Rivals Tommy Greenwald (shoe dog free ebook TXT) 📖

to tell if there’s alcohol on his breath. I choose to think there isn’t.

“Dad, this is Austin Chambers. I told you about him, remember?”

My dad’s face slowly changes as he remembers the name. “Oh, yeah, of course.” He looks at Austin. “How are things, son?”

“They’re okay, sir,” Austin says.

“No need to call me sir.”

“Got it.” Austin shuffles his feet, like, he’s nervous. “Uh, Mr. Haswell, I want you to know that I know about what happened at my house a few months back, and I’m really sorry about that. I’m sure it was a misunderstanding, and I don’t think my mom had any idea you lost your job over it.”

“Oh, I think she might have had some idea,” my dad says. “Anyway, I’m feeling a little better about the whole thing these days, because a few days ago your mom made a call to my boss Rico, and she said she may have gotten the circumstances of the incident wrong, after all. He’s agreed to bring me back on, starting next week.”

“Dad!” I try and sit up for a second, and that’s all it takes for my back to tell me to lie the heck back down. “That’s great news!”

“Well, Cartman, it’s a whole lot better than a sharp stick in the eye.” My dad puts the paper bag down on the table. “Anyhoo, I just came by to bring you lunch. Bologna sandwiches, my personal fave.” He starts walking toward the door.

“You’re not going to stay?” I ask him.

He shakes his head. “Nah. I got stuff to do. New paintbrushes to buy.” He nods at Austin. “Plus, you got company. I bet you two have plenty of ground to cover.”

I bet we do, too, but that doesn’t mean I want to cover it.

After my dad leaves, Austin picks up the bag. “Want a sandwich?”

“Sure, thanks.”

There’s another one there, but he doesn’t take it.

“Help yourself,” I say.

He hesitates. “I’m not really allowed to eat that stuff.”

“What stuff?”

“Processed food.”

“Says who?”

“My parents.”

“They’re not here.”

Austin thinks about that for a second, then picks up the sandwich and takes a bite. “Whoa, that’s good,” he mumbles, with his mouth full.

“Bologna is the best.”

We eat silently for a minute or so, then he says, “I can leave if you want.”

“Nah, it’s cool.”

“Okay.” He looks around and says, “Do you mind if I get some water?”

“Of course not,” I say. “The glasses are above the sink.”

“Cool, thanks.”

Austin gets up and walks into the kitchen. I can see him looking around, checking things out, peeking his head into the living room. He hesitates.

“Something wrong?” I ask him.

“Nah, I’m good,” he says, but he’s just standing there.

“What’s up?”

“Can I tell you something, honestly?”

“Yeah.”

He gets the water, then comes back and sits down. “I’ve . . . I’ve never been in an apartment before.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yeah, I’m serious. Like, how many rooms do you guys have here?”

“Four. My bedroom, my mom’s bedroom, the living room, and the kitchen. And the bathroom, so I guess five.”

“Huh,” Austin says, but I can tell by his face what he’s probably thinking: We have five bathrooms, and they have five rooms total.

I don’t really want to talk about the differences between my apartment and his mansion, so I change the subject. “How’s AAU going?”

“Oh, it’s going okay. We have another sleepaway tournament next weekend.”

“That should be fun.”

“I guess. We were all a little out of it at the last practice. Coach Cash was getting really mad. I think everyone is a little freaked out about your injury.”

“Join the club.”

Austin laughs, then shifts uncomfortably. “So, are you . . . like, did the doctors say when you could play again?”

“They’re hoping three months,” I tell him. “But they say I’ll be as good as new. I guess I got really lucky.”

“Wow, okay.” Austin glances at my back brace, my arm in a sling, my ribs all wrapped up, and I’m guessing he’s thinking that I don’t look that lucky. But I am.

“I got your texts,” I tell him. “I’m sorry I didn’t text back.”

“No, it’s cool. I just wanted to see how you were doing.”

“Well, I really appreciate that you came by.”

“Of course. That’s what friends are for.”

I feel this weird feeling come over me. Like I’m about to cry. I decide to blame the medicine.

“So, does this mean, like, we’re friends again?” I ask.

“I think so.” Austin half-smiles. “I hope so.”

Neither of us says anything for a few seconds, then he adds, “When you came to my house, I . . . uh . . . I’m really sorry about what I said about your dad.”

“Thanks,” I say. I haven’t done much talking in the last week—none, basically—and all of a sudden it feels like I need to make up for lost time. “When you reminded me that we used to play ball together back in the park, I remembered you as being such a nice kid. And then you were cool at AAU, too. And I thought to myself, yeah, we could be friends. But then when I went over to your house, I mean . . . I was like, how can I be friends with someone who lives in a house like this, you know? How is that even possible?”

“That shouldn’t have anything to do with it,” Austin says.

“But it does,” I say. “I mean, my dad was, like, a handyman at your house. Just some worker. And your mom thought he did something wrong, and who knows, maybe he did do something wrong and maybe not, but that’s a fight he’s never going to win, right?”

“It’s not about that,” Austin says. “People who are different can be friends, if they have other stuff in common. Like, I mean, we’ve both spent our whole lives playing basketball, right? And we both have mixed feelings about it.” He leans back in his chair, and he looks like he’s starting to relax for the first time since he came into the apartment. “Like, my dad was a basketball star in college, right? And I was supposed to be tall and a great