Read Online Pull by Kevin Waltman - Free Book Online Page B

after it, but I get there first. I tap it again, pushing it out toward mid-court. I leap over their sprawling guard. Then I’m all alone.
    Corral. Push. Feel the energy of the crowd swell as I race to the rack. And then when I rise up, it’s all blocked out for the briefest of moments. There’s no crowd, no scouts, no coaches. Hell, there’s not even a game on. Just me attacking the rim. I break out a big tomahawk, throwing the thing down as hard as I can.
    When I land, it all comes rushing back. The crowd is a mob, a rocking sea of red and green. My teammates are howling as our coaches urge us to race back on D. Upchurch turns to the ref and signals for time, his squad down seven again, chances dashed. And all those scouts from the blue chip schools have their answer: Derrick Bowen’s the king on this court.
    Fuller just wants to talk hoops. Perfect. That’s why I hit him up after the game to go get some grub—I know Fuller is the one guy who won’t get up to any nonsense.
    â€œWe got to get Jones involved,” he says. “I’m not saying take shots away from you or Stanford, but we make him into a threat and teams won’t know what to do with us.”
    â€œI hear it. Right now the only looks he gets are put-backs. But in practice he buries that J from the elbow.”
    Fuller’s chuckles and shakes his head. He looks away like a wistful old man. “There’s no greater distance than the one between practice shots and game shots,” he says.
    â€œPreach it,” I say. My agreement makes Fuller smile. All the kid wants, really, is to belong. He transferred here last year. As much as he’s found his fit on the court, he’s a tough fit off it. He’s so eager it kills him, so sincere he makes people roll their eyes. He falls in love with any girl who looks his way and—even worse—professes it to them right off the bat. And then there was his “party” the other weekend, which made everyone feel like they were back in sixth grade. But the kid’s steady. And right now, I can use steady.
    So here we are, at Sure Burger on 38 th . It’s a new place, openedlast month, but it doesn’t look it. The booths look so old and grimy, it’s like they pre-date the building. In the hall to the bathroom there’s a small mountain of wreckage—old aprons, a broken space heater, busted crates—and in the men’s room the window is clapped shut with plywood. And then there’s the grease—everything within 50 feet of the kitchen has a slick coat on it, like someone busted in one night and just doused the place in the oil from the fryer. But, hey, it’s got the good eats. That’s all we care.
    I make the mistake of checking my phone. The scroll of texts is longer than the Constitution. On one hand, it makes me feel good. I mean, that’s part of the point, right? Ball out and get a ride to college. Then own it there and make it to the L. But already the voices are blurring. Good game! and Way to tear it up! and Saw your line, D. Way to be! and We need a scorer like that at Creighton! They all start to look the same after a while. The names of the schools change, but it’s all the same. I need to narrow them down. Fast.
    Fuller points at me with his fork, a mess of stabbed fries on the end—I mean, the guy eats his fries with a fork! “More questions from Whitfield?” he asks. It’s a loaded comment. More snark than usual from a guy like Fuller. But I know I deserve it. The interview with Whitfield did not go over well in the locker room. Nobody was truly falling out, but Stanford and Reynolds both made sure to give me some static on it. Then again, I basically proved myself right on the court tonight. Maybe that’s why Fuller backs off when I don’t answer right away. “Probably schools, huh?” he says. “Where you thinking?”
    I sigh. “I wish I knew. Indiana,