I take back what I said about the other girls—Anna is a ruthless drill sergeant, and they absolutely know how to hit their marks. It’s just that no one comes alive like Anna. She looks supernatural as she whirls through her triple-pirouette then drops down in the splits. The crowd screams just as loud as they did for me.
The dance team are champions in their own right. They took nationals all three years that Anna was Captain, even beating out those bitches from Utah who had been formerly unbeatable with their bleach-blonde hair and mile-wide smiles.
I almost forget that we’re in the middle of a game.
I forget everything but the low, flashing light and the throbbing beat and wild, brilliant dancers. They’re supposed to be hyping up the crowd, keeping the energy high during the break. They’ve done much more than that—they’ve brought a new level of darkness and intensity to the proceedings. They’ve made it seem as if this game truly is a matter of life and death.
The song ends, and the overhead lights burst on. I remember that I’m in a high school gymnasium. I smell the sweat and rubber and floor polish once more. I see my parents looking proud and anxious, and Uncle Miko and Aunt Nessa looking how they always do—Miko somber and intent, Nessa bright-eyed and eager.
Anna is leaving the floor, giving me a wave on her way out. A boy in a varsity jacket intercepts her. I don’t recognize him—he must go to Simeon. He blocks her path, trying to engage her in conversation. I can’t hear what they’re saying, but from the smirk on his face, and the way he grabs her arm without permission, I’m guessing it’s something along the lines of, “Hey girl, you’re pretty flexible. I’d like to see you wrap those legs around my head . . .”
It’s the kind of thing guys used to say to Anna at our school, until they learned their lesson.
I grin, knowing exactly what’s about to happen.
Sure enough, Anna grabs his hand off her arm and bends his wrist back, all the pressure concentrated on his pinky. Even from across the gym, I can hear the varsity douche scream like a little girl. Anna brushes past him, whipping him in the face with her ponytail as she passes. The guy cradles his hand, muttering something after her as she walks away.
I cast a quick look up at Uncle Miko.
He watched that whole exchange the same as I did. Now his ice-blue eyes are narrowed to slits, his jaw rigid with rage.
All I can say is that kid is pretty fucking lucky to get off with nothing more than a sprained wrist. If he put one more finger on Anna, he wasn’t likely to make it home tonight at all.
Grinning, I jog over to the bench to slug down a last gulp of water before the ref blows his whistle.
Moments later, the game is back in full swing, and we’re running harder than ever. My team is amped, but so are the Wolverines. They’re running a full-court press, fueled by fury that the game is even this close when they’re supposed to be the best team in the state.
They are the best team. But they don’t have the best player.
Johnson Bell is fighting hard for that title.
He’s a big dude, thick with muscle, sweat dripping down his face just two minutes into the third quarter. I’ll give him credit, he’s the toughest opponent I’ve faced this year. But tough just isn’t good enough.
Still, it’s hard carrying the rest of these assholes all on my own. Kelly Barrett misses an easy lay-up, and Chris Pellie turns the ball over twice. I have to make four more baskets just to keep the game even.
As the third quarter comes to a close, my team is up three points. I’m driving to the hoop when that fucker Bell comes up hard behind me. I jump to shoot, I’m up in the air, and he knocks my feet right out from under me. He sends me pinwheeling, crashing down in an awkward sprawl that slams the air out of me.
The crowd gasps and then starts to boo, at least on the home team side. The Wolverine fans laugh and jeer at me.
That makes me angrier than anything. I HATE being laughed at.
Bell gets the foul, but I want him kicked out of the fucking game. You don’t go at somebody’s feet—it’s dangerous, and it’s goddamn disrespectful. I haul myself up, breath wheezing in my lungs, and whirl around to face him. He smirks at me, his big, dumb face showing nothing but pride.
I’d like to murder him.
But all I can do is take my shots.
I sink them both. That doesn’t mollify me in the slightest. Blood throbs against my temples. All I can see is Bell’s smug face.
The Wolverines inbound the ball. Their point guard brings it up the court, then passes to Bell. I guard him, tracking him close. He dribbles carefully, knowing I’m fast as fuck and I’d love to steal the ball back in revenge.
He doesn’t know I’ve got something better planned.
If he wants to play dirty, I’m happy to roll around in the mud.
I pretend to go in for the steal, and instead I shoulder-check him hard in the face. My shoulder slams into his nose, and I can hear the thud, his grunt, and the instant patter of blood dripping down on the boards.
“Oops,” I say.
I take a foul too, of course, but I don’t give a fuck. Bell’s eyes are already swelling up as he takes his place at the free-throw line. Unfortunately both teams are in the bonus now, which means that a hard foul leads to two free throws.
Bell makes the first but misses the second, blinded by the pain in his face. I laugh to myself, quietly.
The buzzer rings to signal the end of the third quarter.
The coach immediately hauls me to the side, chewing me out for hitting Bell like that.
“How many times have I told you not to lose your temper?” he bawls at me. “Don’t you know the Kentucky coach is right up there in the stands watching you? You think he wants some hothead on his team?”
“I think he wants the best,” I say, pushing past the coach so I can wipe my face and chest down with a towel.
The last quarter is a fucking brawl. My team is pissed, the Wolverines are even angrier. The ball turns over again and again as we battle for every single point.
I sink a gorgeous three-point shot, only to have our point guard Alastair Brown immediately turn the ball over to the other team. They score twice in a row, almost catching up with us.
On the next play, the ref calls a foul on me again, and this one is utter horseshit. I didn’t even touch Bell. He sinks both his free throws, taking the Wolverines ahead by one point.
There’s only eight seconds left in the game.
The coach calls a timeout so he can set the next play.
Pulling us into a huddle, he says, “Barrett, you’re gonna set a screen for Brown. Pellie will inbound the ball to Brown, Brown will take it up the court, and once he gets past half-court, Gallo will come and set a high screen. Brown will drive to the hoop and if you have a shot, then take it—if you get covered, give the ball to Miller instead.”
I can hardly bite back my retort to that cockamamie bullshit.
Me, set a fucking screen? You’ve gotta be joking.
I carried this team to the state championship on my fucking back. I’m not about to let Brown fuck this up, and I’m ESPECIALLY not going to let Joey-fucking-Miller take the buzzer-beater, just so he can chuck a fucking brick up there as usual.
I don’t even bother to argue with the coach. He’s the one who’s gotten emotional over that foul, and now he’s not thinking straight.