He was about to put the phone down when it buzzed in his hand. He checked the caller ID. Nothing.
“Hello?”
“You’re a bastard.” The voice was muffled and low. It sounded like a young man, but it was hard to know. “Do you hear me, Myron? A bastard. And you will pay for what you did.”
The call disconnected. Myron hit star sixty-nine and waited to hear the number. A mechanical voice gave it to him. Local area code, yes, but otherwise the number was wholly unfamiliar. He stopped the car and jotted it down. He’d check it out later.
When Myron ducked into his school, it took a second to adjust to the artificial light, but as soon he did, the familiar ghosts popped up. The gym had the stale smell of every other middle school gym. Someone dribbled a ball. A few guys laughed. The sounds were all the same — all tainted by that hollow echo.
Myron hadn’t played in months because he didn’t like these sort of white-collar pickup games. Basketball, the game itself, still meant so much to him. He loved it. He loved the feel of the ball on his fingertips, the way they would find the grooves on the jump shot, the arch as the ball headed for the rim, the backspin on it, the positioning for the rebound, the perfect bounce pass. He loved the split-second decision making — pass, drive, shoot — the sudden openings that lasted tenths of a second, the way the world slowed down so that you could split the seam.
He loved all that.
What he did not love was the middle-age machismo. The gym was filling up with Masters of the Universe, the wannabe alpha males who, despite the big house and fat wallet and penis-compensating sports car, still needed to beat someone at something. Myron had been competitive in his youth. Too competitive perhaps. He had been a nutjob for winning. This was, he had learned, not always a wonderful quality, though it often separated the very good from the greats, the near-pros from the pros: this desire — no, need—to better another man.
But he had outgrown it. Some of these guys — a minority for certain, but enough — had not.
When they saw Myron, the former NBA player (no matter for how short a time), they saw their chance to prove what real men they were. Even now. Even when most of them were north of forty. And when the skills are slower but the heart still hungers for glory, it can get physical and downright ugly.
Myron scanned the gym and found his reason for being there.
Erik warmed up at the far basket. Myron jogged over and called out to him.
“Erik, hey, how’s it going?”
Erik turned and smiled at him. “Good morning, Myron. Nice to see you show up.”
“I’m usually not much of a morning guy,” Myron said.
Erik tossed him the ball. Myron took a shot. It clanged off the rim.
“Late night?” Erik asked.
“Very.”
“You’ve looked better.”
“Gee, thanks,” Myron said. Then: “So how are things?”
“Fine, you?”
“Good.”
Someone shouted out and the ten guys jogged toward center court. That was how it was. If you wanted to play in the first group, you have to be one of the first ten to arrive. David Rainiv, a brilliant numbers guy and CFO of some Fortune 500 company, always made up teams. He had a knack for balancing the talent and forming competitive matchups. No one questioned his decisions. They were final and binding.
So Rainiv divided up the sides. Myron was matched up against a young guy who stood six-seven. This was a good thing. The theory of men having Napoleon complexes may be debatable in the real world but not in pickup games. Little guys wanted to harm big guys — show them up in an arena usually dominated by size.
But sadly, today the exception proved the rule. The six-seven kid was all elbows and anger. He was athletic and strong but had little basketball talent. Myron did his best to keep his distance. The truth was, despite his knee and age, Myron could score at will. For a while that was what he did. It just came so naturally. It was hard to go easy. But eventually he pulled back. He needed to lose. More men had come in. It was winners-stay-on. He wanted to get off the court so he could talk to Erik.
So after they won the first three games, Myron threw one.
His teammates were not pleased when Myron dribbled off his own foot, thus losing the game. Now they’d have to sit out. They bemoaned the moment but relished the fact that they’d had a great streak going. Like it mattered.
Erik had a water bottle, of course. His shorts matched his shirt. His sneakers were neatly laced. His socks came up to the exact same spot on both ankles, both having the same size roll. Myron used the water fountain and sat next to him.
“So how’s Claire?” Myron tried.
“Fine. She does a Pilates-yoga mix now.”
“Oh?”
Claire had always been into some exercise craze or another. She’d gone through the Jane Fonda leggings, the Tae Bo kicks, the Soloflex.
“That’s where she is now,” Erik said.
“Taking a class?”
“Yes. During the week, she takes one at six thirty in the morning.”
“Yikes, that’s early.”
“We’re early risers.”
“Oh?” Myron saw an opening and took it. “And Aimee?”
“What about Aimee?”
“Does she get up early too?”
Erik frowned. “Hardly.”
“So you’re here,” Myron said, “and Claire is working out. Where’s Aimee?”
“She slept at a friend’s last night.”
“Oh?”
“Teenagers,” he said, as if that explained everything. Maybe it did.
“Trouble?”
“You have no idea.”
“Oh?”
Again with the Oh.
Erik said nothing.
“What kind?” Myron asked.
“Kind?”
Myron wanted to say Oh again, but he feared going to the well once too often. “Trouble. What kind of trouble?”
“I’m not sure I understand.”
“Is she sullen?” Myron said, again trying to sound nonchalant. “Does she not listen? Does she stay up late, blow off school, spend too much time on the Internet, what?”
“All of the above,” Erik said, but now his words came out even slower, even more measured. “Why do you ask?”
Back up, Myron thought. “Just making conversation.”
Erik frowned. “Making conversation usually consists of bemoaning the local teams.”
“It’s nothing,” Myron said. “It’s just…”
“Just what?”
“The party at my house.”
“What about it?”
“I don’t know, seeing Aimee like that, I just started thinking about how tough those teenage years are.”
Erik’s eyes narrowed. On the court someone had called a foul and someone was protesting the call. “I didn’t touch you!” a guy with a mustache and elbow pads shouted. Then the name-calling began — something else you never outgrow on a basketball court.
Erik’s eyes were still on the court. “Did Aimee say anything to you?” he asked.
“Like what?”
“Like anything. I remember you were in the basement with her and Erin Wilder.”
“Right.”
“What did you guys talk about?”
“Nothing. They were just goofing on me about how dated the room was.”
Now he looked at Myron. Myron wanted to look away, but he held on. “Aimee can be,” Erik said, “rebellious.”
“Like her mother.”
“Claire?” He blinked. “Rebellious?”
Oh man, he should learn to shut his mouth.
“In what way?”
Myron went for the politician response: “It depends on what you mean by rebellious, I guess.”