Chapter Eighteen
“Sure, but the game’s about to start.” Jake gestured to the gym, where the announcer was introducing the Cardinals cheerleaders. The crowd responded with cheering that echoed harshly in the corridor, painted white cinderblock with a wide red stripe.
“This won’t take long.” Dr. Dave slipped his hands inside his pants pockets. “I’m concerned that Ryan seems off tonight. He’s going to have a rough game.”
Oh no. “He’s been sick.” Jake felt his chest tighten. “But he wanted to play, and don’t sell him short. He’ll have a good game.”
“He didn’t warm up well. I’m concerned that something’s wrong with him, and it’s not physical.”
“Of course it is.” Jake tried to shrug it off. “He was throwing up all day Saturday. He had some bad nachos. He’s only playing today because he’d never let the team down.”
“Jake.” Dr. Dave paused, lifting his eyebrows slightly. “I’m a practicing child and adolescent psychologist, for twenty-five years. I know the difference between a teenager who’s got food poisoning and one who’s got something on his mind.”
“No he doesn’t. He’s just sick.”
“Seriously, it’s more than that.”
“How do you know this?” Jake tried not to sound skeptical, just interested.
“He’s off.”
“Off?”
“Yes, off. He’s not focusing. He’s out of sync. He didn’t walk in the way he always does, the way he did last week. He’s a shooter, and a shooter is a creature of habit. Basketball grounds him. It keeps him centered—”
“I know that.” Jake was in no mood to be lectured about his own son.
“Then you know he has a system that works for him. He keeps his warm-up exercises and his warm-up routine the same. He takes the same number of shots, in the same way. His work in the gym is always focused and purposeful—”
“I know. He’s my son.”
“—but tonight he’s shooting flat. He’s not getting enough lift on the ball. He’s not releasing it high enough, so he’s pushing it instead of throwing it—”
“He’ll be fine.”
“No, he won’t, you’ll see. We’ll win, but Ryan’s an impact player and he won’t help the team today.”
“Why are you telling me this?” Jake asked, unable to keep the impatience from his tone. “What do you want me to do about it?”
“Fine, I’ll come to my point.” Dr. Dave pursed his lips. “I get the impression that you’re riding him, and I’m asking you to back off during the playoffs. Ryan’s hard enough on himself, and it’s a critical time.”
“I’m not riding him,” Jake blurted out, surprised. The crowd had started hollering again, and the announcer called the Cardinal cheerleaders onto their floor, to their music, “Brick House.”
“Jake, please don’t be defensive.”
“Then don’t make me defend myself. Don’t tell me I’m riding my son when I’m not.”
Dr. Dave put up a hand like a Zen traffic cop. “I should explain. I spend a lot of time with Ryan. I know him very well. He tends to tighten up when you come to a game—”
“So what am I supposed to do, not come to my son’s game?” Jake felt his anger overcome his worry, bollixing him up. “I don’t need to stand here and listen to you tell me about my own son.”
Dr. Dave emitted a sigh. “When I asked Ryan, he said nothing was wrong. But Pam told me that you and he had some sort of fight on Friday night—”
“What? Why are you talking to my wife about our son?” Jake felt panicky. Pam couldn’t be so open with Dr. Dave about their family business. It was too dangerous, after Pike Road.
“I talk to Pam all the time about Ryan. That’s my job.”
“What job?” Jake heard his tone sharpen. “You’re a volunteer. What are your qualifications?”
“You’re angry, so you’re challenging me.” Dr. Dave exuded a professional calm. “You don’t really want to know my qualifications.”
“Try me.” Jake hated being told how he really felt, especially by people who had no idea how he really felt.
“As I said, I’m a child and adolescent psychologist. I have a small but growing specialty in adolescent sports psychology—”
“What does that have to do with basketball? You’re talking about ‘impact players’ and ‘lift on the ball,’ but you’re supposed to be a shooting coach.”
“I played varsity basketball for three years at Penn, then I played professionally in Italy and Brazil before I got my degree.” Dr. Dave emitted another small sigh. “But, this isn’t about you and me. This is about you and Ryan. Pam said that you fought, because you didn’t like something he said—”
“It wasn’t that big a deal.” Jake had a story, and he had to stick with it. “It was about texting.”
“You asked him to stop texting?”
“Yes, and what parent hasn’t?”
“The fight wasn’t really about texting. You asserted your authority, and Ryan was unwilling to recognize or credit that authority, which you can understand, given the history of your relationship.”
Jake bristled. “You’re out of line.”
“I’m trying to help.”
“I don’t need your help.”
“What if Ryan does?”
“He doesn’t.”
“Jake, you needn’t feel threatened by me. I’m not trying to replace or supplant you. There’s room for us both.”
“No, there isn’t. Butt out.” Jake turned away, strode down the corridor, and turned the corner into the noisy gym just as the Chasers were being introduced. Ryan was second in line, shifting his weight from one sneaker to the other and eyeing the bleachers where they’d told him they’d be sitting. Jake waved at him, but Ryan didn’t see, so he hurried down the sidelines behind the team benches, which were separated from each other by a long metal table that held reporters sitting in front of open laptops.
He reached their bleacher section, which had filled in completely, with parents, kids, and students sitting shoulder-to-shoulder. He scanned the crowd for Deaner, and made his way to Pam, who was standing up with everybody else, clapping. He took his place to stand beside her, and she gave him a kiss on the cheek.
“Perfect timing!”
“Yes, right.” Jake had to put a stop to her talking to Dr. Dave, game or no game. It was too risky, especially today. “Honey, Dr. Dave found me.”
“Good. Did you talk to him?”
“Why did you tell him that Ryan and I had a fight?”
“He’s worried about Ryan.” Pam kept her eyes on the court, but leaned over and answered, to be heard over the crowd noise.
“Ryan’s sick, that’s all. There’s nothing to worry about.”
“Dr. Dave thinks it’s more. He asked me if there was anything that happened recently that could have bothered him, and I told him about the big fight you guys had.”
“It wasn’t that big a fight.”
Pam scoffed, keeping her attention on the court. “You made him cry, Jake. He never cries. So it was a big fight.”
Jake couldn’t believe the irony. He was getting in trouble over a fight he didn’t even have. “Don’t you think that’s something that should be kept between us?”
“No, why?” Pam glanced over, puzzled, then turned back to the court. The Cardinals had been introduced, and the announcer was asking everyone to face the flag for the national anthem.
“It’s our business, not his.”
“Don’t be silly. It doesn’t matter if he knows. Parents fight with kids all the time.” Pam put her hand over her heart when the anthem started playing, and she began to sing loudly, in her characteristically pretty soprano.
“It matters to me.” Jake put his hand on his chest, sang the national anthem, and when everybody burst into applause, he leaned over to Pam. “Honey, do me a favor. Don’t encourage Dr. Dave’s snooping into our personal life.”
“He’s not snooping.” Pam looked at him like he was crazy, then faced the court, where the team captains, referees, and coaches were gathering at the center.
“These things aren’t any of his business.”
“He’s a friend of ours, a friend of our family’s.” Pam stopped clapping, and Jake could see he was getting her attention.
“Please, let’s keep the conversation with him to basketball, not our family life. We already had therapy. We don’t need more.”
Pam frowned. “What did you say to him?”
“I told him Ryan was fine and I could handle it.”
“What does that mean?”
“I told him to butt out.”
“You did?” Pam’s lips parted in dismay. “You said that? Jake, how could you? Why?”
“He’s telling me that Ryan gets tense when I come to games. That’s out of line.”
“Ryan wants your approval, you know that. He wants to play well when you come. He doesn’t need you to get him in bad with the coaches. God, they talk to the recruiters all the time. You want to queer it for him? What were you thinking?” Pam shook her head, missing the jump ball that started the game.
“Pam, I’m his father—” Jake noticed the Chasers’ moms sneaking a glance at them, so he kept his voice low. “And I don’t want you talking to any third party about something as personal as my relationship to my own son—”
“Oh, please.” Pam rolled her eyes. “Don’t be such a control freak.”
“It’s our business, my business—”
“You’re just jealous, and you have absolutely no right to be. Nature abhors a vacuum, Jake, and Dr. Dave stepped in to fill a void that was created by you. He didn’t go looking for Ryan, Ryan went looking for him.” Pam’s fair skin flushed with resentment. “Now you’ve decided to step back in, and good for you, but don’t expect everything to be just the way you want it, right away. It takes time. You have to earn your way in.”
Jake regretted bringing up the subject here. Chasers’ and Cardinals’ families were eyeing them, even though the game was in full swing. “Pam, relax—”
“No. You can’t just snap your fingers and make people do what you say, or feel what you want them to feel. I hope you didn’t piss Dr. Dave off.” Pam craned her neck, scanning the sidelines of the court. “You should go see him right now and apologize. He usually sits in the front row behind the bench. Do you see him?”
“I have nothing to apologize for, Pam.”
“Then I will.” Pam pointed. “There he is, by Coach Marsh.”
“Pam, really?”
“Absolutely.” Pam rose and made her way down the row, then the stairs, toward the court.
Jake lost sight of her, then gave up. He felt eyes boring into his back, but he had bigger problems than being the subject of gossip. He had Lewis Deaner on the brain. He didn’t know who the man was and if he knew something or was bluffing. Jake felt his gut clench and tried to get into the basketball game. The lighted scoreboard read Home 10, Away 4. The Chasers were behind. There were nine minutes left in the first quarter, so there was plenty of time to catch up. Ryan stole the ball and dribbled it down the court, his hair flying.
“Go, Ryan,” Jake shouted, making a megaphone of his hands.
“Ryan, Ryan, Ryan!” chanted the Chasers’ student section.
“Shoot, Ryan! Shoot!” called a Chasers’ mom in back.
“DEFENSE!” bellowed one of the Cardinals’ dads.
Ryan stopped with the ball, his sneakers squealing, faced the basket, and took a jumper from the outside, like he had in the driveway this morning. The crowd shrieked as the ball hit the transparent backboard, bounced onto the rim, and dropped outside the hoop, missing the basket. Ryan seemed to stall, as if rooted to the shiny wooden floor.
“Follow your shot, Ryan!” somebody shouted in back.
And Jake’s heart sank, because he knew what he was seeing.
He’s off.