Fixing on Rick, Sam approaches him first, offering him the jersey, but Rick throws up his palms and backs away, shaking his head. Joey Skouros, to whom Sam offers it next, won’t take it either. Sam searches out Billy Rank, who’s desperately trying to be invisible. Billy pushes the shirt back to him. Sam turns to Pete, who curls his lip contemptuously. There is no way he can accept the jersey after three others have refused it. He looks away.
Sam pulls his jersey back over his head. “Let’s play some hoop.”
Though he succeeds in sounding calm, he feels like he has swallowed a stone. When he turns his back on them, he doesn’t know if they will follow him again. He looks to the Mutant; she nods reassuringly and bounces a ball his way. As he catches it, he sneaks a glance behind him. Rick is shrugging off his jacket and so are the others, except for the enraged Fosse, who still dithers. Sam breathes again. Looking past the players to the coaches, he winks, and they shake their heads in laughing admiration.
He finds himself double-teamed against Nat Linscott and the Mutant.
“Awesome,” the Mutant says.
“I’ll say so,” Nat giggles.
Sam laughs.
“What you blushing for, Bigger?” the Mutant teases. “Talk dirty to him, Nat, he’s losing his concentration.”
Nat’s face flames under her freckles.
So does Sam’s.
At lunchtime, Sam has the gym to himself. He wants the personal time with the ball but it is also a political choice, a way to give a breather to his teammates. Without him at the table, they are free to talk about the situation, come to terms with it.
Rick enters the gym and squats on the sidelines, watching him. Bopping the ball over, Sam crouches down next to him. Rick reaches for the ball and Sam lets him take it.
“You yanked my yang,” Rick says. And laughs. “Picked me first ‘cause you knew I wouldn’t take your goddamn jersey. Picked Skouros and Rank, couple of lambs to the slaughter. Backed Peteybird right into the fucking corner and stripped him. Hell of a show, Sambo.”
Sam’s hands hang slack between his knees. “See if it works tomorrow.”
“That was a beautiful rainbow last night. Pure hotdog but oh man, it was something to see.”
Sam shrugs, glances at his watch and rises. “Gotta eat.”
Rick bounces to his feet. “I forget what you can do when you take a break from being stupid. Look, Sambo, things got out of hand. Some things got said shouldn’t have been said.”
Unwrapping a sandwich, Sam lets the apology pass with a quick smile. “It’s all right, Rick.”
“Maybe. If we pull it together again. If it’s not too late.”
Rick’s trepidation appears to be unfounded. Practice goes well enough to make Coach cheerful. If there is a distinct chill between Pete Fosse and Sam, it is easy to shrug off. They have never more than tolerated each other but—except for last night’s game—it hasn’t stopped them working together when necessary. Pete knows he has to serve his apprenticeship if he wants Sam’s job next year. Sam bears down hard on Pete—tough on the others too—so much that Fosse has to fight his temper. Coach advises Sam quietly to let up. And Sam does and then takes the trouble to pause and compliment every one of them individually, including Pete, on their play as they leave the floor.
“Fuck you very much,” Pete responds, though Coach is only a couple of yards away.
Turning around and walking backward, Sam blows Pete a kiss.
“That’s a ten-lap fine, Fosse,” the coach says flatly.
With a hitch of his upper lip, Pete pivots and jogs back to the court.
Coach draws Sam aside. “I thought the bullshit was over.”
Sam shrugs. “With Pete, it’s never over.”
The coach fights a smile of recognition; he’s shoveled his share from Pete. “What’s your point?”
“I want him to understand I’m not going to tolerate any more dogging. I earned my place on this team. I don’t need to kiss his ass to stay on it. The only way I put up with him is if he plays to win. If he’s got another agenda, he’ll pursue it with my foot up his ass.”
Coach rocks on his heels. He grins. “Whew! You getting tough on me, Sam?”
Sam smiles. “You want me to stand down?”
Coach throws up his palms. “Hell no. He gets the bit in his teeth, he won’t be worth diddly next year. I just want you guys working together again, not against each other.”
23
The ball shimmies and falls out as the Mutant misses another free throw. Her shooting has gotten weird. She’s favoring the inside of her right foot, Sam concludes. Those shitty tops of hers, she’s probably developed blisters or strained a little muscle in her instep from lack of support. She’s frustrated with herself but actually she’s doing very well away from the line, getting the ball where it should be, marshaling her players.
After the practice ends, he goes out to warm up the truck for her. He finds an old Dickies cassette and slots it. While “The Sounds of Silence” and “Nights in White Satin” are savaged by the punk parodists, the parking lot empties out almost completely around him.
She skitters across the icy pavement like a bug on the surface of the water.
“Coach was gabby,” she gasps, throwing herself into the cab and yanking the door closed behind her.
“If Stewart could talk, what would he say to me?” the Dickies’ lead singer asks, launching into a song about his penis.
“Oh, great,” she says, arranging her gear on the floor of the cab. “Stewart. I love it. You got a name for yours?”
“No,” Sam says. “Stewart’s a bust but guys who name their dicks make me nervous.” He’s sitting in his truck talking about dicks with a girl, he realizes suddenly. A girl he’s fucked. Talking dirty. It makes him feel a lit bit heady and a lot horny. “Do girls do that? Give
