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“8-10.”

  Manuel suddenly noticed how quiet it had become.

  A shrill whistle blew. Then a deep voice yelled, “Latrell. What the hell are you doing?”

  Latrell turned and looked at his coach. “Just playing some ball.”

  The coach looked at Manuel who still sat on the ground. “Looked to me like you were charging.”

  “Soccer boy,” one of the other players said, “is kicking Latrell’s butt.”

  “It’s 8-10,” Latrell protested. “I was just taking it easy on him.”

  Manuel stood up and brushed off his shorts.

  “You’re that soccer player,” the coach said.

  Manuel nodded.

  The coach’s pockmarked face looked impassive, but Manuel saw a spark in the man’s black eyes. “You each get another turn and then we need to start practice.”

  Manuel picked up the ball and dribbled back to the key.

  Latrell immediately took a defensive position.

  Their eyes met and in those eyes Manuel saw defeat. Defeat and humiliation. An eighth-grader, a soccer player, was about to finish him off.

  Manuel looked back at the coach and the entire basketball team. No one spoke; they all watched intently.

  He could see what to do—the roll, the pivot, the step back behind the 3-point arc...Latrell off-balance—it would work, Latrell was worked-up, primed to overreact, and then 13-8. Game over.

  Then Legend. Tomorrow the whole school would be talking about it. His school too. The middle-school kid who demolished Latrell. The phenom on the soccer field can also shoot 3-point shots out of his mind.

  The coach stared back at Manuel. He wanted to see it. The Legend. The coach suspected it was true and he wanted to see it.

  “Come on,” Latrell said. “Play.”

  Manuel took a three step burst, rolled to the right, pivoted about his left foot, stepped back, and launched the ball as Latrell swatted helplessly at the air.

  Manuel watched the flight of the ball. Maybe, without even trying, he did sometimes control the ball a little with his mind, using a little of what Gordon had taught him.

  But it wasn’t magic this time.

  Twong! The ball hit the rim and bounced back. Manuel and Latrell raced to the ball, but Latrell had position.

  It was still Latrell 8, Manuel 10.

  Latrell took the ball back to the key. No longer was he the cocky boy who had bullied Manuel in the locker room. Latrell could see the Legend too. He could see himself taking a back seat to this kid that was already a star in soccer. A kid that wasn’t even in high school yet.

  Manuel waited for Latrell’s inevitable drive to tie the game. Latrell...who hoped to be the big man on campus...tying with someone who wasn’t even a basketball player. Manuel almost felt sorry for him.

  Latrell started forward and Manuel jumped to cut him off. Then Latrell drifted back, stepped behind the 3-point arc, and let it fly.

  Manuel laughed at himself for not even thinking about the 3-point shot. A power forward shooting for three seemed absurd, but it was the only way Latrell could win. And Latrell wasn’t going to leave anything on the floor.

  Manuel loved Latrell’s gamble and he found himself admiring Latrell despite himself. As he watched the ball falling toward the basket he found himself hoping it would go in. He felt himself willing for it to go in.

  It hit the rim, bounced up and hit the backboard, and then dropped into the basket.

  Latrell lifted his arms into the air and jumped. “Yeah!” he cried. “11 to 10! I win.”

  The other players rushed onto the court and they were all talking at once.

  Manuel smiled and turned away. He needed to hurry—soccer practice probably had already started. Then he felt a strong hand grabbing his shoulder and spinning him around.

  Instinctively Manuel lifted his hands into fists in front of him.

  Latrell’s mouth spread wide in a toothy smile. “Whoa...” he laughed, and he held his palms out open in surrender. “I just wanted to say no hard feelings.” Then he extended his hand for a shake.

  Manuel stared at the hand. Then he looked back at Latrell who was glowing with happiness. What just happened? Manuel wondered. What happened to the big jerk he had known to be Latrell?

  “Great game,” Latrell said.

  “Yeah,” Manuel agreed, taking Latrell’s hand. “Great game.”

  As Latrell walked away to start drills with the basketball team, Manuel realized that Latrell wouldn’t hassle him anymore. They might never be buddies, but Latrell would respect him. If he’d beaten Latrell, Latrell would have hated him. If Latrell would have won easily, Latrell would have disrespected him. But the game they had just played had worked out perfectly.

  Manuel thought about that last shot that he’d taken. It wasn’t one of his superhuman shots. His heart hadn’t been in it. It had missed.

  And yet it turned out to be Manuel’s best shot of the game.

  THE END

  Discover other titles by Stephen Clary:

  Spear Bearer

  Superhuman (A Spear Bearer Short) (Spring 2014)

  Abomination: Spear Bearer Book 2

  The Bowels of Hell: Spear Bearer Book 3 (Summer 2014)

  Freezer

  The Globe

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