Rivals by Tommy Greenwald (top 100 novels of all time .txt) 📕

be traveling in style, courtesy of a luxury coach bus provided by the Chambers family. Three cheers for that!”

Yells and whistles echo through the gym, and guys start high-fiving each other, but when I go to fist-bump KJ, he mumbles “Nah, I’m good,” and turns away.

Darian sees the whole thing. “Don’t worry about him,” he tells me. “He’s good buds with Alonzo, and, you know, that puts him in kind of a tough spot.”

“Yeah, I get it.”

As the rest of my teammates chatter excitedly about the upcoming tournament, I realize that even though everyone’s totally fired up about the idea of a luxury bus, it just makes me look even more like the spoiled rich kid who’s only on the team because of his rich parents.

I wish they were wrong.

5:57 pm

12 People

HEY EVERYONE

JUST BACK FROM THE DOC AND I FINALLY

HEARD THE WORDS I’VE BEEN WAITING

TO HEAR FOR THREE MONTHS

YOU ARE CLEARED TO PLAY

☺

JUST IN TIME FOR THE GAME AGAINST SOUTH

LET’S DO THIS

7:13 pm

Austin

YO, CLAY, THAT’S AWESOME NEWS!! ☺

YEAH, I KNOW, PRETTY COOL RIGHT?

ALMOST CAN’T BELIEVE IT

SO THE DOC SAID YOU CAN START PRACTICING

RIGHT AWAY?

PRETTY MUCH.

I’VE BEEN WORKING OUT ON MY OWN A LOT

BUT SHE SAID I CAN PRACTICE WITH THE TEAM

AND I’M GOOD TO PLAY AGAINST SOUTH

THAT’S SO AWESOME

YEAH

WE WIN WE’RE IN THE PLAYOFFS

I KNOW

IT WILL BE GREAT TO HAVE YOU OUT THERE.

YUP

HEY ARE YOU DOING ANYTHING RIGHT NOW?

NOT MUCH WHY

WANT TO MEET ME AT TOMPKINS PARK?

MAYBE SHOOT AROUND A LITTLE BIT?

I DON’T KNOW MAN, I GOT HOMEWORK

JUST FOR A LITTLE WHILE

I WANT TO SEE YOU WITH A BASKETBALL IN YOUR HANDS.

MAN I DIDN’T EVEN KNOW YOU WERE PRACTICING ON

YOUR OWN

I DIDN’T WANT TO SAY ANYTHING IN CASE I DIDN’T

MAKE IT BACK

JUST BEEN WORKING ON SOME THINGS

AWESOME.

SO YOU IN?

MEET THERE IN 30?

YEAH SURE I GUESS SO

COOL!!

SEE YOU THERE

AUSTIN

My dad used to take me down to the Tompkins Park courts when I could barely walk. They have a seven-foot hoop that I used to shoot at, and by the time I was eleven I could dunk on it.

I’m pretty sure that was the last time I ever felt tall on a basketball court.

It’s a cold day, so no one is around when I get to the courts to meet Clay. I start shooting threes at the short hoop.

Swish. Swish. Miss. Swish. Swish.

My shooting percentage is high on that basket.

I start dunking.

My percentage goes up even higher when I dunk.

I start daydreaming about being six-five and dunking on a ten-foot basket. I think about the Bryce Jordan Center, the awesome, fifteen-thousand-seat arena at Penn State where my dad takes me when he goes back for reunions and stuff. I think about what it would be like to play on that court. Chambers slides between two defenders and goes up for the Tomahawk Jam . . . And the Nittany Lions win the NCAA championship! Listen to that crowd—

“Who you talking to?”

I turn around and Clay is standing there, smiling. It feels like a long time since I’ve seen him smile—at me, anyway. He’s been around the team all season, on crutches at first, then in that giant ski-boot thing, but he hasn’t been doing a lot of laughing. And he and I never really figured out how to get things back to the way they were before he got hurt.

But now seems like a good time to try.

“I guess I’m just talking to myself,” I tell him. “In my head, I’ve been playing for Penn State since I was about five years old.”

“And let me guess—you guys always win.”

“Pretty much.”

Clay holds his hands up in the universal sign for Pass me the ball. I zip it over to him, and he jams it in the short hoop without even jumping. I try to imagine how it must feel to be able to do that, but I can’t. I feel a jolt of jealousy pass through my body, as I realize my days as the best player on Walthorne North—or any team, ever—are probably over. I tell myself to not think that way, but watching Clay make a few moves and do a few reverse jams, I realize it’s not going to be easy.

“Yo, you look totally ready to go,” I say.

“Yep, I’m good.”

“Just in time, too.”

Clay tosses the ball back to me. “Let’s go play on the big boy hoops,” he says. “A little one-on-one?”

“Totally.”

We start playing, and sure enough, it’s clear that Clay is still way better than me. He’s a little rusty at first, but before long he’s got it all working: the inside moves, the soft touch on the jumper, the quick hands on defense. For a few minutes, the resentment lingers, as I admit to myself once and for all that I’ll never be the player he is.

But then, as we keep playing, the most amazing thing happens.

It stops bothering me.

The jolt of jealousy is gone. On this court, just the two of us playing one-on-one, I stop thinking about all the stuff I usually think about, like why I’m not as tall as Clay, or as talented as him, or as talented as my dad, or even my little sister.

I’m just outside in the park, playing ball, having a blast.

We play to twenty-one. I play Clay pretty tight, and when I hit a three (which counts for two points in one-on-one), I close the gap to 18–14. But after Clay blocks my next shot, he hits a three, then backs me down to the hoop and finishes me off with a sweet baby hook.

We slap hands.

“Nice game,” Clay says. He’s bent over, his hands on his knees, and he’s breathing hard.

“Well, if nothing else, I made you work for it,” I tell him.

He laughs. “Got to get in game shape. If only for one game.”

We go to the sideline and take long swigs from our water bottles. Then Clay says, “Remember when we used