True Legend Page 11

  Let his game do the talking, like always. Let his game answer all of them. Coach Holman acted like numbers didn’t count in sports?

  Then tell sports to stop keeping score.

  • • •

  Drew was still mad at the world the next day at practice.

  He was guarding Ricky Colson, the sixth man for Oakley, a guy who could play both guard positions if he had to, and small forward. He was playing point for the second team at the end of a scrimmage, and Tyler was playing with him, to make the sides more even.

  And even though Ricky hadn’t called out a play, Drew knew what was coming just by his eyes—a high pick-and-roll. Trouble was, Drew read it too late.

  Drew bounced off Tyler’s pick and landed on his left shoulder. Hard.

  When Tyler offered a hand to help him up, Drew snapped at him. “You’re supposed to set screens in practice, not make me feel as if I just got hit by a car.”

  Tyler kept his hand out, like he couldn’t believe Drew was really mad.

  Drew ignored it, got up on his own. It was the same as slapping Tyler’s hand away.

  “What,” Tyler said, “nobody’s supposed to touch you? Maybe we should put a different uniform on you, like they do with quarterbacks in football.”

  Tyler was also a tight end on the Oakley football team.

  “Maybe you should just focus on basketball,” Drew said, “and think what this team would look like if I got hurt.”

  It ended right there. Coach D came running in from half-court, blowing his whistle like a ref, saying practice was over, telling them that was about enough fellowship and bonding for one afternoon.

  Drew iced the shoulder as soon as he got to the locker room and again when he got home. It was still sore, but not nearly sore enough for him to even think about sitting out the Conejo game. No way.

  What had happened with Tyler just made him more chafed at the world.

  Mr. Gilbert figured it out, though. Drew was out on the court earlier than everybody else before the game, shooting around by himself, one of the managers feeding him the ball. Just trying to see if the stiffness in his off shoulder was going to affect his shot.

  “Hey, you okay?” Mr. Gilbert said when Drew came off the court.

  On game nights, a seven o’clock game tonight, he was at the gym earlier than Coach DiGregorio was sometimes. Like the gym was just an extension of the man’s office.

  “Good to go,” Drew said, just wanting to get back inside the locker room, get his headphones on, listen to some tunes, change out of his T-shirt and sweatpants and into his uniform. “Looking to have a big night,” he said.

  “You look like you’re favoring your left side a little bit.”

  Sometimes the man’s eyes were better than a zoom lens on a camera.

  “Got a little stinger at practice yesterday. Wasn’t no thing.”

  “Just remember, rule number one is don’t get hurt.”

  “I forget, what’s number two?”

  “See rule number one.” He put his hand on Drew’s right shoulder. “So let’s not be rolling around the floor tonight, got it?”

  “Got it.”

  “I’m serious.”

  Drew grinned, wanting to get out of there. “Don’t I know.”

  “I am serious,” Mr. Gilbert said. “Nothing’s going to happen to you, not on my watch. From now until you pick your college, we want them to keep talking about you, not somebody else. Might even get the next game against Park Prep—your chance for redemption—on ESPN2.”

  Last game of the regular season.

  “Cool,” Drew said, then told Mr. Gilbert in a nice way that he needed to go get ready for the tip and pulled away, wondering what it was going to be like, having the man in his ear the rest of his life.

  • • •

  The Conejo Valley Wildcats had made it to the semifinals of the league tournament the last two years, losing to Park Prep both times. But they had graduated most of their best players last season and now were starting three sophomores and two juniors. They had only managed to split the six league games they’d played so far.

  Not only were the Wildcats inexperienced, they weren’t particularly big. Oakley had a size advantage at every position on the court, including Drew’s at point, something that didn’t happen all the time.

  On paper, the game should have been easy.

  It wasn’t on the court.

  With four minutes left in the half, Oakley was down fifteen points. The Wildcats—they just had “Cats” on the front of their uniform—wouldn’t miss, Tyler was on the bench with two fouls, Lee had missed all six of the three-pointers he’d attempted, and Brandon was in the locker room having a twisted ankle looked at by the trainer.

  As loud as the gym had been for the Park Prep game, tonight all the noise was coming from the one pocket of the place where the Conejo fans were sitting, yelling their heads off, stomping their feet, sometimes making it sound as if this were a home game for them, as badly as they were outnumbered.

  The Oakley fans seemed too shocked at what they were seeing to do anything but sit on their hands and hope things got better.

  Drew was the only one keeping the Wolves in it, despite the fact that, with no one else hitting the shots, he often found himself double- or even triple-teamed on defense. There always seemed to be a crowd in his face every time one of his teammates would swing the ball back to him.

  But somehow he kept finding ways to create space for himself and get his shot. The only help he was getting on offense was from Ricky Colson, who’d replaced Brandon at power forward and managed to get some easy baskets inside when Drew wasn’t firing away from the outside.

  Drew looked up at the clock and did what he always did in a game, whether his team was winning or losing: imagined the next four minutes as a game all by themselves. Told himself that all Oakley needed to do to make this a game was win these four minutes, see if they could win it by enough to cut the Conejo lead under ten going to the locker room.

  He pulled Ricky aside and told him his plan.

  “We just have to stop the bleeding for now,” Drew said. “Because if we’re down twenty at half, we’re not winning tonight.”

  Ricky grinned. “I’ll hang with you,” he said, “just like always. Know why?”

  “Why?”

  Ricky said, “’Cause it’s been working for me, that’s why.”

  From there to the end of the half, Oakley went on a 12–2 run. Drew scored the first ten points, but on the last play before the horn, three guys on him, already up in the air, the whole gym sure he was going to score one more time, Drew passed.

  Ricky came off a back screen just in time, and what might have looked to be an air ball from Drew turned out to be a perfect lob pass that Ricky—who had serious ups—caught off to the side of the rim and threw down.

  Highlight reel dunk.

  Now there was some Oakley noise in the gym.

  They were still down five points; the scoreboard said so. But Drew could see in the faces of the Conejo Cats, just the way they walked off the court, that they felt as if they were behind now.

  Drew would have been happy to start the second half right then. He’d taken one spill early in the game, drawing an offensive foul but paying full price for it, landing on his sore shoulder. But for now, he was feeling no pain because of the rush of the last four minutes.

  He wasn’t the one in the hurting now. The guys on the other team were. And he wanted to make it worse for them once the second half started. He wasn’t losing this game now, no way.

  No excuses.

  On his way back onto the court for the second half, Drew noticed Callie sitting with some friends about halfway up the bleachers, across from the Oakley bench. He made sure he didn’t make eye contact with her. What did s
he say the other night? I can speak for myself? Drew wondered what she had to say about the way he was playing tonight.

  Not that he was going to ask.

  He didn’t need her or anybody else to tell him what they thought about his game tonight. He was doing what he’d always done: trying to win the game.

  Only the Cats wouldn’t go away. Hadn’t given up because of the way the first half had ended. Even after Oakley took an eight-point lead with about seven minutes to go, and Drew thought they had to be done this time, they came back with eight points in a row and tied the game again.

  Coming out of a time-out, Lee said, “Shouldn’t they have realized by now that we’re better than they are?”

  Drew said, “Maybe we could text them.”

  With twenty seconds to go in the game, Lee’s man made a crazy three to put Conejo up by three. But Drew, who had forty points by now—out of the seventy Oakley had scored—pulled up on the break even though he could have driven the ball all the way to the iron, totally feeling it by now, and made a three of his own.

  Game tied again, 70 all.

  Fifteen seconds left.

  Conejo was out of time-outs, but it didn’t matter. Everybody in the gym knew what they were going to do, run the clock down as far as they could for the last shot, so that even if they missed, Oakley—which meant Drew—wouldn’t have time for a last shot of their own.

  But Lee had his own idea about how the game should end, and it didn’t include giving Conejo a shot.

  He knocked the ball away from his man without fouling him, a clean steal. The ball ended up loose near half-court, Drew the closest player on their team to it.

  Drew saw the ball, saw Lee streaking toward their basket at the same time.

  Because he could see everything.

  Including the clock. Ten seconds left.

  All Drew had to do was dive to get the ball. Dive and slap it in Lee’s direction for the game-winning layup.

  Only Drew didn’t dive.

  Instead, he pulled up, thinking about his shoulder, remembering how much it had hurt when he landed on it in the first half, hearing Mr. Gilbert’s voice in his head, telling him to let somebody else roll around on the floor tonight. Telling him not to get hurt.

  Rule number one, for Oakley’s number 1.

  He would tell himself later that he really thought he had enough time to pick the ball up and pass it to Lee.

  Didn’t matter.

  Because Lee’s man appeared out of nowhere, not chasing Lee the way he should have been, chasing the ball, flying past Drew like he was launching himself into a racing dive in swimming.

  He was the one who saved the ball from going out of bounds, slapping it to Drew’s now-open man.

  Who caught the ball in stride, turned, took one dribble and buried a three.

  Conejo 73, Oakley 70.

  The horn sounded.

  Game over.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Drew felt sick.

  Of all the things you could fault him on in basketball, for all the times people had a right to say he was hogging the ball—at least before he made one of his no-look, highlight-reel passes—nobody had ever once faulted him on effort.

  No one had ever said he didn’t give 100 percent.

  I should’ve gone for that ball, he thought.

  I should have been the one laying out for the ball the way the kid from Conejo Valley did.

  I should never have put us in a position where the other team had the ball in the air at the end with a chance to beat us.

  Drew stood there watching the players from the other team celebrating their Hollywood ending, his eyes still seeing everything at once.

  He saw Callie turn away when she spotted him looking at her. She was too good a player herself not to know what she’d just seen.

  Drew saw Coach D’s back as he headed quickly toward the locker room.

  He couldn’t find his mom. If she was still at her seat, she was being hidden by the Conejo Valley Cats.

  Now he started walking slowly toward the locker room, a forty-point game having turned to mud. As he did, his eyes once again took him to the top of the Gilbert Athletic Center, way up in the far corner.

  Same corner as before.

  Somehow he knew that Donald was up there before he even saw him.

  And he was looking even more disgusted than after the Park Prep game, shaking his head slowly from side to side. When he saw Drew staring up at him, he stopped shaking his head, put his hands out in front of him like an umpire making the “safe” sign in baseball.

  He was right, of course.

  Drew had played it safe.

  Never again, he told himself.

  Never again.

  • • •

  Drew was in and out of the locker room before Coach even came out of his office to give them his post-game thoughts, always delivered with a stat sheet in his hand, one he already seemed to have memorized by the time he started talking to them, win or lose.

  Drew just threw on a warm-up jacket, pulled an old Mets cap over his eyes, stuffed his phone and his wallet into his pockets, left the jeans he’d worn to the game and his Rihanna T-shirt hanging in his locker.

  He didn’t even take time to explain to Lee what he was doing or where he was going, just said, “I got to get out of here. Now.”

  The way the game had ended, it was worse than if he’d choked by missing a wide-open shot or a free throw.

  So Drew was on the move. Out into the parking lot, around to the front of the gym, where fans were still exiting. He pulled the Mets cap down even lower, hoping nobody would bother him as long as he just kept moving, stayed away from the crowd, most of whom were Oakley fans and wanted to get away from the gym as much as Drew did.

  Like they were leaving the scene of a crime. Same as Drew.

  And there, on the other side of the street, limping slightly, head down, was Donald.

  Drew decided to follow him, follow him even if he was taking the two-mile walk back to town. See where he went, maybe even find out where he lived. He was going to find out who the guy was, once and for all, why he kept showing up, why he kept waiting to catch Drew’s eye only to look disappointed.

  He didn’t seem to be in much of a hurry and never looked back. Drew stayed a block behind, on the other side of the street, ready to hide behind a lamppost or tree if Donald did turn around.

  Right before they reached the start of downtown, the first stores, Donald took a right, toward the old train station, which had been renovated into an indoor shopping mall and food court. Lee and Drew sometimes went in there for lunch when both of them had the same free period.

  As Donald went past that, Drew still hung back.

  First you go looking for him in the park in the middle of the night, Drew told himself. Now you follow the guy all the way from school.

  But Lee had been right.

  Drew had put his blinders back on as soon as he saw the guy after the game.

  If there was a poor side of town in Agoura Hills, they were in it now. Donald walked past check-cashing stores and a couple of bad-looking bars, then past the bus terminal. Not the Southern California you saw in TV shows.

  Up ahead there was an old residence hotel that Lee had pointed out one time, the Conejo Valley Hotel, the front of it looking like something built a hundred years ago. Or more. Lee had told Drew it was the oldest building in town.

  Donald walked up the steps and through the double doors.

  Drew hung back, waited a few minutes, until he was sure the coast was clear, and followed him in. There was a bald white guy behind the front desk, watching television on a small set.

  Drew didn’t know how much of a story he needed to make up to find somebody at the Conejo Valley Hotel, so h
e kept it simple.

  “Excuse me. I just saw a guy I thought I recognized walk into the lobby. I was wondering what room he might be in.”

  “Name?”

  “Donald,” Drew said.

  “Donald who?”

  “It’s kind of funny,” Drew said, “and you gotta believe me, but I’ve only ever known him as Donald.” He smiled. “Long story.”

  The guy didn’t even open the ledger in front of him, just said to Drew, “This isn’t the Four Seasons, kid. But we don’t give out room information unless you got a full name. Which you ought to have, him being your friend and all.”

  “We just know each other from playing ball in the park,” Drew said.

  Nothing.

  Drew decided to try something, because it couldn’t hurt.

  “Hey, I forgot my manners,” he said, putting out his hand. “I’m Drew Robinson. From the Oakley team.”

  “Drew Robinson!” the guy said. “From Oakley!” The guy pumped his hand.

  Drew tried to look embarrassed, thinking that what he was doing was taking the guy behind the desk by the hand to where Drew wanted him to go.

  Then the guy behind the desk said, “Kid, I don’t want to burst your bubble, but I didn’t care about my high school team when I was in high school.” He went back to watching his show.

  Drew went outside, walked down to the train station, sat down on the bench. He’d followed Donald all the way to this hotel. He knew the man was in there somewhere.

  Now, how did he find him?

  Did he have to find a way to look in the manager’s guest book, one that was sitting right there on his desk? He could run any kind of play on the court he wanted, fake guys out of their shoes. Yet he couldn’t handle some night manager at some run-down hotel?

  It was getting late, and there was hardly any traffic on the streets in front of him. Drew didn’t care how late it was. He was on a mission now, the blinders on, wasn’t going to waste the time he’d spent following the man.

  No way. He’d already lost one game tonight.

  He wasn’t losing another. Wasn’t losing Donald.

  He sat there and looked up the street at the Conejo Valley Hotel, saw the lights in most of the windows, saw one light get turned off. The man was in one of those rooms, he told himself.