Fadeaway E. Vickers (some good books to read txt) 📖

He knows this. He’s always heard that it’s smells that bring back memories, and maybe there’s some truth in that. Popcorn and sweat and rubber soles.

But it’s the sight that really gets Martin tonight. The red-and-white uniforms rush out onto the floor, and he’s gone back in time to when he was part of it all: the whole human condition—comedy and drama and especially history—played out in thirty-two minutes on forty-two hundred square feet of hardwood.

It’s not the same, of course. Back then, he was looking at the game from down on the court. Back then, he was the guy with the ball. Had he looked this young, though? This innocent?

They start with layups, fluid and graceful, and he knows for certain it’s not the game that’s changed, only his perspective.

He’s been following the team—his team, his brother—all season. It’s the only way he’s found to stay connected to his family without crossing the boundaries he’s drawn for himself. It started with the football games he watched from the hillside, but the pull of the basketball court was even stronger. So just this once, just for tonight, he wants to be inside the arena. To see if this team can make some history of its own, or if their season will end in heartbreak the way his did. To be in the same room as his family, even one as cavernous as this.

Across the arena, his parents huddle together a few rows behind the bench. They have new Warriors gear—of course they do—but the same expectant energy as they did for his games, all those years ago. He can almost feel the crackle of their nerves from here. Hoping for the best for their son, like the other parents, but also knowing how terribly it can all turn out. Because of him.

He watches Kolt leave the team just long enough to bound up into the stands and say something to them. His mom throws her head back with laughter; his dad shakes his head but with a smile on his face. They are knit together for one perfect second before Kolt rejoins the warm-ups, and in that second Martin knows: walking over there would tear open every wound he ever caused them. They’ve healed now, with him on the outside. And just because that’s exactly what he wanted for them doesn’t mean it can’t hurt like hell.

So Martin tears his attention from his family and lets it settle, like the rest of the crowd’s, on Jake Foster. Not only because the kid’s so damn good, but because he sees himself in Jake. Even in warm-ups, there’s a tension between the power of his play and the hunger and desperation beneath the surface.

They’ve never formally met, but that doesn’t matter. You’d only notice it if you’d felt it yourself, and he has definitely felt it too. He knows Foster’s family has even less than his own, but the uniform is the great equalizer. You walk out on that floor with the same slick synthetic jersey as everybody else, and it doesn’t matter whether your family lives in a mansion on Evergreen Vista or a run-down apartment in Subsidy Square.

The game is about to start, and a thrill of adrenaline rushes through him. That’s the same too. It’s not only about the outcome of the game, though. It’s the danger of being here in the first place. What if it’s all too much, and he can’t walk away again after the final buzzer? What if somebody sees him?

And like lightning, like karma or kismet or just plain fate, Foster looks up at him, and their eyes lock. Just for a moment. Just long enough for Foster to mouth one word at him.

Help.

Foster looks back at him at every timeout, between every quarter, even when he’s standing at the foul line. No way should the kid be able to play this well when he’s this distracted. When he’s this high. But he’s unstoppable. Unbelievable, honestly. Pure poetry. Like MJ in the 1997 NBA finals—if Jordan had been playing through a handful of oxys instead of the flu.

Help.

Foster’s lips don’t form the word again, but it’s written on his face every time he looks up.

Martin knows he should go. He can’t be pulled back into anything from his past. He won’t survive it. He knows his own weaknesses too well.

But he can’t walk away, because when the ball’s in motion, all he sees in the Foster kid is himself. He has to stay to see the ending, because maybe if they win, things will be different for Foster. And if things are different for Foster, maybe they really can be different for him too.

After the ceremony, Martin goes out to his truck. Blows on his hands and prays the engine will start. He doesn’t even jump when the fist pounds the glass, because he’s been expecting it. Maybe even waiting for it: the chance to pay off his greatest debt, but to pay it forward.

“I need your help,” Foster says, the window making his words sound like he’s underwater. It’s even worse now that Martin can hear his voice, can see so clearly in his eyes that the kid is battling the same demons he did. He knows he won’t be able to drive away.

“Get in the truck,” he barks.

Foster climbs in, shaking from the cold and the chemicals inside him.

“I have to…”

“I know,” Martin growls.

“I can’t…”

“I know,” Martin says, a little softer this time.

But no. Soft will sink them both.

“If we’re doing this, we’re doing it my way, and we have to start tonight.”

Foster nods. “Whatever you say, Kmart.”

“If I’m going to help you, you can’t call me that.” Martin grips the steering wheel, the muscles in his hands as taut as those in his jaw. “Use that name again and I’ll kick your ass so hard you’ll have loose teeth.”

“Then what am I supposed to call you?”

“I don’t care,” he says. “Just not Kmart.”

“What about…Phoenix?”

At first he thinks Jake’s trying to be