Long Shot - Stine Megan (электронную книгу бесплатно без регистрации .TXT) 📗

Okay, Pete thought, getting tough. They can try to take me out, but I’m going out fighting!

In the next instant the Wolfford team came out, and the game was under way.

Wolfford was a tall team. Every player was taller than Pete. And they controlled the tip, moving quickly toward the Rocky Beach basket. But their shooting was cold. A miss. A miss on the rebound.

Rocky Beach took the ball. A long pass from Valdez to Bill Konkey got the ball across midcourt. Konkey kept looking to pass to Pete, but a Wolfford player named Traut was all over him. Traut kept holding Pete with a hand to his chest, pushing Pete from the side.

Pete faked a move one way and then moved the other way around Traut. Konkey saw that Pete was open and passed him the ball. But suddenly Pete crashed to the floor, banging his elbow and landing on his other hand. The ball went sailing out of bounds. Wolfford’s ball.

Pete was furious. Traut had tripped him, but no one saw it. “Watch it,” he snapped at Traut.

“I’m watching you,” the lanky player said.

As the game went on, more things started to happen. And Pete quickly realized that Traut was the heavy who was going to hurt him real bad. Pete tried to avoid Traut, but he had to play ball — and Traut was clearly out to kill him.

First Pete got an elbow in the eye and sat out for a few minutes with an ice pack on the side of his face. When he went back in, he got shoved off the court on a fast break lay-up. Pete ended up sprawled on someone’s lap in the crowd, his head bleeding from hitting the bleachers.

Nine of the guys were out there to play basketball. But Traut was out there for one thing only: to destroy Pete.

It made Pete so mad he played harder, moving, twisting, making fakes and then impossible shots while flying through the air. Rocky Beach was ahead, but it was a close game all the way.

Thumpa, thumpa, thumpa. Traut was dribbling across the center stripe. Pete picked him up, guarding him, moving with him, blocking him from getting close enough to take a shot.

“You’re taking a lot of chances. Get smart,” Traut said to him. “It’s going to get worse.”

I’ll get smart, all right, Pete thought. “Hiii — ya!” he shouted at the top of his lungs. It broke Traut’s concentration just long enough for Pete to slap the ball. He stole it away and fired a pass to Konkey, who scored. But as soon as the officials weren’t looking, Traut gave Pete an elbow in the back, right in the kidneys.

Pain shot through Pete like an electric charge. But he wasn’t going to show it — not for a second. “Kiss me again, sweetheart,” he told Traut, glaring at him.

On a rebound the ball came sailing back into Traut’s hands, and without pausing a second, he dribbled down the court and leaped into the air.

The ball sank and Traut said with a grunt, “There’s your kiss — sweetheart.”

The game stayed close and tough. It was tied at 48 going into the final five minutes. Traut threw a pass that hit Pete in the back of the head. To everyone else it looked like a bad pass. But Pete knew it was a direct hit, another reminder from Michael Anthony — or someone else — to get off the case.

With less than a minute left Coach Tong called a time-out, the team’s last. “Sit down, Pete.”

“No way,” Pete said. “Traut’s been after me all night. He’s trying to hurt me. I can’t let him get away with it.”

“I’ve seen good aggressive basketball, not a hitman,” said the coach. “Don’t make this personal or I’ll yank you.

Pete nodded and huddled up.

“Okay, we’re up by two,” said Coach Tong. “Now — pressure defense, no cheap fouls, and don’t give them an easy basket.”

The team clasped hands and charged back onto the court.

But as soon as play resumed, Pete knew that Wolfford wasn’t ready to roll over and play dead. Wolfford threw the ball upcourt and scored an easy lay-up to tie the game. Then they stole the ball right back from Rocky Beach, and held it. They were eating up the clock and trying to take the last shot.

“Stay cool! Stay cool!” Bill Konkey shouted to the team.

Finally, with only seconds left to play, a Wolfford player took a shot at the basket and missed. Konkey got the rebound and passed it to Pete.

The crowd was going nuts, screaming the count-down. Time was almost out. “Three... two... ” Pete dribbled, but there was no time to pass. So he went for a desperation move. He leaped into the air and heaved the ball sidearm as hard as he could.

And then to his utter amazement he watched the ball smash into the backboard, bounce off the front rim of the basket, and — somehow — drop through the hoop! The buzzer rang before anyone could believe their eyes. Pete had won the game from two feet past center court!

His team swarmed around him, pounding him, lifting him up and carrying him back to the locker room. The Wolfford crowd was still stunned silent. Pete wanted to find Traut, to get in his face, but he was carried away too fast.

The victory celebration was going to go on all night, but Pete didn’t want any part of it. All he wanted was to shower quickly and then go find Traut. He waited for him in the dark parking lot outside the gym. “Hey,” he said when Traut came out. For a moment Traut looked surprised. “What’s your problem?” Pete asked. “Who told you to come after me?” Traut said nothing and glared at Pete. “Come on, buddy. No officials, no time-outs now,” Pete said. “So you tell me what was going on in there, or I’ll show you the real meaning of the words ‘personal foul’ !”

“Bug off,” Traut said. He shoved Pete into some cars and tried to get past him.

Pete bounced back and shoved Traut. Recovering quickly, Traut threw a punch that caught Pete right in the gut.

For an instant Pete could hardly breathe. The wind was knocked out of him. It only lasted an instant, though. Then he flew into action. “Hi — yaaaaa!” Pete karate-kicked Traut, sending him flying onto his back on the hood of a car. Traut kicked back, his legs flailing like a child’s. Pete grabbed Traut’s ankles, yanked him forward, and then threw him over his left shoulder in one smooth, twisting motion.

Nothing like knowing karate, Pete thought as he looked at Traut lying on the ground. None of Traut’s tough-guy moves, now or during the game, could stand up to the karate skills Pete had developed over the years. Traut knew it, too, because he just lay there, even though he wasn’t really very hurt. He could get up, but he didn’t want to.

“Okay,” Pete said. “Now tell me. Who told you to do a number on me? Come on, slimeball. The truth!”

“I don’t know,” Traut said weakly.

Pete reached down and jerked Traut up by his shirt. “The truth!”

“I don’t know, I swear. The guy wouldn’t tell me his name. Not his real name, anyway,” Traut said. “He just gave me two hundred bucks and told me to rough you up during the game. And he gave me a letter to deliver to you. I didn’t even read it.”

“What do you mean, ‘not his real name?’ ” Pete demanded, giving Traut a yank to put him back on his feet.

“I mean he gave me a phony name. He admitted it,” Traut said. “What was it?” Pete asked.

“Michael Anthony.”