Free Athlete vs. Mathlete by W. C. Mack Page B

said, grinning. “Great form, kid. Give it another try.”
    Russell and I lined up face-to-face again.
    â€œI can’t believe I made that,” he whispered to me, smiling.
    â€œMe neither,” I told him. What were the chances?
    â€œI mean, that was a jump shot!”
    â€œYeah,” I muttered, ticked off. How did he know that’s what it was called? And weren’t we supposed to be showing off
my
defense, not
his
shooting? “You made a jump shot.”
    And then, right in my face, he made seven more.
    By the time my defensive “showcase” was over, I hadn’t touched the ball once, and the rest of the guys were staring at Russ like he was a superhero.
    No one said anything until Coach let out a quiet, “Wow.”
    Russ smiled, but he didn’t look like he understood what had just happened.
    I didn’t either.
    â€œWho taught you to shoot like that?” Mr. Webster asked.
    I waited for Russ to say my name or point to me. I probably didn’t wow anybody during the drill, but I could get some brownie points for teaching him everything he knew.
    â€œNo one,” Russ said, shrugging.
    What?
    Of course, he was right. I couldn’t do a jump shot myself, so there’s no way I could have taught the most uncoordinated kid on the planet how to do one.
    Or eight.
    But still.
    â€œYou’ve just been practicing by yourself?” Coach asked.
    â€œNo,” Russ said. He cleared his throat and I could tell he was embarrassed that everyone was staring at him. “That was my first try.”
    Coach’s whistle fell out of his mouth. “Really?”
    Russ shrugged.
    Coach kept staring at my brother, like he couldn’t believe it, then he shook his head. “Okay, everybody line up at center court.”
    We groaned, since we were way too tired for more drills.
    But drills weren’t what Coach had in mind.
    â€œIf you hear your name, you’re on the team,” he said, then waited for us to calm down before he announced, “Nicky Chu.”
    My old teammate waved his fist in the air and grinned.
    Coach kept listing names and guys high-fived each otherwhen they were called. Most of the players had been on the team last year.
    But not all of them.
    I was just starting to get worried when Coach said, “Owen Evans.”
    â€œYes!” I bumped fists with Chris, who’d already made it. We both jumped about four feet off the ground.
    â€œRussell Evans,” Coach said.
    What?
    If I could have frozen in midair, I would have. Instead, my second-class shoes hit the floor with a thud. I turned to stare at my brother, who looked as shocked as I was.
    Russ
made the team?
    How was that even possible?
    All I’d wanted to do was stop him from embarrassing me … I mean,
himself
.
    When I thought about how much Russ stunk before he made those amazing shots, I felt like he’d tricked us.
    Like he’d tricked me.
    Russ turned toward me, and his smile was so big, I thought it might eat his whole face.
    I kind of wished it would.
    I took a deep breath and gave him a thumbs-up, trying to look like I really meant it.
    But I didn’t.

    My brother and I walked home later that afternoon, side by side. My number five jersey was crammed into my bag. I’d wanted number eleven (Tim Camden’s number), but like everything else lately,
Russ
got it.
    â€œI can’t believe it,” he said, for the eight-millionth time. “I never thought I stood a chance.”
    â€œMe neither,” I said, shoving my hands into my pockets.
    â€œI owe it all to you,” he said, quietly.
    Yeah, he did. Why hadn’t he just stood there, like I told him to? He wasn’t supposed to
make
the stupid team!
    â€œI think you’re magical.”
    Huh?
Magical?
    I turned around to make sure no one had heard him. Then I looked at my twin, who was staring at his feet.
    He wasn’t even talking to me! He was thanking his