Underdog by Eric Walters Page B

out now for a while, and you could bake some muffins while we’re gone so they’ll be waiting when we return?”
    â€œI think that can be arranged and—” She stopped talking as the phone rang. “I’ll get that. It might be your father.”
    â€œYou know,” Kia said, “we don’t even have to go back out again tonight. What with the extra time and the boxes that Coach bought, we’re way ahead. What do you think?”
    I looked at Ashton. Part of me—especially my very tired feet—wanted to stay here. “Well?” I asked.
    â€œYou can stay if you want,” he said, “but I’m going to go back out and try to sell some more.”
    â€œGo out by yourself?” Kia asked. “I thought you were afraid you’d scare people?”
    â€œMaybe I can scare them into buying more boxes,” Ashton said and smiled.
    â€œIt doesn’t matter if you scare them or not because you’re not going to be by yourself.” I got up from the kitchen table. “Let’s go.”

8
    I doubled over and panted, trying to catch my breath. I pulled the bottom of my shirt up and wiped the sweat off my face. You’d have figured that after all these years of playing basketball—hundreds of games and millions of practices—it would be easier. Wrong. They were tough. Especially at the start of the season.
    I tipped back my water bottle and took a long drink. The water wasn’t even that cold anymore, but it still tasted good in my mouth and on the way down my throat.
    â€œTired?” I asked Ashton.
    â€œDog-tired. Wish you hadn’t convinced me to come back.”
    â€œReally?”
    He shook his head. “Glad to be here.”
    â€œEverybody grab a ball and get on the baseline,” Coach Barkley ordered.
    I quickly put down my water bottle and scrambled to get a ball. Everybody else was chasing them down too. Nobody wanted to be the last person because sometimes Coach made that person do sit-ups or push-ups. I didn’t like doing push-ups at any time, but it was so much worse when everybody else was standing there, watching, counting them off as you did them.
    â€œWe’re going to have a little race,” Coach Barkley said. “Who do you think is the fastest person in this gym?”
    Everybody yelled out names—mostly their own. I stayed quiet. Not only because I didn’t know who was the fastest, but also because there was something about the look in Coach’s eyes that made me wonder what he was up to. He was always full of surprises and tricks, and you had to really think about his questions before you blurted out an answer.
    â€œYou are all wrong,” Coach said. “Without a doubt the fastest person here is me.”
    â€œYou?” a bunch of us said in unison.
    â€œYeah, me. Are any of you doubting my word?”
    Nobody dared to say anything, but there was doubt etched on everybody’s face.
    â€œTristan,” Coach said, “you look like you don’t believe me.”
    â€œOh, no, Coach, I would never doubt you. I’m sure you’re faster than all of us…if you were driving in your car.”
    There was a burst of laughter and Coach shot us a hard glare that stopped the laughter just as suddenly as it had started.
    â€œSorry, Coach,” Tristan apologized. “I know you probably were fast…you know…in your day.”
    â€œI was really fast before I blew out my knee,” he agreed. “But I’m still way faster than anybody else here. Way faster. It’s not even a contest.”
    There was a silent response as everybody was smart enough to keep their mouthsshut and their expressions blank. I had no doubt that Coach was fast when he was playing, before the injury, but I’d seen him run, and that leg really held him back now. Besides, he was really, really old. He had to be in his forties at least. And even if he was faster than