You're My Everything

Chapter 23: Score

Okay so you guys suck at commenting. Instead of 5 votes this update, it'll have to be 5 legit comments. Doesn't even have to be from different people.

*James' POV*

"Next! No, that's too far. Get closer. I said get closer, not shoot. See? That was horrible. Next!" Coach Bringham yells.

Frank looks nervously over his shoulder at Coach Bringham before beginning to dribble and jog forward. I can only see the back of his red head as he does his lay up as he gets close enough to the basket.

"At least you have form," Coach grunts as he adjusts his Crimson team cap on his head. The cap is bright red and black beneath the visor--Crimson basketball's team colors. A single white 'H' is on the cap, representing Harvard Crimson basketball team.

"Unlike others." He glances around at the team in line behind me.

Frank's ball glides through the hoop without even touching the net. "Now we're getting warmed up!" Coach shouts, though he doesn't have to. We can all hear him just fine.

Frank walks to the back of the line as the drill demands, beaming. "Next!" Coach commands.

I start to dribble and begin to walk, but I stumble over my feet momentarily. But now I'm really getting going. I dribble harder; run faster. My eyes scale the height and the distance of the hoop as I approach the basket. I don't pause to contemplate my next move. I just do it, as I always have. I bend my knees and leap my tall frame into the air. I flick my hand, launching the ball. It soars through the air. I land on the balls of my feet and bend my knees to absorb the shock. The ball hits the clear glass backboard before dropping onto the red rim. It rolls around it like its a track. It does a full circle then goes half way around once more before sinking into the net.

I retrieve my ball and glance at Coach Bringham on my way back. He winks at me, nodding. I grin. I try to impress my coach, and it always feels good to do so. Seeing as the fact that he seems to want to throw us all off of a cliff most of the time.

An hour later, Coach tells us that that's the end of pre-game practice. We have an hour before we have to be back for the game. Most of the team--including Coach Bringham-- leave to go do whatever it is they're planning. Frank, a guy I met this year named Nathan, and I all stay.

"Frank, think fast," Nathan says as he chest-throws a basketball at Frank, bullet-like. I'm not sure why he does this; we all know the outcome. Frank waits until there's only a fraction of a second before the ball beheads him. Frank then spins around faster than seemingly possible. He plucks the ball right out of the air with inhumane grace and swiftness. He tucks it beneath his arm as he smirks triumphantly at Nathan.

"Damn," Nathan mumbles, brushing away his brown hair.

Frank and I chuckle in unison at his reaction. That never fails to amuse him. I walk over to the bleachers and lay down on them. I stretch my long limbs over the glossy wood. I pillow my right forearm under my head.

"Let's go again," Nathan prompts.

"Nah, man, I wanna relax before the game." Frank dismisses.

"Aw, come on, please."

Frank sighs, "Oh, alright. But you're buying me dinner." He points at the thin boy, even taller than I am.

Nathan grins, "Deal." So they began tossing the ball back and forth at different speeds. Seeing if Frank could still catch the ball turned around until the very last second, with his eyes closed and even sitting down facing away. Frank is just one of those people with those impossibilities. It's as if he can't miss the ball, he can't not catch it. Which comes in handy, as anyone can imagine.