stabbed in the heart, but this feels like it’s literally happening—like something sharp is pressing down on my chest, and it won’t allow me to take a breath. He runs his hand over the light blue pom-pom and visibly exhales before he pushes through the door to the parking lot.
I don’t know why it hurts so much more than seeing his arm over Tabby’s shoulder or her locking eyes with him from the stands, but right now, I hate him so much.
I hate his heartbreak.
I hate all the heartbreak for him.
I hate him holding her hat, like it only has special meaning to him, like he fucking owns it all because he’s the shattered boyfriend.
Hate.
Him.
“Matt, you coming?”
I manage a nod and follow Trip into the locker room.