staring at me. I waited for someone, anyone, to say something, but nobody did.
I couldnât think of a time when Iâd felt more out of place.
More wrong
.
I took a deep breath, realizing that talking about trying out and actually doing it were two very different things. These jocks would be watching every move I made, then laughing about it for weeks.
I glanced at my Nikes.
What had I been thinking?
A pair of shoes wouldnât save me.
I needed to just turn around and walk away. Iâd be better off going to the Masters meeting and helping my team than embarrassing myself because a new coach came up with a terrible idea.
But just as I was about to leave, I heard Owenâs voice.
Turnover
âCome here,â I said, waving Russ over to an empty spot on the bench.
He looked like he had a panic button in his back pocket and he was ready to use it. I felt sorry for him.
âWeâve only got a couple of minutes,â I told him quietly. âYou can do this.â
In just a few seconds, he was dressed and ready. Well, he
looked
ready, but clothes couldnât fix everything.
âJust take a deep breath,â I told him. âAll you have to do is get through it, and Iâm right here with you.â
He closed his eyes. âThanks, Owen,â he said when he opened them again. âFor everything.â
âReady?â I asked, and when he nodded, I led him out tothe gym, where Coach Baxter was standing at center court with his assistant, Mr. Webster.
âWelcome to tryouts,â Coach said, looking from one guy to the next. âWeâre going to start with a few laps around the gym, then weâll get into drills. What Iâm looking for today is some speed, stamina, and decent shooting.â
Whew
. I could handle that.
But could Russ? He didnât really have
any
of that stuff.
âLetâs go!â Coach blew his whistle and we started to circle the gym.
By the end of the third lap, all of us had passed my brother. Twice.
Part of me wanted to slow down and jog with Russ. He was my twin, after all. But the other part knew that everyone in the gym was competing for a place on the team.
I
was competing.
And I wasnât going to throw away my chance.
When I jogged past him again, I whispered, âGood job, Russ.â
âIâm not fast enough,â he gasped. His cheeks were red and he was already sweating.
âJust keep it slow and steady,â I told him. âThis isnât a race.â
I thought about the stopwatch hanging from Coachâs neck. The racing was later, but Russ didnât need to freak out about that yet.
By the end of the warm-up, we were all out of breath and sweaty, but only Russ looked like he was dying.
Or wished he was.
Forty-five minutes later, after a bunch of drills, most of us had finished running lines, and Iâd just caught my breath when Coach asked, âWhoâs left?â
âEvans,â Mr. Webster said. âRussell Evans.â
âAnd?â Coach asked.
âThatâs it,â Mr. Webster said, checking his clipboard.
âOkay, then. Evans, youâre up.â
Russell tucked his shirt into his shorts and moved away from the wall. He swallowed hard and walked to the line.
I gave him a thumbs-up as he went by, and I watched him get into starting position, his awesome Nikes toeing the line. He was all alone. With a crowd staring at him, waiting for him to fail. I took a deep breath, wishing I didnât have to watch.
And then it hit me. I
didnât
have to.
When I stood up and walked toward my brother, everyone started whispering, but I ignored them.
Russ jumped when I stepped onto the line next to him.
âWhat are you doing?â he asked.
I cleared my throat and told Coach, âIâll run with him.â
âYouâre sure, Owen?â Coach asked.
âYeah,â I said, nodding.
âOkay, then.â Coach blew the whistle.
As soon as
Legs McNeil, Jennifer Osborne, Peter Pavia