Free Hunter's Moon by Don Hoesel Page B

one of CJ’s shots rolled off the rim, took a bounce off the driveway and headed his way, Graham cut through and swiped it away, dribbling between his legs once, pivoting, and sinking a shot.
    The ball rolled CJ’s way, and he scooped it up, eyeing his brother.
    “So that’s the way it’s going to be, huh?”
    “To ten by two,” Graham answered.
    CJ checked the ball to his brother, got it back, and started to the right. He turned his back to Graham, who positioned himself to keep CJ from cutting in for a lay-up. Graham had always defended with his long arms, reaching in to try to swipe the ball away, and CJ was ready for him, using his forearm to push his brother’s arm back. He worked his way toward the basket, feinted left, then pivoted the other direction and sent a shot arcing toward the basket. Graham, caught off guard by the feint, jumped too late to block it, and CJ watched in satisfaction as he struck true.
    “Nice shot,” Graham said, although the look on his face belied the compliment.
    He tossed the ball to CJ, who walked to the crack that served as the top of their invisible circle and checked the ball. Graham was playing back, waiting for him to come below the foul line before picking him up, so CJ took two steps forward, pulled the ball back, and shot. It had been a very long time since he’d played—a few pickup games in college—so there should have been no chance of his making that shot, yet it went through without so much as breathing on the rim.
    When Graham pushed the ball his way, there was something in his eyes that CJ remembered from long ago—something that told him this game was about to become something more important than the game, by itself, could possibly be. It had everything to do with the competitiveness that had, along with the other thing, dogged their childhood. Out of the corner of his eye, CJ saw Thor pad up from who knew where. His paws were dirty, which meant he’d been having the kind of fun that only a dog could appreciate. He lay down in the grass, yawned once, and closed his eyes.
    Graham tightened, not allowing CJ to get a shot off. So he put the ball on the ground and drove right, but Graham moved to block him, giving him a little shove. A small one—just to let CJ know it wasn’t going to be that easy.
    “Call your own foul,” CJ said, backing off a touch to find an opening.
    “Still playing sissy style,” Graham chided.
    But CJ caught him in midsentence, cutting between Graham and the garage before his brother could react. He caught his own ball after the lay-up and carried it back out front.
    “You’re a lot slower than you used to be,” CJ said. He didn’t check it this time but launched what would have been a three-pointer on a real court. It banged off the rim and into Graham’s hands.
    “Don’t confuse biding my time with slowness,” Graham said as he moved the ball out, CJ sliding in to replace him.
    “Problem is, you bide your time too much, and you find yourself in a hole you can’t dig out of.”
    Graham didn’t answer except to work his way toward the basket, fending CJ off with his backside. At about five feet he turned and shot over CJ’s outstretched arms. The ball hit the inside of the rim and bounced out. He jumped in front of CJ, caught it, and put it back up for a point. He dropped the ball at his brother’s feet and walked to the top of the circle.
    “I don’t care how many awards you win. You won’t beat me,” Graham said.
    CJ tossed him the ball.
    As the game wore on, Graham whittled CJ’s lead to a point. But both were tired, and the last few shots had reflected that, with neither man willing to drive, content to try their respective luck with outside shooting.
    When CJ got the ball back, he quickly moved inside, heading to the right again. Hitting this one would win him the game.
    “You still favor your right, don’t you, Charles?” Graham said. He was guarding tight, and CJ couldn’t fake him into taking a step