Page 12 of Kingmakers, Year One

They are the best team. But they don’t have the best player.

Johnson Bell is fighting hard for that title.

He’s a big dude, thick with muscle, sweat dripping down his face just two minutes into the third quarter. I’ll give him credit, he’s the toughest opponent I’ve faced this year. But tough just isn’t good enough.

Still, it’s hard carrying the rest of these assholes all on my own. Kelly Barrett misses an easy lay-up, and Chris Pellie turns the ball over twice. I have to make four more baskets just to keep the game even.

As the third quarter comes to a close, my team is up three points. I’m driving to the hoop when that fucker Bell comes up hard behind me. I jump to shoot, I’m up in the air, and he knocks my feet right out from under me. He sends me pinwheeling, crashing down in an awkward sprawl that slams the air out of me.

The crowd gasps and then starts to boo, at least on the home team side. The Wolverine fans laugh and jeer at me.

That makes me angrier than anything. Ihatebeing laughed at.

Bell gets the foul, but I want him kicked out of the fucking game. You don’t go at somebody’s feet—it’s dangerous, and it’s goddamn disrespectful. I haul myself up, breath wheezing in my lungs, and whirl around to face him. He smirks at me, his big, dumb face showing nothing but pride.

I’d like to murder him.

But all I can do is take my shots.

I sink them both. That doesn’t relax me in the slightest. Blood throbs against my temples. All I see is Bell’s smug face.

The Wolverines inbound the ball. Their point guard brings it up the court, then passes to Bell. I guard him, tracking him close. He dribbles carefully, knowing I’m fast as fuck and I’d love to steal the ball back in revenge.

He doesn’t know I’ve got something better planned.

If he wants to play dirty, I’m happy to roll around in the mud.

I pretend to go in for the steal, and instead I shoulder-check him hard in the face. My shoulder slams into his nose. I hear his grunt, and the instant patter of blood dripping down on the boards.

“Oops…” I grin.

Bell’s eyes are already swelling up as he takes his place at the free-throw line.

He makes the first but misses the second, blinded by the pain in his face. I laugh to myself, quietly.

The buzzer rings to signal the end of the third quarter.

The coach immediately hauls me to the side, chewing me out for hitting Bell like that.

“How many times have I told you not to lose your temper? Don’t you know the Kentucky coach is right up there in the stands watching you? You think he wants some hothead on his team?”

“I think he wants the best.” I push past the coach so I can wipe my face with a towel.

The last quarter is a fucking brawl. My team is pissed, the Wolverines even angrier. The ball turns over again and again as we battle for every single point.

The coach calls a timeout so he can set the next play.

Pulling us into a huddle, he says, “Barrett, you’re gonna set a screen for Brown. Pellie will inbound the ball to Brown, Brownwill take it up the court, and once he gets past half-court, Gallo will come and set a high screen. Brown will drive to the hoop and if you have a shot, then take it—if you get covered, give the ball to Miller instead.”

I can hardly bite back my retort to that cockamamie bullshit.

Me, set a screen? You’ve gotta be joking.

I carried this team to the state championship on my fucking back.

I don’t even bother to argue with the coach. He’s the one who’s gotten emotional over that foul, and now he’s not thinking straight.

Instead, I wait till Chris Pellie gets his hands on the ball and I hiss at him, “Forget what Coach said. You pass the ball to me.”

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