“Go, Cardinals, go! Go, Cardinals, go!”
Jake hurried down the bleacher steps, reached the gym floor, and threaded his way through the crowds hurrying to get to their seats before the game. He looked for Deaner on the floor and in the stands, but didn’t see him. He followed the signs to the men’s room and hurried inside.
The room was empty, and he hustled to the sink, stuck his hands under the automatic faucet, and splashed cold water on his face. His heart raced, his head pounded. He felt like he was having a panic attack.
I bet you drive a nice car, like an Audi.
Jake leaned over, bracing himself on the sink. He had to get it together. Pam would begin to wonder if he was gone too long. He could hear the crowd outside surging again, and the announcer’s over-amplified voice welcoming everyone to the game.
He reached for a paper towel and dried his face, barely recognizing the expression on his face, one he’d never seen on himself. It was a mixture of bewilderment and dread, as if he were permanently aghast.
The crowd started cheering wildly, and it brought Jake back. He hurried to the door and pushed it open, only to find Dr. Dave in the hallway. “Oh, hi, excuse me.”
“Jake, I don’t know if you remember me. I’m Dave Tolliver, Ryan’s shooting coach? We met last year at the championship dinner?” Dr. Dave smiled quickly, showing even teeth. He was of average height, much thinner than Jake, and his jet-black hair was cut close to his head, with sideburns too long for anyone not in a rock band.
“Right. Yes. Of course. I knew that. Dr. Dave.” Jake extended a hand, which Dr. Dave shook.
“Right.” Dr. Dave grinned, looking ready for GQ in a charcoal suit jacket of some sleek Italian cut, which somehow coordinated with his hip, graphite glasses.
“Thanks for your help with Ryan.”
“It’s my pleasure.” Dr. Dave’s eyes were dark brown, and for some reason, oddly serious. “I was looking for you, and Pam said I might find you here.”
“Oh?” Jake said, taken aback.
“Got a minute? It’s about Ryan.”
Chapter Eighteen
“Sure, but the game’s about to start.” Jake gestured to the gym, where the announcer was introducing the Cardinals cheerleaders. The crowd responded with cheering that echoed harshly in the corridor, painted white cinderblock with a wide red stripe.
“This won’t take long.” Dr. Dave slipped his hands inside his pants pockets. “I’m concerned that Ryan seems off tonight. He’s going to have a rough game.”
Oh no. “He’s been sick.” Jake felt his chest tighten. “But he wanted to play, and don’t sell him short. He’ll have a good game.”
“He didn’t warm up well. I’m concerned that something’s wrong with him, and it’s not physical.”
“Of course it is.” Jake tried to shrug it off. “He was throwing up all day Saturday. He had some bad nachos. He’s only playing today because he’d never let the team down.”
“Jake.” Dr. Dave paused, lifting his eyebrows slightly. “I’m a practicing child and adolescent psychologist, for twenty-five years. I know the difference between a teenager who’s got food poisoning and one who’s got something on his mind.”
“No he doesn’t. He’s just sick.”
“Seriously, it’s more than that.”
“How do you know this?” Jake tried not to sound skeptical, just interested.
“He’s off.”
“Off?”
“Yes, off. He’s not focusing. He’s out of sync. He didn’t walk in the way he always does, the way he did last week. He’s a shooter, and a shooter is a creature of habit. Basketball grounds him. It keeps him centered—”
“I know that.” Jake was in no mood to be lectured about his own son.
“Then you know he has a system that works for him. He keeps his warm-up exercises and his warm-up routine the same. He takes the same number of shots, in the same way. His work in the gym is always focused and purposeful—”
“I know. He’s my son.”
“—but tonight he’s shooting flat. He’s not getting enough lift on the ball. He’s not releasing it high enough, so he’s pushing it instead of throwing it—”
“He’ll be fine.”
“No, he won’t, you’ll see. We’ll win, but Ryan’s an impact player and he won’t help the team today.”
“Why are you telling me this?” Jake asked, unable to keep the impatience from his tone. “What do you want me to do about it?”
“Fine, I’ll come to my point.” Dr. Dave pursed his lips. “I get the impression that you’re riding him, and I’m asking you to back off during the playoffs. Ryan’s hard enough on himself, and it’s a critical time.”
“I’m not riding him,” Jake blurted out, surprised. The crowd had started hollering again, and the announcer called the Cardinal cheerleaders onto their floor, to their music, “Brick House.”
“Jake, please don’t be defensive.”
“Then don’t make me defend myself. Don’t tell me I’m riding my son when I’m not.”
Dr. Dave put up a hand like a Zen traffic cop. “I should explain. I spend a lot of time with Ryan. I know him very well. He tends to tighten up when you come to a game—”
“So what am I supposed to do, not come to my son’s game?” Jake felt his anger overcome his worry, bollixing him up. “I don’t need to stand here and listen to you tell me about my own son.”
Dr. Dave emitted a sigh. “When I asked Ryan, he said nothing was wrong. But Pam told me that you and he had some sort of fight on Friday night—”
“What? Why are you talking to my wife about our son?” Jake felt panicky. Pam couldn’t be so open with Dr. Dave about their family business. It was too dangerous, after Pike Road.
“I talk to Pam all the time about Ryan. That’s my job.”
“What job?” Jake heard his tone sharpen. “You’re a volunteer. What are your qualifications?”
“You’re angry, so you’re challenging me.” Dr. Dave exuded a professional calm. “You don’t really want to know my qualifications.”
“Try me.” Jake hated being told how he really felt, especially by people who had no idea how he really felt.
“As I said, I’m a child and adolescent psychologist. I have a small but growing specialty in adolescent sports psychology—”
“What does that have to do with basketball? You’re talking about ‘impact players’ and ‘lift on the ball,’ but you’re supposed to be a shooting coach.”
“I played varsity basketball for three years at Penn, then I played professionally in Italy and Brazil before I got my degree.” Dr. Dave emitted another small sigh. “But, this isn’t about you and me. This is about you and Ryan. Pam said that you fought, because you didn’t like something he said—”
“It wasn’t that big a deal.” Jake had a story, and he had to stick with it. “It was about texting.”
“You asked him to stop texting?”
“Yes, and what parent hasn’t?”
“The fight wasn’t really about texting. You asserted your authority, and Ryan was unwilling to recognize or credit that authority, which you can understand, given the history of your relationship.”
Jake bristled. “You’re out of line.”
“I’m trying to help.”
“I don’t need your help.”
“What if Ryan does?”
“He doesn’t.”
“Jake, you needn’t feel threatened by me. I’m not trying to replace or supplant you. There’s room for us both.”
“No, there isn’t. Butt out.” Jake turned away, strode down the corridor, and turned the corner into the noisy gym just as the Chasers were being introduced. Ryan was second in line, shifting his weight from one sneaker to the other and eyeing the bleachers where they’d told him they’d be sitting. Jake waved at him, but Ryan didn’t see, so he hurried down the sidelines behind the team benches, which were separated from each other by a long metal table that held reporters sitting in front of open laptops.
He reached their bleacher section, which had filled in completely, with parents, kids, and students sitting shoulder-to-shoulder. He scanned the crowd for Deaner, and made his way to Pam, who was standing up with everybody else, clapping. He took his place to stand beside her, and she gave him a kiss on the cheek.