Long Shot - Mike Lupica [26]
Pedro insisted on going back into the gym, so they let him. When he got to the bench during a time-out, he told Coach Cory he wanted to stay around and watch the end of the game. He checked the clock and saw that they were three minutes into the fourth quarter by then. Coach Cory put his hand on Pedro’s shoulder, told him he’d already taken one for the team, to take the rest of the day off and he’d call to check in on him later.
When Pedro started to walk away, Ned walked with him. Pedro knew it was more for show than anything else, but there wasn’t much he could do about it. So he just let it happen, let Ned look like a team leader walking him to the door.
“Sorry, dude,” Ned said. “I should have called it out.”
Pedro stopped, looked at him, said in a quiet voice, “You think?”
“Hey,” Ned said, keeping his own voice down. “I made a mistake and I’m saying I’m sorry.”
Acting like he was the injured party.
“No,” Pedro said. “You’re not.”
Ned said, “You’re saying I did it on purpose?”
“Everything you do on a basketball court has a purpose,” Pedro said. “And one other thing: I’m not your dude anymore, dude.”
He walked toward where his mom was waiting for him.
Now he was in the basement with Joe, his head starting to feel better, Anna Morales not coming down every ten minutes to ask how he was doing.
“How’s the head really?” Joe said, not turning around, his eyes focused on FIFA Soccer 08.
“Great,” Pedro said. “My mom stops asking and you start.”
On the big screen, one of the players from Tottenham Hotspur—Joe always wanted to be Tottenham Hotspur, for no other reason than the cool name—scored a goal and Joe pumped his fist.
Even now, only half watching from the couch, Pedro couldn’t believe how real the players on the screen looked, how real the action seemed. It was actually one of the things that Pedro liked best about playing video games: If you were smart enough and quick enough and good enough with the controller, you could make sports come out the way you wanted them to.
It was the way real sports were supposed to work, too.
Just not lately.
“What finally changed your mind?” Pedro said. “About Ned, I mean.”
“When he clapped and then didn’t move. He always cuts to the basket on that play. Always. And what happened later, that was just plain cold, dude. He always sees picks coming even before the other guy decides he wants to set one.”
“Tell me about it,” Pedro said.
“So the question is, what are we gonna do about it?”
“There’s nothing for either one of us to do except play through this,” Pedro said.
“What if we both go to Coach?”
“You know Coach,” Pedro said. “He sees what he wants with Ned, and what he sees is Peter Perfect. The player who’s gonna lead us to a perfect season. Hey, you saw it the other day when I stole the ball from Ned at practice. He says one little thing to Ned about protecting the ball and the other guys on the team act like he’s grounded him for life or something.”
“Word,” Joe said.
Pedro sat down on the floor next to Joe now and grabbed the other controller.
Joe said, “Your mom said you had to keep the ice on until she told you to take it off.”
Pedro said, “I can beat you one-handed and with a headache.”
“Okay, I’m calling your mom,” Joe said. “You’re delirious.”
“I did say something to him today,” Pedro said.
Joe looked at him. “Ned?”
Pedro told him about their exchange right before he left the gym.
“You think you got through to him?” Joe said.
Pedro nodded. Slowly. “He knew what I was saying. And he’s smart enough on hoops to know that I know what’s been going on.”
“Maybe the next time something happens you should get in his grill and just air him out in front of the whole team.”
Pedro