Free Blue Star Rapture by JAMES W. BENNETT Page B

hopeless. Lore went over him and dunked in his face. T.J. went to his knees. The sweat was pouring from his face; his heart was pounding so hard in his chest, he felt like he was on the verge of cardiac arrest. The blood was slamming in his temples.
    When Buddy Ingalls asked him if it was the ankle again, T.J. answered breathlessly. “Yeah,” he lied. “It’s the ankle.”
    â€œD’you have to come out?”
    â€œYeah. I have to come out.”
    He sat on the bench with a cold, wet towel draped over his head. Buddy asked him if he needed to go to the first aid building, but T.J. said he could wait until the game was over. He didn’t move the towel when he answered the question. His early departure meant Obie had to go back in, but with four fouls.
    Obie fouled out quickly, but it took Ishmael a little longer. He didn’t get the fifth one until three and a half minutes were left. They were behind by five points. Then the other team stretched the lead to twelve so fast, it made your head spin. Ishmael was breathing hard in the seat next to T.J., but T.J. didn’t want to talk to him; he kept his towel in place.
    Ishmael’s voice was low, but T.J. could hear him: “You quit on us, Nucci.”
    T.J. lifted his head and pulled the towel back to drape it around his neck. His breathing was nearly normal. “You talkin’ to me?”
    â€œYou see anybody else got your name? We could’ve won the game, but you quit on us.”
    T.J. looked at the rivers of sweat crisscrossing Ishmael’s ebony face before he answered. “Who gives a rat’s ass about winning this game?”
    â€œThere ain’t nothin’ to do but win, know what I mean?”
    â€œThis is a summer game. It doesn’t mean a thing.”
    â€œAin’t no such thing as a game not to win.”
    â€œWho gives a shit, Ishmael? You’re a superstar, you can get a scholarship anywhere you want. Notre Dame or wherever.”
    Ishmael was toweling the sweat from his face and neck. He said, “You know what you are, T.J.? You’re a spook. A spook is somebody who don’t come to play.”
    â€œFuck you, Ishmael.”
    â€œEither a spook or another one of these hangin’ around street agents. I can’t figure out which.”
    It was too much. “Fuck you , Ishmael!” Then T.J. hit him. He doubled his fist and punched him hard on his right ear. It was the wrong thing to do for any number of reasons, not the least of which was Ishmael’s greater size and strength. Ishmael took him down on the tartan surface, which felt as hard as old-fashioned blacktop, and would have punched him in the face. Except there were so many people pulling the two of them apart.
    â€œFuck you, spook!” Ishmael screamed while being restrained by three guys, including Buddy Ingalls.
    When the commotion subsided, Ingalls took T.J. to the first aid building. Not a word passed between them. T.J. sat with his head down while Bridget put on a pair of latex gloves to examine the back of his head. Evans was sound asleep on the other table. T.J. was sweating again, and getting the shakes, symptoms of the aftermath from the violent encounter with Ishmael.
    In addition to these shocklike symptoms, his head hurt and so did his ankle, even if only on a subacute level. None of it was significant, however, not compared to his inner turmoil of guilt and shame. He called me a street agent .
    Bridget, the girl who did the crosswords, was picking at the back of his scalp, searching through his hair for the two minor cuts she would find, along with the morsel of tartan court about the size of a BB. “Does this hurt?” she asked him.
    â€œDoes what hurt?”
    â€œI’m probing around on these cuts. Does it hurt?”
    T.J. nearly laughed, it seemed so absurd. The thing that hurt was the thing she could never see: Ishmael’s accusations.
    He didn’t plan to see LuAnn again;