That evening, the team returned briefly to South Dock’s gym. Ward had planned no more than 20 minutes of shooting, but Imani asked for one last look at her right-side bank. Zora held a pad at an angle, giving her a shoulder to move around without making real contact. Imani missed twice, corrected her approach, then found the backboard softly. She made four in a row before the fifth spun out.
"That's the one you need to remember." Ward said. "The miss. The one after it. If somebody stops you, you don't get to decide the next move until you see what they do."
Imani retrieved the ball and stood beneath the hoop. The words applied to basketball. They also applied to the paper sitting somewhere in the tournament office and to the girls who had pushed her on the first morning. Preparation would not guarantee the outcome. It could keep her from handing the outcome to somebody else.
A message appeared on Ward's phone as they gathered their things. It was from the tournament desk requesting a meeting before South Dock’s semifinal. The subject line mentioned a formal eligibility objection to player number 12. Ward read it twice, then looked at Imani. She did not conceal the news.
"They've filed it." she said. Imani heard a ball bounce once on the far side of the empty gym. Zora reached for her backpack and stopped. All three looked at the doorway as though someone might appear there and explain that the letter was a mistake. No one did.
Ward tucked the phone away, switched off the last bank of lights, and led her players out toward the waiting bus. The semifinal was only hours away. For the first time since the shove, Imani was frightened not of what the bullies might say, but of what they might keep her from doing at all. The meeting took place in an office that overlooked the south baseline of the Civic Field House. From its window, Imani could see the rubber apron where she had fallen on the first day.
Somebody had moved the padded ball rack farther from the court. The adjustment was sensible and it irritated her that piece a piece of equipment had received more immediate attention than the girls who had shoved her into it. Director Evelyn Grant sat behind a desk covered with schedules, signed forms, and a paper cup of coffee she had forgotten to drink. She wore reading glasses low on her nose and did not look eager to deliver bad news. That was almost worse.
A person who enjoyed hurting people would be easy to understand. Grant appeared to be taking care with every word. South Dock is scheduled to face Orchard Central in the first semi-final, she said. A participating school has challenged player number 12's eligibility. The claim is that her transfer wasn't processed by the roster deadline.
Ward placed both palms on the table. Our registrar submitted her signed enrollment statement when the rest of the roster was filed. I have a school copy. I've seen that copy. What I don't have is the original tournament receipt.
Our internal roster export appears to show a blank attachment field beside her name. An empty field in your export doesn't mean we failed to attach it. I understand, but until we can verify what our system received, my event rules require a temporary participation hold. The team can play. Imani cannot enter until the hold is cleared.
Imani stared at the desk's wood grain. She had imagined that if somebody filed a false claim, the director would simply see how unreasonable it was and throw it away. Instead, a single missing field had given the rumor a shape official enough to block the door to the court. "How long?" she asked. I'm having staff retrieve the original submission and receipt.
We won't delay the scheduled tip-off indefinitely if we have the verification before or during the game, Imani could enter at the next lawful substitution. Ward's face did not change. Please put the basis of the hold and the verification steps in writing. Of course. May I ask who filed the objection?
Mariner Academy's representative. Their coaching staff signed it. For a moment, Imani felt something almost like amusement. Mariner wasn't even playing them in the semi-final. Brielle was afraid enough of a possible final to spend the afternoon trying to keep a girl off the court before it happened.
The thought did not comfort her. Fear could make a person dangerous even when it made that person look ridiculous. Outside the office, Zora waited beside a vending machine with the other players. Ward gave them the facts without assigning motives that had not been proven. The school paperwork was being verified.
Imani would sit until cleared. The team would begin with Mina running point. There was no suggestion of withdrawing, protesting the game, or asking the other team to wait. Mina's face went pale. She was a sophomore with quick feet and a habit of checking whether she had heard instructions correctly.
"Coach, I'm not ready to start a semi-final." "Yes, you are." Ward said. "You know our sets. You don't have to imitate Imani.
You have to run the ball to the right place." Imani saw Mina's hands tremble around her water bottle. The easiest thing in the world would have been to promise that the official would change her mind in 5 minutes. Instead, she put one hand on Mina's shoulder. "I'll be right behind the bench." she said.
"You already know the first play. Tell Zora to hold the screen a second longer." Mina nodded, and the team began to warm up. Imani stayed in her tracksuit, her number 12 jersey folded beneath the zipper. The sound of other players' shoes scraping on the varnish was a physical ache.
She had kept quiet when the Mariner girls shoved her cuz she wanted the game to decide. Now a signature was keeping her out of the very game she'd protected. Tasha approached from the bleachers with her phone turned face down. "I've got the original file ready for Director Grant," she said. "And I asked the man who was keeping the warm-up clock whether he remembers Harper pushing you."