Free Winners by Eric B. Martin

body can do.
    “Ooh, like Hornacek and shit,” someone yells from the sideline. “He killing you Vee.”
    Vee swears, shakes his head. Bullshit.
    Things get tough. Vee wants the ball down low and gets it. He puts his shoulder against Shane’s and spins him like a revolving door, lays it in. “Stop fouling, bitch,” Vee says. After that the man is everywhere, pushing Shane, roughing him, daring him to look him in the eye or say a single word. When Shane finally gets the ball, Vee reaches out and rips it out of his hands. A cry of disgust goes up from Shane’s teammates. He’s not exactly scared, but for the first time in a long time, he feels like things on the court are out of his control.
    You can’t let the Vees of the world do this to you, Shane thinks. He looks at his enemy. The guy has a mother and father, a girlfriend or a wife, a kid or a dog. The guy is just another guy. The next time Vee tries to post him up, Shane keeps shifting, giving the man nothing to push on, nudging him off balance. Vee keeps trying but can’t get good position.
    They steal the ball from Jimmy, picking off a lazy pass, and pound it back inside to their big man. Shane’s teammate Darius lets the guy back him down, lets the guy put up the shot—and then launches himself to get it, one greedy hand stretched up suddenly above the rim. He’s so high that he has time to aim and swat the ball in a clean line into Shane’s hands, who tosses it out perfect, the ball bouncing and floating for sprinting Jo Jo to catch up. He lays it in, slaps the backboard with a solid thump. “Game time!”
    “Dunk that shit, nigga.” The sideline chips in. Shane’s heart is galloping, stampeding against his chest. He looks over at Jimmy and sees it in his brother’s eyes as well. This is fucking basketball. Who have they been kidding all this time? They cross paths, Jimmy and Shane, slapping hands softly at half court.
    “You good?”
    “Yeah.” The gym has gotten loud: sneakers, balls, voices, television. Shane can feel his heart still pounding. He tries to think of someplace he’d rather be.
    “Let’s keep it going.”
    “Do our thing.”
    The next team comes on and Shane catches Jimmy’s eye, slides over to set a pick and is run over immediately. The aggressor stands tall victorious lording over his fallen body for a moment. Jimmy steps quickly to him, reaching down to hoist him up.
    “What the hell is that?” Shane says.
    “Better get outta my way,” the guy says, and Shane figures something has to happen until Jo Jo steps in, waves everyone away.
    “Come on, come on, play ball y’all. Fuck this shit, come on.” He pulls Jimmy and Shane aside. “Don’t worry about Rashon. That boy’s crazy.” He shakes his head at Shane. “And don’t set no picks, that shit don’t play out here.”
    “All right.” Shane looks at his shoes and at the ceiling, anywhere but at the guy he wants to kill, wants to stick a shard of glass through his throat. Jo Jo’s still got him by the arm and releases only when he gives him the nod that says he gets it. You’re not going to win that one, Jo Jo’s eyes are telling him, you’re never ever going to win that one up here, white boy. They’re gonna knock you down and get in your head and everything. All you got is your game, ’cause the minute you open your mouth, you lose.
    “Okay. I’m cool,” Shane says, quietly.
    “Let’s put ’em away.” Jo Jo slaps him on the ass, nods. “Check ball,” Jo Jo says.
    After Rashon and company, the sailing is fairly smooth, and when they eventually lose after five games it’s from absolute fatigue. Jo Jo takes it hard, though, swearing to himself, looking annoyed. Shane sits down next to him on a bench at the end of the court.
    “Man,” Shane says. Jo Jo shrugs, puts out a fist and they do the up-down bump.
    “Yeah,” Jo Jo says. “I can’t believe we even let those chumps score basket one. After all that.” He calls out to one of the other