Page 115 of The Locker Room
him and popped back into the palm of his wide-fingered hand as he
dribbled furiously, strides ahead of the enemy, in perfect position to
score....
OH,GOD, it was a good game! Xander and Chris—they were poetry in
sweat, an orchestra of heaving muscle, sinew, and bone. The crowd
roared like the ocean, and the hollow thunder of their feet on the boards
and their hands against each other made even the air tremble in their
ears. They were high on the game, blinded by the magic that flowed
from player to player to player.
The score was tight—the Kings had a two-point lead through most
of the game, and then, in the last minute, Xander was shoved backward
by the Blazers forward, falling on his ass and feeling something
obnoxiously painful ping in his wrist. But his blood was up, and he was
already on painkillers, so he was on his feet before Chris could even look
at him twice and hurtling down the court again, coming up underneath
and behind William Skaarsgard and stealing the ball.
The crowd erupted, the noise so overwhelming that Xander started
hearing under it, so that the blood in his ears, his harsh breathing, Chris"s
whoops of triumph, they were all louder than the cheering as he whipped
a neat one-eighty around Skaarsgard and threw a high, looping pass to
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Chris before anyone realized he"d stopped dribbling. Chris caught it,
dribbled, and then behind-the-backed to Washington, who made it down
the court and… missed the dunk.
Chris was right up there, though, and he made it, and then the ball
was in the opponent"s hands for a scant second as Oregon set up to
recoup the lost two points.
They never made it down the court. Xander told the press after the
game that it felt like reaching out to the sky and picking a bird out of
