In the Paint Read Free Page B

possibly could. He wanted this more than anything.
    Near the end of the session, Coach Stephens split the players into groups of four so they could work on both executing and defending the pick-and-roll. Matt had practised this with his buddies all summer, playing two-on-two and developing a keen sense of when to use the pick to get free of his defender and drive hard to the basket, and when to instead fake the shot and drop the pass inside to the post player cutting to the hoop. “If you know how to run the pick-and-roll properly,” the coach said matter-of-factly before beginning the drill, “nobody can stop it.”
    Matt and a beefy grade nine center with blond, spiky hair named Dave Tanner were paired up for this drill. They were matched up against Jackson and his best friend, Andrew McTavish, another of the boys with whom Matt had experienced the run-in at the park just weeks before.
    For the most part, Tanner and McTavish played inside while Matt was pitted against Jackson on the perimeter. But near the end of the drill, Jackson nodded to McTavish and the two silently switched places.
    Matt followed Jackson into the key as he moved to the free-throw line, posted up and waited for the pass. Matt had a decent defensive position on Jackson as McTavish dumped the ball inside. Jackson caught the pass and spun quickly, cocking his elbow and hitting Matt flush on the jaw. The surprisingly powerful shot rocked Matt backward, bringing the taste of blood mixed with sweat to his mouth and sending him sprawling to the hardwood. Matt was stunned, but he bounced up quickly, wiping the trickle of blood from the side of his mouth with his left hand as he felt his lower lip begin to swell.
    One look at the hard-nosed, sneering Grant Jackson standing above him told Matt no apology was forthcoming. Jackson glared down at him with his hard eyes. “Just remember, rook,” he hissed quietly. “I’m the starting point guard on this team.”

chapter four
    Matt stared down at the light brown Cheerios bobbing in the half-full bowl of milk and tried to convince himself that he was hungry. It was 7:00 on the first Monday morning of October, and he wasn’t the least bit interested in eating breakfast. Or if he was, his skittish stomach didn’t realize it.
    His mother was busy making lunches and asking him about school and his friends. But despite sitting just a few feet away at the kitchen table, Matt didn’t hear much of what she was saying. His mind was fixed on the list that would appear today. The only thing he could think about was whether or not his name would be on that list.
    This afternoon, at 4:00, Coach Stephens would release the names of the twelve players who had made the varsity squad. After two weeks of practice, Matt wasn’t sure where he stood. He thought he had played pretty well, but there were plenty of good kids in tryouts, most of who were taller and older.
    Matt wanted to be on the team so badly it was difficult to concentrate on anything else. He had struggled to do his math homework over the weekend, finishing one question and then daydreaming about the team list, then doing another. Even the horror movies he and Jake had rented on Saturday had failed to hold his complete interest. The time between the last practice of tryouts on Friday afternoon and this morning had seemed to stretch forever.
    â€œMatt? Have you heard a word I’ve said?” his mother interrupted his thoughts, feigning anger. “Maybe if I painted my face orange and wrote Spalding across my forehead, I’d have a better chance with you!”
    â€œSorry, Mom,” Matt replied, forcing a spoonful of now soggy cereal into his mouth. “But today is huge. If I make the team it will be so sweet. But if I don’t … I don’t know.” His voice trailed off. The thought of not making it was too much to bear. There was so much riding on the list.
    â€œIf you don’t, then