Off the Rim Read online

  OFF THE RIM

  SONYA SPREEN BATES

  O R C A B O O K P U B L I S H E R S

  Copyright © 2015 Sonya Spreen Bates

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Bates, Sonya Spreen, author

  Off the rim / Sonya Spreen Bates.

  (Orca sports)

  Issued in print and electronic formats.

  ISBN 978-1-4598-0888-1 (pbk.).—ISBN 978-1-4598-0889-8 (pdf).—

  ISBN 978-1-4598-0890-4 (epub)

  I. Title. II. Series: Orca sports

  PS8603.A8486034 2015 jC813'.6 C2014-906679-1

  C2014-906680-5

  First published in the United States, 2015

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2014952063

  Summary: Dylan struggles to focus on basketball playoffs when his girlfriend,

  Jenna, becomes the target of threats from an anonymous cyberbully.

  Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and the Canada Council for the Arts, and the Province of British Columbia through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.

  Cover photography by Corbis Images

  Author photo by Megan Bates

  ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS

  PO BOX 5626, Stn. B

  Victoria, BC Canada

  V8R 6S4

  ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS

  PO BOX 468

  Custer, WA USA

  98240-0468

  www.orcabook.com

  18 17 16 15 • 4 3 2 1

  For Russell

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  “It’s no good,” said Stretch, wincing as Coach Scott moved his knee back and forth. “The doc said if I did the ligament again, I’d have to have surgery. I’m out for the season.”

  I tried to look sympathetic, but my heart was jumping. I’d spent three years being backup to Stretch Morrison and now was my chance. Not that I’m a bad center or anything. In fact, I’m pretty damn good, if I do say so myself. But when the coach had the choice between a six-foot-seven giant (that’s Stretch) and a six-foot-three all-rounder (that’s me, Dylan Lane), the giant won every time. I didn’t blame Coach. Stretch was good. Really good. He was hoping to go to UCLA on a basketball scholarship next year. If his knee held out.

  It was halftime in the last game before the playoffs. Our team, the Mountview Hunters, versus the Fort Vancouver Trappers, and it was sudden death. Only one of us would move into the playoffs. It was game over for the losers.

  Coach Scott gave Stretch’s knee one last prod, then shook his head.

  “Lane, you’re in,” he said.

  Yes!

  “All right, men, listen up,” he continued. “I want man-to-man defense, a full-court press. It’s been close so far, but we can’t let them get a run on us. Dylan, control the defense boards. Box out and rebound, then follow up with a quick outlet. We want a fast turnaround. Matt, watch number 10. If you let him open up, he’ll score. The rest of you know what to do. Keep the pressure up. Let’s win this thing.”

  The whistle blew and we ran onto the court. A few kids in the stands clapped and yelled, “Go, Hunters! Carve ’em up!” There wasn’t a huge crowd, but a bunch of rowdy teenagers can make a lot of noise, and so far the home-court advantage was working in our favor. We’d kept our lead for most of the game, with the halftime score 68–64 for us.

  The Trappers center was tall but slow. I’d been watching him, and it looked like he was carrying a bit of weight. I, on the other hand, was in the best shape of my basketball career. I was pretty sure I could beat him to the rebounds.

  It was our possession. Isaiah passed the ball in to Carlos, and he brought the ball up the court. The Trappers manned up as soon as he crossed the half-court line. I dodged around the Trappers center and charged into the key as Carlos wove through the defense. He dribbled left, then right, pivoted and fired the ball to Matt. Matt passed it off to me, and I passed it to Isaiah, our shooting guard. We’d practiced this drill so many times we could do it in our sleep. Isaiah went in for the layup. Two points.

  The crowd cheered and stamped their feet.

  We had a six-point lead now. But it wasn’t time to celebrate. The Trappers point guard brought the ball up the court, and I stuck to their center like glue. He wasn’t going to get a touch if I could help it.

  The point guard was coming up the court slowly, trying to find the open man and trying to shake his defender at the same time. Carlos was all over him, and he couldn’t get a pass away. He put the ball between his legs, spun, then faked a pass to their small forward. Carlos lunged, and suddenly the Trappers guard was off. He raced over the half-court line and fired a pass at number 10, their power forward, who went up for the jump shot. Swish. A three-pointer.

  I glared at Matt. So much for shutting down number 10.

  On offense again, Carlos managed to get a quick pass off to Spence. I tried to ditch the Trappers center and open up for the ball, but he was quicker than I’d thought. Every way I turned, he was there. Spence threw the ball off to Matt instead, and Matt bounce-passed it to Isaiah. Isaiah drove for the basket but was brought up short by a defensive wall in front of the basket. He turned and passed it back to Matt.

  That’s when number 10 swooped in and intercepted. Before we knew what had happened, he was racing down the court for a fast break layup.

  Our six-point lead was down to one.

  Spence scored the next two points with an easy jump shot, and then number 10 found the basket for another two. Unbelievable.

  Matt looked miserable as Coach Scott called for a sub. I felt for the guy. No one wants to get benched for messing up. But we had to do something to shut down number 10. I only hoped Jesse Derby was up to the job. He wasn’t nearly as big as Matt, more like a small forward than a power forward. But he was quick, and he didn’t mind playing dirty if he had to.

  The shot clock turned over, and Carlos went up for a three. We needed every point we could get. It bounced off the rim. I snatched the rebound, faked a pass to Isaiah, then popped it in for two. The quarter raced on. We’d get ahead two, maybe four points, and then the Trappers would catch up. Even with Jesse right in his face, number 10 still managed to weasel out for an assist. With only three minutes left on the clock, it was down to the wire, and neither team was giving an inch.

  The Trappers coach called a time-out, and we crowded onto the bench.

  “All right, settle down,” Coach said as we grabbed our water bottles. “It’s close, but we’re still a point up, and a point is a win. We’ve got to tighten the defense. Don’t let them near that basket. Jesse, keep the pressure on number 10. And Carlos, watch your check. He’s gone for a couple of threes, and if he sinks one, we’re done. Isaiah, you’re our go-to guy. Keep those buckets coming.”

  We huddled in a circle and stacked our hands on top of Coach Scott’s, then let fly with, “HUNTERS!”

&nbs
p; My stomach was wound as tight as a rubber band as I took my position on the court. It was all or nothing. With graduation only months away, this was my last chance to be a starter in the playoffs. There wouldn’t be a next year for me. I glanced at the stands, where Jenna was camped with the rest of the girls’ basketball team in the front row. I cracked a smile at her, and she yelled, “Go, Dylan!”

  “Yeah, go, Dylan!” Amber Wells called out, jumping out of her seat. “Go, Hunters!” Jenna hauled her back into her seat, laughing. Easy for them to laugh. They’d been on the top of the ladder all season. There was no doubt about their playoff spot.

  The whistle blew and the Trappers streamed onto the court. It was game on.

  Carlos dribbled the ball over the half-court line and lobbed an easy pass to Spence. The Trappers had set up a zone defense, protecting the key. I dodged past their guard into the paint and spun for the pass, only to find the Trappers center right behind me. Spence passed to Isaiah, who faked a pass to Jesse. We all knew better than to let the ball near number 10. The fake did the trick though. The defender reached for the steal, and Isaiah charged in for the layup. I could see right away he’d never make it. The Trappers center had set a block, and there was no getting around that six-foot-six hulk to the basket. I ducked around the other side and called for the ball.

  The ref’s whistle blew. “Three seconds on 43, Mountview! Blue ball.”

  No! I spun around in disbelief, but the ref was already handing the ball over to the Trappers guard. Had I really done that? That turnover could mean the difference between winning and losing. Had I lost the game for the whole team on a stupid lane violation?

  There was no time to dwell on it. The Trappers had possession, and I raced down the court after the center. My screw-up must have given him wings because before I’d crossed the three-point line, he was in the key. The point guard fired a long pass to him, and he dunked it.

  I felt sick. The Trappers were up, and it was my fault.

  I jogged back down the court and camped myself on the block. I wasn’t going to let that happen again. I couldn’t let that happen again, or we were done.

  Carlos brought the ball down, shadowed by his defender, despite the zone they’d set up around the key. They weren’t taking any chances either. He spun around, faked a pass to Spence and then fired it to Isaiah. I dipped into the key, boxing out the Trappers center for the rebound. I needn’t have bothered. Isaiah went up for a killer jump shot and hit the three.

  Yes!

  The minutes raced by at the speed of light. The Trappers scored another two, and then Carlos nailed a jump shot from the wing. The kids in the stands were screaming. If we couldn’t shut the Trappers down completely, we made them work for their baskets. We were two points up, with twenty seconds left on the clock, when Jesse fouled number 10.

  Number 10! Of all the players, we had to give number 10 two free shots. This could even up the score.

  He had to be feeling the pressure. He wiped his hands down his shirt, looked up and let the ball fly, sinking the first shot with a swish. You could see his relief. His teammates thumped him on the back, and the ball was passed back for the second shot. He bounced it once, twice, three times. I leaned in, ready for the rebound. I saw the ball arcing toward the rim. The rim! I couldn’t believe it. He’d missed.

  I bounded into the key and leapt for the rebound. The Trappers center was there too. We tussled. I ripped the ball away and fired a pass to Carlos on the three-point line. Everyone was focused on the rebound. He was wide open. Carlos raced down the court like a demon, with all the Trappers and Hunters trailing behind him. He dribbled the full length of the court and dunked the ball on the other end.

  It was all over after that. The Trappers had one more possession, but we didn’t let them anywhere near the basket. The final buzzer sounded, and the gym exploded. We’d done it. We were in the playoffs.

  Chapter Two

  The next day, Coach Scott posted the list for the playoff team. Jenna saw it first. In the year we’d been going out, I hadn’t learned to tell whether she was being serious or not. She sidled up to me at my locker and slid her hand into mine.

  “Hey, Dyl, I saw the list,” she said, totally deadpan.

  “For the playoffs? Coach posted them?”

  “Yeah, I thought you would have seen it already.”

  “No, I had to see Mr. Chandler about a math test I missed.” Damn it. The whole school probably knew already whether I was a starter or coming off the bench. I slammed my locker shut and headed for the gym.

  “Am I one of the starters? Did you see the lineup?”

  Jenna just shrugged and gave me a look. One that could mean everything or nothing.

  I had to start center. I knew I had screwed up, but who else could Coach put in? Matt? He was our best power forward. We needed him there. There was Noah too, but he was hopeless. He didn’t even get subbed in if it was an important game. It couldn’t be Noah, could it? No, Coach wouldn’t do that to me. He wouldn’t do that to the team, would he?

  The notice board outside the gym was crowded with lists. Mountview High might be a small-town school, but we liked our sports. We had a team for everything, from football, soccer and baseball to wrestling, bowling and cheerleading.

  The basketball list was at the top of the board. I scanned it quickly. Coach had a funny way of doing things. You would have thought Carlos Abano would be at the top of the list, A being the first letter of the alphabet. Nope. Coach did things his own way. Even posting a starter list before the playoffs was pretty out there. I read from the top of the list: Spencer Zuckerman. Then Matt Garth, Isaiah Noble, Carlos Abano and…Dylan Lane. Yes!

  I guess I looked pretty relieved, because Jenna burst out laughing.

  “You knew!” I said. “You knew and you didn’t tell me.”

  “I didn’t want to spoil it for you,” she said. “Not that there was any doubt. Jeez, Dylan, who did you think he’d put in? Noah Walker?” She started laughing again. I couldn’t hide anything from her. “You did. You actually thought Coach Scott would pick Noah Stumblefoot over you. He wants to win the playoffs, Dyl, not throw them away.”

  That reminded me though. With Stretch out, we were short one sub. Coach might not have a choice about playing Noah. He and Jesse Derby were the only subs left. Our playoff run could be pretty short.

  The bell rang for class, and Jenna said she had to go. She has this thing about being late. “Hey,” I said, catching her arm. “There’s no practice after school. Want a ride home tonight?”

  “Yes!” she said. “Like I’d choose to sit on the school bus for an hour if I didn’t have to.” She winked at me. “See you at three.”

  Jenna’s got this dual personality. She can be all social and flirty, but there’s a serious side to her too. It’s one of the things I like about her. She’s got these funny little quirks. Take being late, for instance. It drives her insane. And leaving a mess on the table at a fast-food joint. She has to put everyone’s trash in the can before we leave. She won’t eat anything with lumps in it, and if I go even five miles an hour over the speed limit, she goes berserk. She’s also really smart and the best female point guard I’ve seen. Ever. We play one-on-one at the rec center sometimes and she gives me a run for my money, even though I’m five inches taller than she is. She could sink a basket from the parking lot.

  She was leaning on my car as I crossed the student lot after school. I checked my watch.

  “You’re early,” I said.

  “You’re late,” she countered. Was she serious or not?

  “I’m not. I left as soon as the bell—” I caught the look in her eye and realized I’d been duped again. “Ha-ha,” I said. “Get in.”

  “You sure this thing will make it all the way to Eaton Creek?” she said as I started up the engine. It was an ongoing joke. My rusty 2004 Honda Civic wasn’t the best-looking or the most powerful car in the student lot, but I’d spent two summers working my butt off at McDonald’s t
o pay for it. It was my pride and joy.

  “You sure you don’t want to walk?” I said.

  As usual, we stopped at Jo’s Diner for a soda before we left town. It was a favorite after-school hangout for most of the Mountview students, and even on a Tuesday afternoon, it was crowded. I spied Carlos, Spence and Matt at a booth in the back, and we squeezed in with them.

  “What can I get for you?” said Jo, standing over us with her pen and order pad at the ready. Jo’s cool. Every afternoon all these kids take over her place and spend, like, five bucks, but she still acts like you’re going to order a five-course meal or something.

  I was feeling like a splurge. “A chocolate shake and a plate of fries,” I said.

  “Diet Coke,” said Jenna. “Celebrating, are you?” she said when Jo left.

  “No,” I said with a glance at the guys. “I’m just hungry.”

  The talk was all about the first round of the playoffs. With the game scheduled for next week, we didn’t have much time to prepare.

  “Columbia’s a hard draw,” said Carlos, slumped over the table as if he’d heard he had some incurable disease or something. You’d think we’d drawn the San Antonio Spurs the way he was acting. “They went all the way to the state finals last year. We’ll get creamed in the first round.”

  “That doesn’t mean anything,” said Matt. “Different team, different guys. It’s a whole new ball game.” Carlos scowled at him, and Matt leaned back into the booth. “Look at us. Last year’s team didn’t have a hope of making it to the playoffs, and here we are.”

  “Don’t get too cocky,” said Spence. “It could have gone either way with the Trappers. We lucked out.”

  “Yeah,” said Carlos. “And we’ve lost our big man. What are we gonna do without Stretch?”