Boost by Kathy Mackel

Author:Kathy Mackel
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Young Readers Group
Published: 2010-03-01T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Gonzo went over the rules, taking her job as referee seriously. “What’re you guys playing to?”

“Twenty-one,” Marc and I said in unison.

“Hey,” he said. “Great minds.”

“We’ll see about that one.”

Marc won the coin flip—actually, an onion chip—and got first possession. As he brought the ball in, I set in a one-man zone rather than the usual playground press. He loved spinning layups, so my plan was to keep him outside the lane.

He sunk an easy three-pointer. Worth only one point according to driveway rules but it was a beauty.

Gonzo flipped me the ball. I took it in and Marc was on me in a flash. His face a foot away from mine flustered me. I had a brain fart and almost passed to Gonzo.

I feinted right and went left. Marc didn’t buy it. He kept with me all the way. I dribbled around, keeping my hip between him and the ball. I drove for the basket, fully aware of the risk of getting the ball stuffed back in my face.

Callie would freak if I embarrassed her by getting my nose broken at her party. Tough. I’d have fun my way and she could have it her way.

When I broke left, Marc hesitated, expecting to get juked. By the time I hit the basket, he was a step behind.

We played for about fifteen minutes, trading baskets back and forth. Like a real game, he bumped me under the basket. Unlike a real game, I had to keep from collapsing into his arms with an utterly girlie and absolutely stupid sigh.

I was ahead 12-10 when Marc called a time-out. He whipped off his shirt and wiped the sweat off his chest with a couple of napkins.

I thought I was going to die on the spot.

“You do some serious lifting, huh?” Gonzo said.

“I’m working at it,” Marc said. “I’m too tall to be a Marvin Harrison type wideout, so I need to bulk up, get into Terrell Owens territory.”

“And how do you do that?” I said.

“A really comprehensive program of weight lifting. I even do yoga and Pilates,” Marc said. “Plus, good nutrition, all that health class blah blah. Whaddya say, Hotshot? Ready?”

He went back to the court, his shirt still off. Behind his back, Gonzo fluttered her hand over her heart.

After twenty minutes, the score was 20-19, his favor. I wanted to win so badly, my skin ached.

I took the ball in, driving as if for the lane, then cut right. Marc stole the ball and I cursed myself for being so predictable.

He whirled, jumped, and—

—I flew in and stuffed the shot. We scrambled for the ball. I got there first, and before he could extend his arms, I jumped, shot, and swish.

“Game point,” Gonzo called out.

Marc inbounded and drove for the middle of the lane. He jumped and deked sideways. I flailed, tipping the ball just enough to deflect it against the rim.

I came down with the rebound. He tried to grab the ball away, whipping it—and me—around so hard, I fell.

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