Tasha had imagined a screen filling with the truth, followed by a stunned hush. What she got was a form, a receipt, and an appointment that hadn't yet been made. "You okay?" Ward asked her outside the office. "I'm disappointed."
"So am I, but disappointment isn't the same as nothing happening. Keep the file untouched." Imani looked at the reference number and tucked it into her pocket beside the folded game schedule. She was learning that protecting a fact and winning a game required the same kind of patience. You could not rush the possession just because you hated the scoreboard.
The next morning, South Dock' bus pulled into the field house while a light rain patterned the windows. Denise had left a sandwich in Imani's bag and a note on the wrapper. Place the ball. Don't throw it at the wall. Imani smiled at the old instruction.
Her mother had never played organized basketball, but she had watched enough missed bank shots in empty gyms to know what bothered her daughter. At the bus entrance, a freshman from their school asked whether Imani had really challenged Mariner to a fight. The girl sounded ashamed to ask. Imani stopped instead of making her guess. "No," she said.
"Two people shoved me. The school filed a report. I'm here to play basketball." "That's what Zora said." "Then Zora was right."
"Why don't you just show everyone the video? Because I want the people responsible to see the whole thing. And because I don't want strangers picking apart anybody's face just to decide what happened to me. The freshman considered that. "Okay," she said.
"I was scared you wouldn't play today." "So was I for a minute." The admission made them both laugh. It also made Imani's breath easier. People could be uncertain without being enemies.
She needed to remember that before Brielle's crowd convinced her every spectator came to watch her fail. Mariner's second day game took place before South Dock. Ward had the team sit together in the back third of the bleachers not to boo or applaud, but to study an opponent they might meet in the final. Brielle was exactly as good as her posters suggested. She did not need a referee's favor or a lazy defender to score.
Her first basket came from a sharp hesitation move that sent her defender a step toward the lane before she rose into a jumper. A minute later, she stole a careless pass and finished at full speed without looking down at the ball. Harper ran beside her on fast breaks. A strong wing when she wasn't busy performing for the front row. Their teammates knew the lanes they liked.
It was a real team, a dangerous one. Imani refused to pretend otherwise merely because she disliked the people wearing the jerseys. By halftime, Brielle had 19 points. Zora lowered her voice. "How many of those are we stopping?"
"Not enough if we watch the ball," Imani said. "Talk me through it." On her left-to-right move, she pushes off the outside of her right foot. When she wants the jumper, her shoulders square earlier. When she's really going to basket, the right shoulder drops first. But, if you chase it too soon, she changes hands.
Ward heard them from the row below. You think there's a pattern? Everybody has one. I just don't know what it means yet. Then don't claim you do.
Write down what you see. Imani opened a little graph paper notebook. Across the top, she wrote Voss, hips before hands. She marked three possessions, shoulder dip, two dribbles, layup. Then a counter example, shoulder dip, step back shot.
It would have been comforting if all four had proved her right. The exception was more useful. It reminded her she was observing a player, not solving an equation that would make a player disappear. Mariner won convincingly. Brielle took a final bow when the buzzer sounded, laughing at a group of supporters waving her photograph.
No rule prohibited enjoying a victory. Imani thought of the way North Pierce captain had shaken her hand the day before. The difference stayed with her as she followed Ward toward the practice court. There, the team worked through screens while the next game was being set up. Zora stood with her hands lifted like a defender.
Imani attacked left, then planted, and took a quick right-handed banker from the middle of the lane. It hit the back rim. Again, Zora said. I'm trying. You're throwing your shoulder through it.
Coach told you that yesterday. I heard her. You heard the part where she said not to aim at the glass like it owes you money. Imani laughed despite herself. She took a slower approach, brought the ball up with her right hand, and placed it softly against the upper corner of the square.
It fell through. "That's one." Zora said. "You need 10 before we go." "You enjoy this too much."
"Somebody has to." Six of the next 10 went in. It was not a miracle. It was a number they could improve. Ward logged the misses along with the makes.
When Brielle glanced into the gym on her way to the interview area, she saw Imani practicing with the hand she had used so awkwardly the day before. Brielle watched long enough to make Imani self-conscious, then kept walking. During a short break, Brielle reappeared with Harper near the water fountain. She dismissed Harper with a nod and approached Imani alone. In the relative quiet of the hallway, she looked less like a poster and more like an exhausted teenager who was expected to remain impressive from morning until evening.
"Look," Brielle said, "that thing on the first day got stupid." Imani waited. "Harper gets carried away. Lily makes everything into content. If you let it go, it'll blow over."
"Have you told the tournament office what happened?" Brielle frowned. "Why would I do that?" "Because you were there." "I'm trying to be nice."
"Being nice would mean telling the truth." Brielle stared at her as though the invitation were an insult. "You want to make a big issue out of it? Be my guest. Just don't pretend you didn't like the attention." Imani felt heat rise into her face.