Sea Glass Winter by Joann Ross Page B

question.
    After telling him to sit down in the chair on the other side of the desk, the coach tilted back in his chair, rested his elbows on the wooden arms, folded his hands beneath his chin, and gave Matt a long, thoughtful look.
    “So,” he finally said, just when Matt was about to burst out of his skin, “how are you liking the Northwest so far?”
    Matt shrugged. “We only got here this weekend. But it it’s okay.” If you like rain and trees.
    “But quite a change for you.”
    No shit, Sherlock. “Yes, sir.”
    “You did well in lab today. I can see why you were named an athlete-scholar back at your old school.”
    “I lucked out with a good lab team today.”
    When the coach’s lips quirked, Matt realized that Slater knew he was saying what he knew the coach wanted to hear.
    “Right answer . . . I’m all about teamwork. In class and in life. I’m also not a believer in sophomores playing varsity.”
    Matt’s heart plummeted like pelican diving for a fish in the surf at the same time his temper shot up. He’d done the research, and last season the team had twelve players. Six starters, and another six to come off the bench. Only eleven guys had come out of this office to high fives for having made varsity. Which meant that last remaining slot belonged to him.
    “I’m a lot better than the other guys you picked for the team.”
    “You’ve got talent; I’ll give you that. And skill that obviously comes from a lot of practice.”
    “Until we moved here, I’d shoot three hundred shots a day.” Something he’d started doing in fifth grade and intended to start again. As soon as he got a basket up at the wreck of a house his mother had blown her inheritance on. “Every day.”
    “Good for you. . . . I was EOD in the army. Whenever I went out to take care of an IED, I never went in a straight line. Want to know why?”
    Having no idea why this conversation had suddenly turned to something he didn’t give a shit about, Matt said, “Yes, sir.”
    “Again, that’s the right answer. I did that because the bad guys could be watching me and figure out my moves, so next time they could place an IED right where they knew I’d be. And if that had happened, I wouldn’t be here right now talking with you because they’d still be picking up pieces of me downrange. . . .
    “You’re damn good, Templeton. But you’re predictable.”
    “Predictable?” No way.
    The coach shrugged. “It’s natural. Everyone tends to get into a pattern when they play. Even the pros. The great ones will surprise you, and their opponents, but for the most part, all players have certain things they’ll do over and over again.”
    “And you’re saying I do?” He’d been playing since he was eight years old, half his life, and no one had ever said a frigging word about him being predictable. The coach was probably just looking for any lame excuse to keep him off varsity. Maybe most sophomores couldn’t hack it. But they weren’t him.
    “Yes. You do.” He turned the laptop on his desk so the screen faced Matt. It was a YouTube video of the final five minutes of the game against Santa Monica where he’d broken the school record of points scored in a single game.
    “When you’re going to your left, you cross-dribble three times. Then you keep going in the same direction. A good player, or a good coach, is going to catch that and predict your next move.”
    Damned if he hadn’t done that. But it didn’t mean he always moved the same way. Did he?
    “So you’re saying I should go right instead?”
    “Yeah. Every once in a while. Especially if your defender’s watched you go left enough times. He’ll get comfortable thinking he’s reading your play. That’s when you change things up, catch him flat-footed, and slip right past him to score.”
    Matt hated to admit that the coach had caught such a lame mistake, but it made sense. “I’ll work on that.”
    “That’s the idea. Because if we’re going to