“He’s tired, Mar. I see it.”
It was in his sighs while he slept and in his kisses when I pulled him out of his sleep, but he’s so good at what he does, the ball still looks like the world in his hands on the court.
He darts in and around the defense with ease, gliding into the paint and bringing the ball to the hole while drawing another foul. Afterward, he lands on the court with a nasty thud.
Coach Williams squats and squints at him.
“And one! And one!” Marcus yells, shooting up from his seat. “That’s my nigga! That’s my brother!”
The stadium screams louder, even though he doesn’t hop back up. LaQuan hovers above him and yanks him from the court.
I try to read their lips but I can’t make out their words. They talk fast, with sweat sliding down their frowning faces.
“What the hell they talking about?” Marcus groans.
When they finish, Ace goes to the free throw line and looks at me again, but I don’t have time to read his eyes before Bryson’s curly head darts between us.
“What the fu—Bry! Move!”
He keeps his head in front of me and eases from the bench, so I scoot forward in my seat. I crane my head over Marcus and catch the ball swishing through the hoop.
Ace and LaQuan keep going at it as if there isn’t just one minute left in the game. They stop long enough for Ace to gain control of the ball and call a play, but their discord trips them up and Gonzaga’s center snatches the world from Ace’s hands. He barrels down the court with it and slams the ball into the hoop. The dunk shakes the stadium and our three point lead dwindles to one.
“Oh shoot. Oh shoot,” Chelsea chants, grabbing at Marcus’ hand.
“Time out! Time out!” Marcus yells.
Ace nods his head from the court and signals a T to the ref. It’s our last timeout and everybody’s anxious body heat engulfs me.
The team huddles together while the sea of maroon keeps the energy high in the stands. I block out their screams and scoot to the edge of my seat, trying my hardest to hear what’s coming out of Ace’s mouth in the middle of that huddle.
When he mushes Bryson underneath his armpit, my heart stutters. It feels like that day I try to forget sometimes and I can hear him telling Bryson, “to do him another solid” because he was tired and they were brothers whether he liked it or not just like he told him outside Mama’s hospital room one day.
“What the fuck is he doing?” Marcus mutters, hooking his arms behind his head. “What the fuck is he doing?”
He chants to himself while Ace shakes Bryson by the neck and talks in his ear.
At the end of their timeout, it’s clear what he’s doing.
“Oh no, please don’t tell me they’re going to put him in. Oh, no.” Chelsea breathes hard. “Phat, say something.”
I don’t have to say anything because the crowd’s confused grumbling does it for me. Everybody wants to know why Coach Williams would put the starting point guard in who hadn’t started since the first game of the season. Bryson averaged five points and ten minutes a game off the bench.
His body stays stiff as Ace walks him to the edge of the court, chirping in his ear.
“Phat,” Chelsea hisses again.
Mama snaps her fingers at her and shakes her head. “He knows what he’s doing.”
I don’t know if she’s talking about Ace or Bryson, but it doesn’t matter, because Bryson’s already on the court. At least this time he tucked his jersey in and tied his laces.
Ace squats on the sidelines and Mama reaches out and grips my wrist.
Bryson’s eyes get big as soon as he looks out into the stadium and sees a million eyes staring back at him. Ace slaps at the court and shouts until he gets Bryson’s attention. He digs his finger into his temple.
“Pick your head up,” he mouths.
Bryson nods with his mouth hanging open.
