Free Stealing the Game by Kareem Abdul-Jabbar

had been doing some kissing, but he never mentioned it, so it was off-limits to
bring up.
    “I kissed a girl over the summer. She was sixteen,” Juvy said.
    Sixteen! This instantly made him our team expert on all things related to girls. Harold Claymoore had been nicknamed Juvy because his dad was always saying that’s where he would wind up
(in juvenile hall detention) if he didn’t “straighten up and fly right.” “Flying right” meant saying “Yes, sir” to everything his dad said, especially
playing football, which Juvy hated, because his dad had been a star quarterback in high school. “Best years of my life,” I’d heard his dad say once, with no hint of pleasure on
his face. “Worst years of mine,” Juvy had muttered. His dad had grounded him for two weeks.
    “Sixteen?” Three said. “That’s crap.”
    “Was she awake when you kissed her?” Roger scoffed, but the jealousy was plain on his face.
    “She was cool. I was visiting my grandparents in Colorado and she lived down the street. We hung out at the pool together.”
    “And?” Weston said with a grin.
    Juvy shrugged. “And one night we were sitting in the Jacuzzi. There was no one else there, because my grandparents live in a retirement community and everyone’s in bed by like six
o’clock.”
    “Then what was this girl doing there?” Three asked skeptically, like a detective who’d just cracked a felon’s alibi.
    “Her folks got divorced and she and her mom had to move in with her grandmother until they could find a new place.”
    “Get back to the kissing,” Weston said.
    “Nothing much to tell. Like I said, we mashed lips so hard I could feel her teeth. She seemed to like that.”
    “Any tongues involved?” Weston goaded.
    “Nope,” Juvy said. “Just lips. But we still text and Skype, so I must’ve done something right. Anyway, I’m going back to visit my grandparents this summer, and
we’ll see what happens.”
    See. What. Happens.
    Those three words were so filled with hope and possibility and adventure that the rest of us just nodded.
    For some reason, Brooke’s face popped into my head.
    “Hey, guys,” I said, “I have a favor to ask.” They all turned to face me with surprised looks. I’d never addressed them as a group in the locker room, only on the
court when we were strategizing. And I’d certainly never asked them for a favor. It felt a little like in a fantasy movie when the trusted adviser kills the king and then tries to convince
everyone to follow him.
    I told them about the game after school at the park. I didn’t mention anything about my brother owing money. I asked for volunteers to play.
    “Aw, dude,” Weston said. “I’ve got guitar lessons after school.”
    Roger said, “Count me in, bro. I love to crush club teams. Bunch of rich brats.”
    Roger’s dad owned three Taco Bells, but Roger still saw himself as some sort of man of the people, the Abe Lincoln of basketball. Still, I was glad to have him.
    Theo stood up, his skinny six-four frame towering above the rest of us. “I’ll be there.”
    “Sure,” Tom Farley said. “But I’ve got to be home by four-thirty to walk the dog.”
    I nodded thanks and turned to the others.
    “No can do,” Juvy said. “My dad’s got me on a strict schedule until I get my grades up. No park, no movies, no TV, no Xbox. It’s worse than prison.”
    Sami and Three also had other plans but seemed sincerely sorry.
    “No problem, guys,” I said. “I know it’s short notice.” I only had four guys, but I felt confident I could pick someone else up during the day.
    The warning bell for first period rang and we scrambled for class. I texted my brother:
Game on.

MAKE IT RAIN
    “ HAVE you found out anything about my brother?” I asked Theo as we walked to English class.
    “Not yet. I was going to go down to Dad’s station this afternoon and try to make a few calls on their phone. When the caller ID shows the police department, people are