Read Online Long May She Reign by Ellen Emerson White - Free Book Online Page B

Lots of loose balls, plenty of traveling and double-dribbling, fouls galore. Both teams seemed to be pretty well-coached, moving in and out of zone and man-to-man defenses, but they missed many more shots than they made. Steven’s team, the Hoppers, had cheerleaders, of assorted sizes, who were waving green and white pom-poms, and breaking into little routines every so often.
    Neal and Ahmed kept jumping up every time Steven got the ball, and when he spun down the lane and flicked it in with his left hand, Meg was kind of excited herself.
    â€œThe kid has some pretty moves,” Preston said, as Steven stole the ball from the boy he was guarding and passed ahead to one of his teammates for an easy lay-up.
    Meg grinned. “Did you teach him that little pump-fake?”
    Preston shook his head and pointed at one of Steven’s agents, who was posted outside the entrance to the locker rooms. “That one came from Billy, I think.”
    Only Steven would have an agent named Billy. Bud. Scooter. He tended to get along very well with his agents, who gave him constant sports advice. “If they teach him a breaking pitch, my father will kill them,” she said. Her father had a rule that none of them could throw curve balls until they were at least sixteen and their arms were fairly mature. In Meg’s case, she had not found this sanction particularly confining. Steven, however, complained about it constantly. “Location,” their father would say. “Work on your location.”
    Steven’s coach, an Hispanic guy in his late twenties, paced up and down as though it was the seventh game of the NBA finals, while the assistant coach just sat in one of the folding chairs and yawned a lot. “Open man!” the head coach kept yelling. “Look for the open man!”
    Look for the knobby-kneed little boy, more accurately. It was funny to watch them play, all energetic and uncoordinated, their hands and feet seeming to have grown much faster than the rest of their bodies. Sort of like German shepherds.
    At half-time, Steven’s team was down twenty-eight to nineteen. And not happy about it, as their coaches herded them off to the locker room, for strategy and pep talks, she assumed.
    â€œIt’s an ex -cellent game,” Ahmed said.
    Neal nodded. “Way more excellent than usual.”
    â€œYou guys always come?” Meg asked. Which she was probably supposed to know.
    They both nodded vigorously.
    The cheerleaders were—prematurely—doing a “victory, victory, that’s our cry!” cheer, finishing with what had to be unintentionally staggered jumps. One girl managed a split, though, which was reasonably impressive.
    â€œDid you ever do the cheering?” Ahmed asked.
    Neal almost fell off the bleachers laughing, and when Meg checked Preston’s expression, he was laughing, too.
    â€œNo,” Meg said. “I never did.”
    â€œVictory, victory, our god-damn cry,” Preston said, just under his breath.
    Meg grinned at him. “What, you don’t think I’d be a good cheerleader?”
    â€œNo comment,” he said.
    Which was aptly timed, because a print reporter—Meg was pretty sure she worked for one of the national weeklies, or maybe The Washington Post —was coming over. The various photographers had been shooting away throughout the game, taking far too many pictures of her , but Meg had been doing her best to ignore them.
    â€œEnjoying the game?” the woman asked.
    Meg nodded. “Yes. Thank you.”
    Neal and Ahmed were watching the cheerleaders and giggling—in all likelihood, it was the beginning of the end of the old latency period.
    The reporter gestured towards her leg. “How’s the knee coming along?”
    â€œVery well, thank you,” Meg said. Just in case this was for attribution.
    â€œAre you enjoying the game, Hannah?” Preston asked.
    â€œYes,” the reporter said, although