Page 42 of Vespertine
Nicky passed him the ball. “When’s the last time you played?”
“Last week. The kids at Blue Oasis like to play. Sometimes Ijoin in.” Jazz stood about five feet back from the basket and shot using onlyhis left hand. It swished through the net and bounced Nicky’s way. He grinned,turning to Nicky with a challenging twinkle. “You?”
Nicky shrugged, moving into Jazz’s former position,dribbling the ball a little. He was going to lose unless he found a way tocheat despite his promise not to. “Not too long ago. The band plays sometimeswhen we find a hoop. Our tour manager used to keep a ball for us because wecouldn’t keep up with one otherwise.” They sounded like irresponsible children.And, in a way, that’s exactly what they were.
“It’s a good bonding activity.” Jasper said.
“Yeah, well, Ramona always wins. Probably because she’salways sober.” Nicky dribbled some more. Jazz had, of course, gone for theleft-handed shot because he knew Nicky sucked at left-handed shots. Well, hecould dish it out too, when it was his turn to choose. “Honestly, Ramona justwins at life. She’ll be beating the skins ages after the rest of us are dead.”
“Stop delaying and take the shot.” Jazz smirked.
Nicky narrowed his eyes at him and then went for it. Theball bounced off the rim.
Jazz jogged after it and snatched it up. He threw it toNicky. “That’s an H.”
Nicky went in for the teardrop layup that Jazz always hadtrouble with when they were kids, and groaned as Jazz performed the shotperfectly. For his turn, Jazz chose a behind the head bank shot that wentthrough the hoop like a dream. “You’re an asshole,” Nicky said, laughing, buthe gamely took the shot, missing the goal entirely.
“O,” Jazz called out, jogging far into the yard to retrievethe ball and then passing it over to Nicky. Color was in his cheeks and hiseyes sparkled with anticipation. “You’re going to have to up your game if you’regoing to keep your undefeated title of Horse Master.”
Nicky burst out laughing as he dribbled. “God, I was such alittle shit.”
Jazz’s eyebrows quirked in a way that said,You still are,but kept quiet, and Nicky went for thelaying-down-on-the-ground-with-his-eyes-closed shot. It flew wide of the basketand Jasper ran over to get it.
“Feel free to get the ball yourself,” Jazz said as he took anew position where the three-point line had once been painted several asphaltapplications ago.
“Why? You look good running.”
Jasper took a traditional bank shot and Nicky caught theball as it fell through the net. He made his own shot easily and said, “Now you’regoing easy on me.”
Jazz shrugged. “It looks like you can use all the help youcan get.”
“Okay, I call this the f-shot.” Nicky placed his feet wideapart, raised his left hand in the air with middle finger raised proudly, andtook an easy shot with his right hand from just to the right of the basket.
Jazz took the ball and considered for a moment beforeflipping off the sky and making the basket easily too. “Something to add to myusual boring confession of vanity and a slight overindulgence in sugar. BishopMurray will be titillated.”
“Father Murray? He’s bishop now?”
“Yep. Ever since I took over.”
“Cool beans. I think this sin still falls under the vanityheading, though. Or pride. Whatever. You just can’t stand that you’re going tolose.”
Jasper laughed, his gravel-honey voice rumbling around andechoing off the house and trees. “Says the guy with three letters down.”
“Two! Now who’s cheating?” Nicky jogged back from fetchingthe ball, enjoying the movement of his body. He’d been in the pool and workingon the steps down to the dock, but he hadn’t done any healthy exercise in along time. He tucked the ball under his arm and tugged at his long-sleevedshirt, lifting the bottom edge to wipe sweat off his upper lip.
“It’s warm for long sleeves,” Jazz said conversationally,but his eyes were on Nicky’s abdomen.
Nicky knew he had a sharp six-pack—more due to lack of bodyfat than fitness—and he considered lifting his shirt higher and giving him moreof a show, but he didn’t want to mess up their easy rapport.
“Yeah.”
Jazz took the ball from Nicky and dribbled it a few times. “Savingyour parents from the worst of the tats?”
Nicky grinned. “No, I’m pretty proud of them for the mostpart. Though maybe some of them are an homage to things I need to let go of.”He looked over Jazz’s shoulder and into the woods. He shrugged off thoughts ofthe fox tattoos and what they stood for: permanent adhesion to a path longeroded. “But I usually like showing them off.” He scratched at his eyebrow withhis thumbnail and tried to sound like he didn’t care half as much as he reallydid. “But there are some marks on my arms. Inner elbows. You know.” Heshrugged. “I’m not proud of them.”
Jazz looked toward the house and Nicky followed his gaze towhere Miriam was framed by the kitchen window, washing something in the sinkand talking over her shoulder to his father. “She could handle it, you know.”
Nicky bit down on his lower lip. Damn Jazz for knowing himtoo well and for saying just the thing that would make his throat go tight. Helooked down at the new tennis shoes he’d picked up. They were still fresh andwhite with a navy Nike swish. So different from anything he’d wear in hisrock-n-roll life. He wondered what he’d been thinking when he bought them. Hecouldn’t just step into a new pair of ugly-ass suburban-dad shoes and no longerbe Nico Blue.
