Kingmakers, Year One

1. Leo

1

LEO

W e’re twenty-three minutes into the State Championship game.

We’re playing Simeon, an athletic powerhouse stocked with muscle-bound behemoths who look like they started shaving in the second grade, and who might have been born with a basketball in their hands.

Every one of their players is better than every kid on my team.

Except for me.

And me is all I need.

I’m paired up against Johnson Bell, their power forward. He’s 6’7, a full two inches taller than me. He’s fast, and he’s strong, I’m not gonna lie. And most of all, he’s fucking cheap.

This motherfucker has been chippy with me all game. Chopping at my arms, charging me, slashing me with his uncut fingernails like he’s trying to embody the wolverine plastered across his chest.

He knows as well as I do that the head coach for the Kentucky Wildcats is sitting right in the front row at center court, watching us both.

Bell wants to be a star.

I already am a star. And I don’t give a fuck about that scout. I’m not going to Kentucky—or anywhere else on this continent.

But I am going to win this game.

Bell takes the ball up the court, trying to drive past me. He does some fancy dancing with his giant feet in his vintage Jordans. It doesn’t faze me for a second—I keep my eye on his navel. Like my dad always says, you can’t go anywhere without your bellybutton.

Without even looking at the ball, I slap it away from him with my left hand, knocking it over to my right. I plow past him in the opposite direction, sprinting for the basket.

Their guard tries to block me, and I pull up short, sending a gorgeous arcing shot over his grasping fingers. I’m seven feet behind the three-point line and it doesn’t matter a bit—the ball drops through the net without even grazing the rim.

The roar of the crowd hits me like a slap. My eardrums vibrate. My heart thrums in my chest.

There’s no feeling quite like being adored by a thousand people at once.

The buzzer sounds, signaling the end of the first half. I go jogging back across the court while my teammates slap me on the back. We’re up six points.

While my team hustles down the tunnel toward the locker room, the dance team is running in the opposite direction up to the court. Anna and I pass each other in the darkened hallway.

She’s all dolled up in her drill gear—blonde hair pulled up in a high pony, face painted and every inch of her sprayed with glitter. It always makes me laugh to see her in her dance clothes, since bright and tight is the opposite of what she wears normally.

She gives me a fist bump as we pass, saying in her low voice, “You’re gonna win, Leo.”

“I know.” I grin back at her.

Anna is my best friend. We grew up together, closer than siblings. Our fathers run this city together. Our mothers went through their pregnancies together, Anna and I born only two months apart. She’s older than me, which she loves to rub in my face every chance she gets.

Anna is the only person I’ve met more intense than me. Sometimes she scares me a little. But mostly she’s my balance, my rock.

Here at Preston Heights, I’m the fucking man.

Everybody wants a piece of me. They all want to sit by me or talk to me. All the girls want to date me.

They think they know Leo Gallo.

Anna is the only person who actually does.

She knows exactly who I am, and she doesn’t try to change a damn thing about me. Unlike my parents.

I saw my mom and dad sitting two rows behind the Kentucky coach, just a little to his right. They never miss my games. They’re always here, cheering me on. Celebrating my wins even more than I do.

It’s my dad who taught me how to play. He was a college star himself, before he and Uncle Cal got in some kind of scrap, and his knee got all fucked up.

Doesn’t mean he can’t still work me on the court, though. My dad taught me everything I know. He practiced with me, drilled me, taught me how to read my opponent, how to watch the flow of players on the court, how to outwit and outplay every guy I came up against. How to destroy them mentally and physically. How to beat them before I even made my first move.

My father’s pretty fucking smart. You don’t become the Don of Chicago any other way. And you sure as hell don’t stay there being stupid.

He taught me how to play basketball.

But what I actually want is for him to teach me how to run the world.

I’m not trying to be an athlete. I’m trying to be a king.

I’m still gonna win this game, though. Because I win everything, always.

We head back to the locker room so the coach can tell us how we fucked up, and how we’re supposed to fix it in the second half.

I’m barely listening to him—I’ve watched more game tape from before I was born than this guy has ever seen. He’s just a teacher who happens to have the best damn player in the country on his team.

I gulp down a lukewarm cup of Gatorade, while listening to the pounding beat of “Billie Jean” emanating from the gym. I’ve seen Anna practice this number a dozen times, but I still ache to be out there watching her live, in costume, in front of all these people.

Her parents are sitting right next to mine—Mikolaj and Nessa Wilk, the boss of the Polish Braterstwo and the princess of the Irish Mafia.

Anna’s parents started out as enemies, a lot like mine. And just like mine, they’re weirdly obsessed with each other. I guess Anna and I should be glad we both come from families with parents that love each other, but Jesus, you shouldn’t have to tell grown adults to get a room.

Anna is to dance what I am to basketball—the fucking best. She makes the rest of the girls on her team look like they’ve got clown shoes strapped to their feet. She’s always front and center, grabbing your eye from the second she starts dancing, and refusing to let go until long after the music fades away.

I’m pulled back toward her, even though I know Coach will be pissed if I don’t stay till the bitter end of his motivational speech. I wait until he’s at a particularly rousing point, then I pretend like I think that was the end of it, leaping to my feet and shouting, “That’s right, Coach, we got you! Let’s get out there and WIN THIS FUCKING THING!!!”

The locker room breaks out in whoops and howls, everybody stomping the floor and chanting like we’re Spartans going off to war.

We run back out to the court, me ahead of everybody else, wanting to catch the end of Anna’s dance.

Her team is dressed in some kind of bizarre Day of the Dead skeleton get-up. Their faces are painted like bejeweled skulls with flowers in their hair.

Anna is Captain of her dance team and head choreographer. Watching her numbers is like watching a fever dream. They’re wild, intense, and hard-hitting. The pounding bass of the song shakes the bleachers, and the girls look like they’re possessed—none more than Anna.

You’d think she doesn’t have a bone in her body. She flings herself around, strong and precise and tight as a whip.

I take back what I said about the other girls—Anna is a ruthless drill sergeant, and they absolutely know how to hit their marks. It’s just that no one comes alive like Anna. She looks supernatural as she whirls through her triple-pirouette, then drops down in the splits. The crowd screams just as loud as they did for me.

The dance team are champions in their own right. They took nationals all three years that Anna was Captain, even beating out those bitches from Utah who had been formerly unbeatable with their bleach-blonde hair and mile-wide smiles.

I almost forget that we’re in the middle of a game.

I forget everything but the low, flashing light and the throbbing beat and wild, brilliant dancers. They’re supposed to be hyping up the crowd, keeping the energy high during the break. They’ve done much more than that—they’ve brought a new level of darkness and intensity to the proceedings. They’ve made it seem as if this game truly is a matter of life and death.

The song ends, and the overhead lights burst on. I remember that I’m in a high school gymnasium. I smell the sweat and rubber and floor polish once more. I see my parents looking proud and anxious, and Uncle Miko and Aunt Nessa looking how they always do—Miko somber and intent, Nessa bright-eyed and eager.

Anna is leaving the floor, giving me a wave on her way out. A boy in a varsity jacket intercepts her. I don’t recognize him—he must go to Simeon. He blocks her path, trying to engage her in conversation.

I can’t hear what they’re saying, but from the smirk on his face, and the way he grabs her arm without permission, I’m guessing it’s something along the lines of, “ Hey girl, you’re pretty flexible. I’d like to see you wrap those legs around my head . . .”

It’s the kind of thing guys used to say to Anna at our school, until they learned their lesson.

I grin, knowing exactly what’s about to happen.

Anna grabs his hand off her arm and bends his wrist back, all the pressure concentrated on his pinky. Even from across the gym, I hear the varsity douche scream like a little girl.

Anna brushes past him, whipping him in the face with her ponytail as she passes. The guy cradles his hand, muttering something under his breath.

I cast a quick glance at Uncle Miko.

He watched that whole exchange the same as I did. Now his ice-blue eyes are narrowed to slits, his jaw rigid with rage.

All I can say is that kid is pretty fucking lucky to get off with nothing more than a sprained wrist. If he put one more finger on Anna, he wasn’t likely to make it home tonight.

Grinning, I jog over to the bench to slug down a last gulp of water before the ref blows his whistle.

Moments later, the game is back in full swing, and we’re running harder than ever. My team is amped, but so are the Wolverines. They’re running a full-court press, fueled by fury that the game is even this close when they’re supposed to be the best team in the state.

They are the best team. But they don’t have the best player.

Johnson Bell is fighting hard for that title.

He’s a big dude, thick with muscle, sweat dripping down his face just two minutes into the third quarter. I’ll give him credit, he’s the toughest opponent I’ve faced this year. But tough just isn’t good enough.

Still, it’s hard carrying the rest of these assholes all on my own. Kelly Barrett misses an easy lay-up, and Chris Pellie turns the ball over twice. I have to make four more baskets just to keep the game even.

As the third quarter comes to a close, my team is up three points. I’m driving to the hoop when that fucker Bell comes up hard behind me. I jump to shoot, I’m up in the air, and he knocks my feet right out from under me. He sends me pinwheeling, crashing down in an awkward sprawl that slams the air out of me.

The crowd gasps and then starts to boo, at least on the home team side. The Wolverine fans laugh and jeer at me.

That makes me angrier than anything. I hate being laughed at.

Bell gets the foul, but I want him kicked out of the fucking game. You don’t go at somebody’s feet—it’s dangerous, and it’s goddamn disrespectful. I haul myself up, breath wheezing in my lungs, and whirl around to face him. He smirks at me, his big, dumb face showing nothing but pride.

I’d like to murder him.

But all I can do is take my shots.

I sink them both. That doesn’t relax me in the slightest. Blood throbs against my temples. All I see is Bell’s smug face.

The Wolverines inbound the ball. Their point guard brings it up the court, then passes to Bell. I guard him, tracking him close. He dribbles carefully, knowing I’m fast as fuck and I’d love to steal the ball back in revenge.

He doesn’t know I’ve got something better planned.

If he wants to play dirty, I’m happy to roll around in the mud.

I pretend to go in for the steal, and instead I shoulder-check him hard in the face. My shoulder slams into his nose. I hear his grunt, and the instant patter of blood dripping down on the boards.

“Oops…” I grin.

Bell’s eyes are already swelling up as he takes his place at the free-throw line.

He makes the first but misses the second, blinded by the pain in his face. I laugh to myself, quietly.

The buzzer rings to signal the end of the third quarter.

The coach immediately hauls me to the side, chewing me out for hitting Bell like that.

“How many times have I told you not to lose your temper? Don’t you know the Kentucky coach is right up there in the stands watching you? You think he wants some hothead on his team?”

“I think he wants the best.” I push past the coach so I can wipe my face with a towel.

The last quarter is a fucking brawl. My team is pissed, the Wolverines even angrier. The ball turns over again and again as we battle for every single point.

The coach calls a timeout so he can set the next play.

Pulling us into a huddle, he says, “Barrett, you’re gonna set a screen for Brown. Pellie will inbound the ball to Brown, Brown will take it up the court, and once he gets past half-court, Gallo will come and set a high screen. Brown will drive to the hoop and if you have a shot, then take it—if you get covered, give the ball to Miller instead.”

I can hardly bite back my retort to that cockamamie bullshit.

Me, set a screen? You’ve gotta be joking.

I carried this team to the state championship on my fucking back.

I don’t even bother to argue with the coach. He’s the one who’s gotten emotional over that foul, and now he’s not thinking straight.

Instead, I wait till Chris Pellie gets his hands on the ball and I hiss at him, “Forget what Coach said. You pass the ball to me.”

Pellie’s eyes get big in his face, so he looks like a little kid.

“W-what?” he stammers.

“You heard me. Throw me that ball, or I’ll break every finger you’ve got.”

Pellie gulps.

He takes his position behind the line.

Everybody is set up, the ref still has the ball. I’m walking over all slow and casual, standing upright, like I’m barely gonna play.

The whistle blows. Teeth bared and eyes terrified, Pellie chucks me the ball. The moment it touches my hands, I drop down into cheetah stance and take off like a fucking rocket.

I blow past the point guards before they can even blink.

Five seconds left. Four…

I can hear the coach screaming and waving his arms on the sidelines, red with fury that I disobeyed him. It only makes me chuckle. That’s what he gets for trying to hold me back.

I’m going coast to coast like Danny Ainge in his ‘81 game. I’m flying down the court in six strides with these long legs that were meant for nothing better than this.

The Wolverines don’t know what to do. You’re not supposed to take the game into your own hands. Not with four seconds left. Not in the state championships.

I don’t slow down for a second—I can’t lose my momentum.

I should go right. It’s my dominant hand, and that’s where the center is standing, a big dumb oaf, the slowest dude on the team.

But there’s Bell standing to the left of the hoop. The motherfucker who shoved me and slashed my arms to bits like a bitchy little kitten, and then took my legs out from under me.

He’s gonna pay for that.

I charge him like a bull.

If he held his ground, I’d have to go around him. But he doesn’t plant his feet. He’s lost his nerve, lost his focus. His feet stumble back.

I bend my knees and spring upward into a Herculean jump, higher than any I’ve taken before. Fueled by adrenaline and spite, I go right over that 6’7 mother fucker. I vault him like a hurdle, my legs going over his shoulders and my crotch right over his face. He falls backward onto his ass.

You know what “posterized” means?

Think of every poster you ever saw, featuring Jordan or Kobe making the most beautiful dunks of their life.

For every epic, timeless poster, there’s some idiot trying to guard that all-time great, their hands up and their face scrunched with dismay while the god of basketball sails right over them.

I posterize Johnson Bell with my balls in his face.

It’s so beautiful I could cry.

Roaring like a lion, I slam the ball down in the hoop in a loud, aggressive, spectacular dunk of death.

As the ball bounces against the ground, the buzzer shrills.

I can barely hear it beneath the collective scream of the crowd. Every person in the gym has leapt to their feet, pumping their fists and howling.

My whole team swarms me, whooping and slapping me on the back. I look down at Bell sprawled out on the boards and I say, “When they give me the ring, I’ll carve your name inside it to remember the guy who licked my balls while I won the game-winner.”

Bell leaps to his feet, flinging himself at me with both fists swinging. My teammates shove him back while I laugh in his face.

I’m high on triumph. It’s running through my veins, more intoxicating than any drug.

I look around, not for my parents because I already know they’re cheering for me. I want to see if Anna was watching.

It’s impossible to find her—the fans are covering the court. My dad claps me on the shoulder and pulls me into a hug.

“You know the Kentucky coach was here watching…”

I roll my eyes. “Yeah, Dad, I know.”

My mom kisses me on the cheek, not caring how sweaty I am.

“Well done,” she says in her understated way.

You can still hear the hint of a Russian accent in her voice, and the full measure of Russian stoicism where you could win the goddamn Olympics and they’d give you a nod and a “Could be better,” as their compliment.

I just grin, ‘cause I know my parents adore me. I’m their only child. The center of their world.

“Not bad,” a low voice says.

I turn around.

Anna is standing there, dressed in her torn-up jeans and leather jacket once more. She’s washed some of the makeup off her face, so she no longer looks like the Corpse Bride, but plenty of black liner remains, smeared around her pale blue eyes.

That’s the moment when I really feel like I won—when I see the smile she can’t possibly hold back lighting up her face.

I sweep her up in the biggest hug and swing her around.

When I set her down, she says, “Hi, Uncle Seb. Hi, Aunt Yelena,”politely.

“Did you choreograph that dance, Anna?” my dad asks her. “That was incredible!”

“Most of it,” Anna says. “I took a few of the eight-counts from Mom’s burlesque ballet. With a few modifications.”

Aunt Nessa smiles. “I thought it looked familiar. I can’t believe you remembered that. That was forever ago—you couldn’t have been more than . . . six?”

“Anna remembers everything,” Uncle Miko says. Then, frowning, he demands, “Who was that boy?”

“What boy?” Aunt Nessa is oblivious.

“Nobody.” Anna tosses her head disdainfully.

“Next time, you break his wrist,” Miko orders, his lips still pale and thin with anger.

“Power is not only in what we do, but in what we don’t do,” Anna quotes, calmly.

“Don’t use my own words against me.” Uncle Miko sounds stern, but I know him well enough to catch the hint of a smile on his face.

“Was there a problem?” my father asks, frowning.

“No,” Anna assures him. “Unless you consider an overprotective father to be a problem.”

My dad grins at Uncle Miko, “You shouldn’t have married such a pretty wife if you didn’t want beautiful daughters.”

“I know.” Miko frowns. “A serious strategic error.”

“Don’t let Seb tease you,” my mom says. “He’d be even worse if we had girls.”

She’s joking, but I hear the sadness in her voice. My parents wanted more kids. They tried for years and did four rounds of IVF. In the end they were given the extremely helpful diagnosis of “unexplained infertility.”

They had to be satisfied with me—the accidental pregnancy that was never followed by another.

“What should we do to celebrate?” my dad says, changing the subject swiftly and tactfully.

“We should go for dinner!” Aunt Nessa says. “Someplace fancy, to celebrate you champions.”

Anna and I exchange a quick glance.

It’s not that we don’t want to go for dinner with our parents. But there’s gonna be ten different ragers to celebrate the championship and the end of the school year.

Catching the look, my mom says, “Why don’t we all get ice cream, and then you two can meet up with your friends?”

“That sounds great.” Anna smiles. “Thanks, Aunt Yelena.”

“Have you been to Pie Cone?” my mom says, linking arms with Aunt Nessa. “All the ice cream is pie-flavored. Key lime pie, pumpkin pie, blackberry crumble . . .”

“Oh my god.” Nessa laughs. “You already sold me at ‘ice cream.’ ”