Time Out by Sean Hayes & Todd Milliner & Carlyn Greenwald

Author:Sean Hayes & Todd Milliner & Carlyn Greenwald
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Simon & Schuster Books for Young Readers
Published: 2023-05-30T00:00:00+00:00

* * *

It’s so not a big deal, but I’m tense as hell when I pull a basketball out of the garage later that night, Amy’s words ringing in my ears. Mom’s working late as usual, so it doesn’t feel like sad eyes are boring into me as I practice my form. I thought she’d calm down once I agreed to her in-state school plan, but she doesn’t seem convinced I’m actually on board.

It’s one of those nights where things are miraculously quiet, only the occasional sound of a dog barking in the distance. It makes the thud of my ball hitting the concrete ring in my ears. I start dribbling low, gradually adding more force until the ball is popping high above my head like I used to do with it as a kid. I mimic a passing drill, sending the ball across the “court” and running to the other side to catch it before it hits the grass. Within seconds, it’s like the puzzle piece fits back into place. Muscle memory takes over as I turn around, dribble the most complicated maneuvers I know, mumbling:

“Elliot takes the ball from Ito, shoots.” I shoot and—

“Score!” It goes right in. Nothing but net.

I laugh a little as I scoop the ball back.

There’s stiffness in my muscles that comes from lack of conditioning, but it’s like that magic something I always had is right back where it belongs. Once I’m back in my own rhythm, though, the bad stuff kinda comes too. What can I even do with basketball now? I can’t go back on the team, but what am I without it? What future can I have if I’m not playing in college and beyond?

A click steals my attention.

I wheel over and see Christopher with his phone in hand, standing just within the gate.

“You’re on your way to more paparazzi than journalist,” I mutter.

He smiles at me. “Gotta pay tuition somehow.”

I dribble the ball absentmindedly, wishing I could return my full attention to it. “I’m not in the mood for more questions.”

Christopher shrugs. “I’m sure you’re aware that Amy still wants the article about you whether you spill about Ostrowski and the team or not. But today, I’m just here to return your notebook. Grabbed it by mistake.” I drop the ball and move over to take it, but he pulls it back. “Interesting reading. I love the walk to Scratch’s memorial for after the rally and this door-to-door pitch is fantastic.”

It’s not like it’s a diary, but it still feels like a violation. “You read it?”

“I thought it was mine and didn’t realize until after I’d opened it.”

He picks up the basketball I’ve dropped, setting the notebook aside. Without any prompting, he throws it up with one hand.

And it goes in.

I raise my eyebrows. “Wow, not bad.”

“You shooting around by yourself feels a little tragic,” he says. “I can play HORSE with you if you want.”

I will not acknowledge the tragic bit, but I’m at least curious. Do we have something in common?

I start somewhere easy, an angle along the free throw line.

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