Page 177 of Ruthless Court
Set.
Release.
Swish.
Noah rebounds and sends it back.
I shoot again.
My gaze drifts toward the player guest section.
Empty red seats.
Staff members are wiping railings and checking seat numbers. No families. No girlfriends. No freshman archaeology student pretending she only came to evaluate my left-side reads.
I miss from the wing.
The ball hits the back rim and kicks long.
Noah catches it near the baseline.
“Haverhill.”
“I know.”
“You sure?”
I hold out my hands.
He sends the ball back without raising his voice. Two assistants are talking near the opposite basket, and neither of us wants them looking over.
I set my feet.
The next shot drops.
Then another.
Noah keeps rebounding.
“You’ve checked those seats after every third shot,” he says under his breath.
“No, I haven’t.”
“Every second shot, then.”
“The doors aren’t open.”
“That makes it stranger.”
I ignore him and drive from the wing.
Stay low.
One more dribble left.
No early shoulder turn.
No gathering before the defense commits.
