Sweat dripped off Ty. His shirt was soaked through under his arms, around his collar, and down his back; he was coated in it. Coach Hoang had been gone for hours, the lights had indeed shut off, but though darkness filled the gym, Ty could still see the pieces of tape, taunting him.
There were three markers clinging to the wall—Jeremiah's stood at twelve feet, uncontested; Ty's standing attempt was a little under nine feet if he had to guess; his running attempt was maybe just over ten, it had to be.
His leg was sore, now, both of them were. Yet, his biggest concern was the grumbling in his empty stomach. It felt like there was a void in his gut; it was time to go home.
He hadn't done any extra training—no squats, box jumps, leg presses, lunges, abductor—nothing beside jumping alongside that wall, stretching for Jeremiah's marker over and over. He should've done something else, something that would better concentrate on the muscles he needed to strengthen, and rapidly, if he wanted to eclipse Jeremiah. Problems for tomorrow.
He got up, heading for the door, stopping for one last look back at the markers. From that distance, he couldn't see them, but he KNEW where they were. His fingers hadn't come close to the highest piece of tape … but they would. He had time before meeting Stringbean again.
Closing up, he didn't know what to do with the keys after locking the door. Should he leave them somewhere? But what if someone found them and broke in? He groaned, keeping them in his pocket. He'd just give them back to Coach Hoang tomorrow.
The ride home didn't do his legs any good, but he was ravenous when he made it through the window into his bedroom; of course, the front door had been locked, and all the lights were out. Ty felt strange finally being the one sneaking into the room whilst the house was asleep. Stranger still when he saw Devon laying in bed, face illuminated by the light of his phone screen. Even his clothing—baggy shorts covering his knees, and a thick black hoodie—was strange for his situation Yet, nothing could've been stranger than the smile Devon greeted him with before shutting off his phone.
'Yo, Big T!'
Even at a whisper, Devon's voice carried across the room, causing the twins to stir in their bunks.
Ty calmly slipped fully into the room, and closed the window behind him, kicking off his shoes. But his corner of the room was suddenly much smaller as Devon got out of bed.
'Yo, I gotta talk to you,' Devon said.
'Can't it wait? I'm starving.'
There was a pause; Ty could almost hear the gears grinding in his brother's head as they finally had a thought to work over.
'Put your shoes back on. We'll grab some fast food. I'll drive.'
'You'll drive?'
'Pops's car. C'mon, we'll be back before he notices.'
Why? Why was Devon insisting? Why'd he want to talk to him in the first place?
Ty's body heaved with a sigh. He sat down, pulling his shoes back onto his aching feet. Devon chuckled.
'That's my lil bro.'
He went to leave the room. One of the twins sitting up, mumbling a barely coherent: 'What's going on?' Devon's only answer was to shut up and go back to bed.
Ty, shoes back on, waited for Devon in the hall. The extraction from Father's room didn't take long. Devon was swinging the keys around a finger as he returned. Even in the gloom Ty could tell his older brother was grinning from ear to ear.
With the keys in hand, they left out the front door, locking up behind them. Knowing the car sometimes kicked up a storm on cold nights like these, they rolled it out of the yard, and down the street, hugging the curb.
Once inside, and with the engine chugging along, Devon blared the heat to full, though kept the windows down—there hadn't been time for Ty to shower, and the stink was potent in that enclosed space.
They cruised past quiet, dark blocks. Devon wasn't going to say what he needed to before they ate, and Ty wasn't about to ask him, either. So Playboi Carti filled the silence, blaring from the open windows.
McDonald's was their choice for food; Ty didn't care either way, and Devon thought it was the best thing still open that late; it being nearby helped.
The drive continued as they ate. The greasy cheeseburger, and salty, soggy fries filled Ty's stomach well enough, a large coke washing it down. Home wasn't their destination. They were just cruising. And while the music had been lowered, and Devon was feeling more talkative after filling his stomach, he was only chatting shit while they ate, talking about how hot the chick in the window had been, asking if Ty had a girl like that; he must've had his pick of them with how well the football team was doing, he'd bet even seniors would wanna fuck him, if not date him.
Ty didn't dare respond to the last statement, though he'd answered other questions truthfully—no, he didn't have any girl, nor did he care.
Devon looked at him sideways. 'You ain't, like, one of them gays, right?'
'No,' Ty said, frowning. What were with these questions? This couldn't have been what Devon wanted to talk to him about, could it? Maybe Ty was supposed to be getting to that age. High school was a big and supposedly exciting change as well as a weird time in people's lives … but that felt way too responsible for Devon, way too brotherly. Had they ever had a heart to heart, before?
'You can tell me if you is. I ain't gonna give a shit. And if anyone gives you shit for that, say so. I'll fuck 'em up.'
Ty cast a quizzical look Devon's way. '…Thanks…?'
'What? Don't look at me like that. What else is a big brother for, huh? Ain't no-one gonna fuck around with my lil bro and get away with it. We gotta stick together, you know. Look out for each other. That's what brothers do.'
Ty nodded. What Devon was saying sounded right if he forgot whose mouth it was coming out of; if he thought about JJ, it sounded exactly like something he'd say regarding brotherhood. Maybe Devon was having a change of heart.
'Of course. I've got your back, too, D.'
Devon laughed. 'Ight, but I actually get bitches so you ain't gotta worry 'bout me.'
Ty rolled his eyes. 'You didn't drive me all this way out here just to ask about this bullshit, did you?'
Devon shovelled the last of his fries into his mouth, shaking his head as he chewed. 'Naw, you right. Lemme tell you somethin'. I been watchin' your games, lil bro. Why you ain't tell me how much of a baller you are?'
'I HAVE been trying to tell you, and everyone. Not like they give a shit to stop and listen for a second.'
'You right, you right. Sorry 'bout that. But shit, you serious 'bout makin' it to the league?'
'I would rather die than not make it.'
Devon laughed again. He didn't glance over to see how serious Ty was. 'You crazy, lil bro. But hey, you get that bag, ya hear?'
Ty's jaw clenched. The money wasn't important. It was the… recognition? Yeah. That's what Ty wanted. But from people who actually cared—his peers, REAL peers, not just people saw the stats after the game, then acted like they knew him.
'Though, it's crazy ain't it? They doin' all this shit, fillin' that big ass stadium—ain't the Raiders play there or some shit?—you gettin' flown out to Vegas every week, they puttin' it all on TV … and what? You ain't gettin' paid shit? That's fucked up, you ask me.'
Ty's brow furrowed. So what if they weren't getting paid? And they weren't being flown out to Vegas every week … at least the Dons weren't. But why did any of it matter? They weren't doing it for money. They were doing it for the competition, to prove they were the best.
Richaun Howard didn't give a fuck about money, nor did Colby Jenkins. He doubted Jeremiah Byrd nor Kentavious Rice Junior would either. Nobody did. It was all about being the best.
He opened his mouth to state as much, but Devon—focused on the road—spoke first. 'You could get that bag now, though.'
Ty's words transformed right on the tip of his tongue. 'What?'
'You could get paid for the shit you doin'. I mean it ain't shit, but you know what I mean. You can get that bag.' He was focused on Ty now, staring at him.
The roads were quiet, the car drifting slower along the road. Ty was too confused to comment on the dangerous driving. 'What the hell are you talking about?'
'You know there's bets and shit for your games? For all of 'em in the tournament. Ain't that fucked up? Gamblin' on high school kids. Shit, just another bunch of people makin' money off YOUR hard work, lil bro. They exploitin' you. This like some slavery shit.'
Ty blinked. Slavery? Now Devon was sounding like a woke activist. When had he ever given a shit about struggles that weren't affecting him personally? Who got him talking like somebody with their finger on the pulse, like one of the hard-working brothers who had actually fought and earned the right for college athletes to earn money off their own license instead of exclusively making rich men richer.
Ty shook his head. It was like he was looking at someone totally different. 'I don't … I don't know what you're talking about, D.'
'We…YOU can paid from this shit, lil bro. It's so easy. I already made bank off your last game. They had them Miami motherfuckers as huge favourites, and you beat the bricks off them niggas.'
The whiplash kept coming. It probably would've been less severe had someone rear-ended them at that moment; they were now sitting idle in the middle of an empty street.
'You BET on my game?' Ty almost choked on the words.
'I bet on YOU, lil bro, and you won, just like I knew you would. And after that, after you put belt to ass on them niggas, now they sayin' you number one. They sayin' ain't no way you don't make it to the finals.'
Ty sat back in the seat, still reeling from all the information, it was like a barrage of mental haymakers, and all he could do was curl up and play defence.
'You the big favourite over these Shamrock niggas. And I know you gon' win that too … but what if you didn't?'
'I'm going to win,' Ty said, almost subconsciously, as if the promise escaped on a breath.
'Yeah, yeah, I know you will, lil bro, but you ain't hearin' me … what if you DIDN'T.'
Ty stared at him, confused. Why was Devon doubting him all of a sudden? After all that pep talk. Was it just bullshit?
Devon reached deep into a pocket, pulling out a stack of cash, tossing it towards Ty, who instinctively caught it against his chest. It was more money than he'd ever held, but that wasn't saying much.
'Heavy, right?' Devon asked; it was. 'I got like two more of 'em stashed away. And if we bet 'em all on you and the Dons losin' this next game, we can get a helluva lot more.'
It finally clicked in Ty's head. The money fell from his hand, landing on his lap, as heavy as a bag of concrete. 'You're asking me to lose on purpose?'
'Aye, now you gettin' it, lil bro.' Devon said, grinning.
Ty's hands curled into fists. It took all his restraint to stop himself flinging one in Devon's direction, even then he had to distract himself by slapping the money off his lap. It hit Devon's shoulder, ricocheting into the backseat.'
'Aye! What the fuck?—'
'—Fuck you!'
The exclamations came at the same time, one powered by confusion, the other fury.
'Don't you EVER ask that bullshit of me again, and NEVER bet on my games again, bitch.'
'You better lower that tone before I smack yo teeth out yo mouth, BITCH. And I don't care if you too much of a dumbass not to make the easiest money of your life, but you ain't never gon' touch MY money like that again.'
Ty should've backed down, should've got out of the situation. Devon was still bigger, and he didn't need to be getting in petty, bullshit fights with his older brother during the most important time of his life. But it didn't feel all that petty in the heat of the moment.
'That's your money? After all that bullshit you said about how I shouldn't be letting other people make money off MY back. What the fuck do you think you're doing, dumbass?'
'BULLSHIT. Actin' like you ain't the luckiest nigga there is. You almost cost me my money, retard. If that other nigga ain't break his hand on your big-ass head you ain't winnin' shit. You got lucky once, and now they gassin' you up. You should be thankin' me I was lettin' yo dumb-ass into this shit, 'cause ain't no way you winnin' again. I don't need you to throw shit, you still gon' lose, and I still gon' make my money. But that's fine with you, ain't it? 'Cause you still gon' make the league though, right? Bullshit. You ain't makin' it fuckin' nowhere you worthless-ass, tiny-ass, scrawny-ass, fraud-ass nigga.'
Ty's blood boiled hotter with every word. Then it boiled over. In the car, there was nowhere else for his anger to be directed but Devon. He lashed out, arm a blur as it whipped across the console, and his fist struck Devon's jaw.
Devon's head whipped back. Then the two sat in silence, staring at one another for what felt like an hour, but couldn't have been more than a second. Was Devon dazed because Ty had actually hurt him? Or was he just that shocked it took his body that extra second to realise his little brother had just hit him?
Ty broke eye-contact first, breaking out of his own shock as he fumbled with his seat belt. Devon lunged towards him, but got caught on his own seat belt as it slid up to his throat and pulled taut, throwing him back into his seat, coughing and wheezing.
Ty's belt finally came undone and he threw open the passenger-side door, falling out through the opening. Devon finally got his belt off as well, though Ty was already running off down the street. Devon abandoned the idea of chasing him down on foot, and the engine growled—a choking, gravelly noise—as he slammed on the accelerator. Tyres squealed and smoked as the car lurched forward.
Ty looked over his shoulder, eyes showing more white than black for once. He bolted off the road and Devon veered to follow. Ty dashed past a light pole and jumped at a chain-link fence, scaling it like his life depended on it; with how the night had flipped on its head, he felt like it did.
Devon stomped on the breaks, though they didn't hold up so good on the old car, and he careened into the light pole. A sickening crunch spread through the night, followed by another, deeper and more ominous crack as the pole tipped. Sparks flew from the ground as wires snapped, electricity surging up to shatter the bulb. The light pole didn't fall all the way, and the car was stopped for the moment, but Ty didn't wait to find out if Devon had given up his mad chase. He flung himself over the fence, ignoring the barbed wire ripping at his arms and shirt. He crashed hard on the ground, rolling to his feet.
The car slowly reversed away from the pole, which gave a shudder, and dropped further towards the ground, miraculously held up by the barest margin of steel. Devon stopped again once the car was clear of the wreck, the front fender caved in where it'd smashed into the pole; one of the headlights was ruined.
But the car didn't jerk around to face Ty and continue its pursuit. Instead, Devon stuck his head out of the window. 'You're dead, Ty! You hear me, nigga? DEAD!'
There was more squealing from the tyres, and more of a rattle than a growl from the engine as Devon whipped the car around and sped from the scene.
Ty's heart pounded louder than a drum in his head. Despite his breath fogging up in front of him, he felt as if he was on fire, especially along his forearms he was burning extra hot. The street was fully dark after the taillights of Father's car disappeared around the corner, but Ty was frozen in place until he heard the not-so-distant cry of sirens.
He scrambled back up, this time feeling around the fence until he found a wide enough gap, that could be pushed just far enough apart for him to squeeze through. Then he ran. He wasn't running anywhere in particular at first—not even really knowing where he was for a while—just away. Away from the scene, away from Devon, but, unfortunately, he couldn't run away from the memories.
Still, as the sirens once again faded into the distance, and he gathered enough of his wits to check his phone and find where he was on Maps, he started to calm. And with calmness, came clarity and the silver lining.
The Dons were the favourites to make the championship game, probably even to win the whole thing. That meant they would've been ranked number one. Now THAT was the kind of recognition he deserved. If the Dons were viewed so highly, Ty must've been as well.
He might've even been the number one overall prospect. That's what he deserved, because it was the truth. He was number one, not that bum Colby Jenkins, definitely not Richaun Howard, and no way in hell was it that fraud bitch Kentavious Rice Junior.