Free Night Hoops by Carl Deuker

had Carver, Fabroa, and McShane. No more than a minute into the game Trent ripped down a defensive rebound. He fed me with a quick outlet, exactly the way Coach O'Leary wanted. I raced the ball right up the center of the court. Luke filled the lane on my left and Trent was on my right.
    I could have fed Luke. He was open, and he'd had a big game the day before. But Trent was open too, and he deserved the ball. Or maybe I should say he needed the ball. I feathered a soft pass to him.
    He soared for the lay-in. The ball hung on the lip of the rim, and for a second I wasn't sure it was going to drop. But then it did, and once that ball went through the hoop, it was as if the knots that had been tying him up were suddenly cut. He gave me his crooked smile—something I never thought would come my way.
    After that Trent ran the court like a demon, crashed the boards harder than ever, and swished the jump shot I'd seen him practicing in the moonlight. With Luke hot from behind the three-point stripe, and with me dishing out assists to both of them, we steamrolled those varsity guys, controlling the court and everything that happened on it. Our dominance was so complete that Matt Markey actually went after Luke, fouling him hard on a breakaway and then standing over him, fists clenched, glowering. But Luke played it cool, simply standing up and walking away, making Markey looking so foolish that O'Leary laughed.

    As we walked home on Friday, Luke turned to me. "What do you think, Nick? He can't cut us, can he?"
    "No way," I said. "We're a lock."
    He grinned. "I think so too. But I can hardly wait until Monday."
    We talked about O'Leary for a while, and what it would be like to play for him. Then Luke brought up Trent. "I think he'll make the team, thanks to you. You made him look like a star, and O'Leary likes his aggressiveness."
    "He's good enough, but he flunked a whole bunch of classes last year, and he's flunking a whole bunch this year. You can't play if you don't pass, can you?"
    Luke shook his head. "Not where I came from."

    Dad came by Sunday. He took me to the Kaddyshack Driving Range in Lynnwood. Neither of us is any good at golf, so we hacked away at the balls and talked. While we were hitting our second buckets, I told him I thought I'd made the team.
    "What do you mean 'You
think'?
"
    "I won't know for sure until Monday. That's when they post the roster."
    He tilted his head. "You know already, Nick. A player always knows. So did you make it, or didn't you?"

    I swallowed. "I made it."
    He reached over and rubbed the top of my head. "That's my boy!" Then, in a more serious tone, he continued: "You remember what I said about the final shot. If you get the chance, you step up and take it. Don't be thinking that just because you're a sophomore you've got to pass to some senior. You be the man."
    After we finished hitting golf balls, we ate fish and chips at the Ivar's at Bothell Landing. I hoped we'd do something after lunch, maybe bike the trail again, but he drove me home. "I've got to talk to your mom," he said after we stepped inside the front door. "Business."
    I climbed upstairs and turned on the Sonics-Kings game. But underneath the play-by-play I could hear the two of them arguing about support payments and lawyers. After about an hour, I heard the pick-up drive off. He hadn't even said goodbye.

Chapter 9
    I made the team. When I saw my name on the list, I felt exhilarated, but it wasn't like winning a million dollars. Dad had been right—a guy does know where he belongs. As Luke and I stared at the list, it was as if we were both checking on something that we knew had to be.
    We'd stared at our names for a minute when I spotted Trent's name at the bottom of the page with an asterisk after it. "What do you think that means?"

    "Grades, I'll bet. Just like you thought."
    "You think he'll hit the books now? Somehow I can't see Dawson studying."
    Luke shrugged. "Give the guy some credit. You never thought