Turning Point 12
The trophy sat in the bottom of Dex's duffel bag, wrapped in a stained towel, and it might as well have been radioactive. The girls knew it was there. They kept glancing at the bag like it might bite them, and Rio was the only one who looked at it like she wanted to open it and hold it herself.
Practice had been quiet. Not the good kind of quiet—the kind where everyone's thinking too hard and the ball sounds louder than it should. Dex ran them through the ghost press for the fourth time, and they moved through it like they were underwater. Sloppy. Hesitant. He couldn't blame them. He'd just told six teenage girls that a dead man was living in his head, and they'd believed him. That was a lot to ask of anyone.
"Again," he said, clapping his hands. "From the top. Rio, you're late on the trap."
"I'm not late," Rio said. "I'm waiting for the pass to commit."
"The pass commits when you pressure the ball. You're giving her a lane. Marcus never gave anyone a lane."
"How do you know what Marcus did?"
Dex stopped. The question hung in the air, and he realized he didn't have an answer that didn't sound insane. He knew because he'd seen it. He'd seen Marcus's hands move, felt the ghost's instincts fire through his own dead nerves. He knew what Marcus would do on a basketball court better than he knew what he himself would do in a grocery store.
"I just know," he said.
Rio nodded like that made sense. She was the only one who could accept an answer like that, and Dex was starting to understand why. She'd seen something in his eyes during the scrimmage. She'd told him so. Whatever she'd witnessed, it had made her a believer.
The gym door creaked open, and Dex turned to see who it was. The afternoon light cut a long shadow across the warped floorboards, and for a second, Dex's heart seized. He thought it was the ghost. But the figure that stepped into the light was solid, broad-shouldered, and wearing a red windbreaker that had to be older than the girls on the team.
Coach Harlan Briggs.
He stood in the doorway like he owned the place, which he almost did. Harlan had been the athletic director at Meridian High for twenty years before he retired, and he still acted like every gym in town was his living room. He had a whistle around his neck and a smile on his face that didn't reach his eyes.
"Calloway," he said, nodding. "Heard you've been working these girls hard."
Dex felt the air leave the room. The girls had stopped moving, all of them watching the exchange like it was a car wreck happening in slow motion. Rio had the ball tucked under her arm, and her eyes were narrow, calculating.
"Harlan," Dex said. "Didn't expect a visit."
"Just passing through." Harlan walked onto the court, his footsteps echoing in the empty gym. He stopped at the free-throw line and looked up at the banners hanging from the rafters. The 1984 state championship banner was still there, faded and frayed at the edges. "This place brings back memories."
"I bet it does."
Harlan turned, and his smile tightened. "I heard you've been asking questions about Marcus Webb."
The name landed like a punch. Dex felt it in his gut, and he saw Rio's head snap up from the corner of his eye. The other girls exchanged glances, but they didn't know the name. They didn't know what it meant.
"I've heard the name," Dex said carefully.
"Old story," Harlan said. "Kid ran off after the championship. Never came back. Happens sometimes. Small towns eat people alive."
"That's not what I heard."
Harlan's smile didn't move, but something behind his eyes shifted. A door closing. A lock turning. "What did you hear?"
Dex could feel the ghost stirring in the back of his skull. It was like a pressure building behind his eyes, a static hum that made his teeth ache. He'd been having blackouts for weeks, but this was different. This was the ghost trying to push through, trying to speak.
"I heard he didn't run," Dex said.
The silence stretched. The girls had stopped pretending to practice. They were all watching now, frozen in place like deer in headlights. Harlan's hand went to his whistle, turning it over in his fingers.
"That's a serious accusation," Harlan said.
"I'm not accusing anyone of anything. I'm just saying what I heard."
Harlan laughed, but it was hollow. "You know how rumors get started. A kid goes missing, people talk. They need someone to blame. It's easier than accepting that some people just leave."
"Marcus Webb didn't seem like the type to leave."
"You didn't know him."
"No," Dex said. "But I'm getting to."
The pressure in his skull spiked, and Dex felt his knees buckle. He caught himself on the scorer's table, gripping the edge until his knuckles went white. The gym swam in front of him, the lights bleeding into streaks of white and yellow. He could smell cigar smoke. He could hear a crowd roaring.
And then he was somewhere else.
The locker room was cold, the tiles slick with water. Marcus Webb stood in the corner, blood running from a cut above his eye, his jersey torn at the shoulder. Harlan was in front of him, younger, leaner, his face twisted with rage. The trophy was on the floor between them, knocked over, the basketball player's arm snapped off.
"You can't do this," Marcus said. "You can't just bury it."
"I can," Harlan said. "I already did."
"People will find out."
"People will believe what I tell them. And I'll tell them you ran. I'll tell them you had a gambling problem and you owed the wrong people money. I'll tell them you took off in the middle of the night and never looked back."
Marcus laughed, but it was bitter. "You think anyone's gonna believe that?"
"I think they'll believe whatever they need to believe. That's how this town works. You know that better than anyone."
The trophy was on the floor. Harlan picked it up, his fingers wrapping around the base. The metal gleamed under the fluorescent lights. Marcus took a step back, his hands up.
"Harlan, don't."
"You should've kept your mouth shut."
"Harlan—"
The trophy swung. Dex felt the impact like it was his own skull cracking, a white-hot flash of pain that shot through his entire body. He heard Marcus grunt, heard the sound of his body hitting the tile, heard the wet, horrible sound of his head connecting with the floor.
And then he was back in the gym, on his knees, gasping for air.
Rio was there, her hand on his shoulder. "Dex. Dex, you with me?"
He nodded, but he couldn't speak. His throat was raw, like he'd been screaming. The taste of copper was back in his mouth, and when he looked down at his hands, he saw fresh blood on his palms. Not his own. Marcus's.
Harlan was still standing at the free-throw line, watching him with an expression that was impossible to read. His face had gone pale, and his hands were shaking slightly at his sides.
"You okay there, Calloway?" he asked.
Dex forced himself to stand. His legs were unsteady, but he made it. He wiped his hands on his shorts, smearing the blood into the fabric. "Fine. Just a dizzy spell."
Harlan didn't look convinced. He looked like a man who'd just seen something he recognized. Something he'd hoped was buried.
"I came here to offer you something," Harlan said. "A friendly scrimmage. My boys against your girls. Give the town something to talk about."
Dex stared at him. The offer was so out of nowhere, so transparently calculated, that he almost laughed. Harlan wasn't offering a scrimmage. He was offering a warning. A chance to see how deep the water went before he decided whether to swim.
"Why?" Dex asked.
Harlan shrugged. "The town's been talking about your girls. They're winning games. People are starting to pay attention. I figured it'd be good for morale. A little competition."
"Your team is ranked third in the state."
"Exactly. It'll be a good test."
Dex could feel the ghost pressing against the inside of his skull, pushing, straining. It wanted something. It wanted to be heard. And Dex realized, with a cold certainty, that this was it. This was the moment the loop had been building toward.
"Fine," Dex said. "We'll play."
Harlan's smile widened, and for a second, Dex saw something else in his eyes. Fear. It was there and gone, buried under years of practiced confidence, but it was real. Harlan was afraid.
"Saturday," Harlan said. "Three o'clock. I'll bring my boys."
He turned and walked out of the gym without another word. The door swung shut behind him, and the silence that followed was deafening.
Rio was at Dex's side in an instant. "What the hell was that?"
"That was a trap," Dex said.
"Then why did you say yes?"
Dex looked at her. His hands were still shaking, and he could feel the ghost's presence receding, like a tide pulling back from the shore. But it had left something behind. A piece of the puzzle. A name.
"Because I need to see him play," Dex said. "I need to see if he still runs the same plays."
Rio frowned. "What plays?"
Dex didn't answer. He walked over to his duffel bag and unzipped it, pulling out the trophy wrapped in its towel. The metal was warm now, almost hot, like it had been sitting in the sun. He unwrapped it and held it up, watching the light catch the figure on top.
The basketball player. Arm extended. Fingers pointing at the rim.
"Marcus ran a play," Dex said. "A full-court press that trapped the ball handler in the corner. It was his signature. He called it the Requiem."
"The Requiem," Rio repeated.
"It means a mass for the dead. Marcus used to say it was called that because it ended games. But I think he knew. I think he knew it would be his last play."
Rio was quiet for a long moment. Then she said, "We need a name."
"For what?"
"For us. The team. If we're gonna play for Marcus, we need to be more than just the Lady Vipers. We need to be something."
Dex looked at the trophy in his hands. The dried blood was still there, dark and crusted in the crevices of the metal. He thought about Marcus, about the kid who'd been buried under the floorboards for forty years, about the game that had never been finished.
"Marcus's Girls," he said.
Rio nodded slowly. "Marcus's Girls."
The other girls had gathered around, watching. They didn't know the full story, but they knew enough. They knew they were playing for something bigger than a state championship.
"Saturday," Dex said. "We play Harlan's team. And we win."
"How?" Rio asked. "They're bigger, faster, and meaner than us."
"We run the Requiem," Dex said. "And we don't stop running it until the game's over."
He put the trophy back in the duffel bag and zipped it shut. The ghost was quiet now, but Dex could feel it waiting. Watching. It had shown him the truth, and now it was waiting to see what he would do with it.
The answer was simple.
He would finish the game.
Practice had been quiet. Not the good kind of quiet—the kind where everyone's thinking too hard and the ball sounds louder than it should. Dex ran them through the ghost press for the fourth time, and they moved through it like they were underwater. Sloppy. Hesitant. He couldn't blame them. He'd just told six teenage girls that a dead man was living in his head, and they'd believed him. That was a lot to ask of anyone.
"Again," he said, clapping his hands. "From the top. Rio, you're late on the trap."
"I'm not late," Rio said. "I'm waiting for the pass to commit."
"The pass commits when you pressure the ball. You're giving her a lane. Marcus never gave anyone a lane."
"How do you know what Marcus did?"
Dex stopped. The question hung in the air, and he realized he didn't have an answer that didn't sound insane. He knew because he'd seen it. He'd seen Marcus's hands move, felt the ghost's instincts fire through his own dead nerves. He knew what Marcus would do on a basketball court better than he knew what he himself would do in a grocery store.
"I just know," he said.
Rio nodded like that made sense. She was the only one who could accept an answer like that, and Dex was starting to understand why. She'd seen something in his eyes during the scrimmage. She'd told him so. Whatever she'd witnessed, it had made her a believer.
The gym door creaked open, and Dex turned to see who it was. The afternoon light cut a long shadow across the warped floorboards, and for a second, Dex's heart seized. He thought it was the ghost. But the figure that stepped into the light was solid, broad-shouldered, and wearing a red windbreaker that had to be older than the girls on the team.
Coach Harlan Briggs.
He stood in the doorway like he owned the place, which he almost did. Harlan had been the athletic director at Meridian High for twenty years before he retired, and he still acted like every gym in town was his living room. He had a whistle around his neck and a smile on his face that didn't reach his eyes.
"Calloway," he said, nodding. "Heard you've been working these girls hard."
Dex felt the air leave the room. The girls had stopped moving, all of them watching the exchange like it was a car wreck happening in slow motion. Rio had the ball tucked under her arm, and her eyes were narrow, calculating.
"Harlan," Dex said. "Didn't expect a visit."
"Just passing through." Harlan walked onto the court, his footsteps echoing in the empty gym. He stopped at the free-throw line and looked up at the banners hanging from the rafters. The 1984 state championship banner was still there, faded and frayed at the edges. "This place brings back memories."
"I bet it does."
Harlan turned, and his smile tightened. "I heard you've been asking questions about Marcus Webb."
The name landed like a punch. Dex felt it in his gut, and he saw Rio's head snap up from the corner of his eye. The other girls exchanged glances, but they didn't know the name. They didn't know what it meant.
"I've heard the name," Dex said carefully.
"Old story," Harlan said. "Kid ran off after the championship. Never came back. Happens sometimes. Small towns eat people alive."
"That's not what I heard."
Harlan's smile didn't move, but something behind his eyes shifted. A door closing. A lock turning. "What did you hear?"
Dex could feel the ghost stirring in the back of his skull. It was like a pressure building behind his eyes, a static hum that made his teeth ache. He'd been having blackouts for weeks, but this was different. This was the ghost trying to push through, trying to speak.
"I heard he didn't run," Dex said.
The silence stretched. The girls had stopped pretending to practice. They were all watching now, frozen in place like deer in headlights. Harlan's hand went to his whistle, turning it over in his fingers.
"That's a serious accusation," Harlan said.
"I'm not accusing anyone of anything. I'm just saying what I heard."
Harlan laughed, but it was hollow. "You know how rumors get started. A kid goes missing, people talk. They need someone to blame. It's easier than accepting that some people just leave."
"Marcus Webb didn't seem like the type to leave."
"You didn't know him."
"No," Dex said. "But I'm getting to."
The pressure in his skull spiked, and Dex felt his knees buckle. He caught himself on the scorer's table, gripping the edge until his knuckles went white. The gym swam in front of him, the lights bleeding into streaks of white and yellow. He could smell cigar smoke. He could hear a crowd roaring.
And then he was somewhere else.
The locker room was cold, the tiles slick with water. Marcus Webb stood in the corner, blood running from a cut above his eye, his jersey torn at the shoulder. Harlan was in front of him, younger, leaner, his face twisted with rage. The trophy was on the floor between them, knocked over, the basketball player's arm snapped off.
"You can't do this," Marcus said. "You can't just bury it."
"I can," Harlan said. "I already did."
"People will find out."
"People will believe what I tell them. And I'll tell them you ran. I'll tell them you had a gambling problem and you owed the wrong people money. I'll tell them you took off in the middle of the night and never looked back."
Marcus laughed, but it was bitter. "You think anyone's gonna believe that?"
"I think they'll believe whatever they need to believe. That's how this town works. You know that better than anyone."
The trophy was on the floor. Harlan picked it up, his fingers wrapping around the base. The metal gleamed under the fluorescent lights. Marcus took a step back, his hands up.
"Harlan, don't."
"You should've kept your mouth shut."
"Harlan—"
The trophy swung. Dex felt the impact like it was his own skull cracking, a white-hot flash of pain that shot through his entire body. He heard Marcus grunt, heard the sound of his body hitting the tile, heard the wet, horrible sound of his head connecting with the floor.
And then he was back in the gym, on his knees, gasping for air.
Rio was there, her hand on his shoulder. "Dex. Dex, you with me?"
He nodded, but he couldn't speak. His throat was raw, like he'd been screaming. The taste of copper was back in his mouth, and when he looked down at his hands, he saw fresh blood on his palms. Not his own. Marcus's.
Harlan was still standing at the free-throw line, watching him with an expression that was impossible to read. His face had gone pale, and his hands were shaking slightly at his sides.
"You okay there, Calloway?" he asked.
Dex forced himself to stand. His legs were unsteady, but he made it. He wiped his hands on his shorts, smearing the blood into the fabric. "Fine. Just a dizzy spell."
Harlan didn't look convinced. He looked like a man who'd just seen something he recognized. Something he'd hoped was buried.
"I came here to offer you something," Harlan said. "A friendly scrimmage. My boys against your girls. Give the town something to talk about."
Dex stared at him. The offer was so out of nowhere, so transparently calculated, that he almost laughed. Harlan wasn't offering a scrimmage. He was offering a warning. A chance to see how deep the water went before he decided whether to swim.
"Why?" Dex asked.
Harlan shrugged. "The town's been talking about your girls. They're winning games. People are starting to pay attention. I figured it'd be good for morale. A little competition."
"Your team is ranked third in the state."
"Exactly. It'll be a good test."
Dex could feel the ghost pressing against the inside of his skull, pushing, straining. It wanted something. It wanted to be heard. And Dex realized, with a cold certainty, that this was it. This was the moment the loop had been building toward.
"Fine," Dex said. "We'll play."
Harlan's smile widened, and for a second, Dex saw something else in his eyes. Fear. It was there and gone, buried under years of practiced confidence, but it was real. Harlan was afraid.
"Saturday," Harlan said. "Three o'clock. I'll bring my boys."
He turned and walked out of the gym without another word. The door swung shut behind him, and the silence that followed was deafening.
Rio was at Dex's side in an instant. "What the hell was that?"
"That was a trap," Dex said.
"Then why did you say yes?"
Dex looked at her. His hands were still shaking, and he could feel the ghost's presence receding, like a tide pulling back from the shore. But it had left something behind. A piece of the puzzle. A name.
"Because I need to see him play," Dex said. "I need to see if he still runs the same plays."
Rio frowned. "What plays?"
Dex didn't answer. He walked over to his duffel bag and unzipped it, pulling out the trophy wrapped in its towel. The metal was warm now, almost hot, like it had been sitting in the sun. He unwrapped it and held it up, watching the light catch the figure on top.
The basketball player. Arm extended. Fingers pointing at the rim.
"Marcus ran a play," Dex said. "A full-court press that trapped the ball handler in the corner. It was his signature. He called it the Requiem."
"The Requiem," Rio repeated.
"It means a mass for the dead. Marcus used to say it was called that because it ended games. But I think he knew. I think he knew it would be his last play."
Rio was quiet for a long moment. Then she said, "We need a name."
"For what?"
"For us. The team. If we're gonna play for Marcus, we need to be more than just the Lady Vipers. We need to be something."
Dex looked at the trophy in his hands. The dried blood was still there, dark and crusted in the crevices of the metal. He thought about Marcus, about the kid who'd been buried under the floorboards for forty years, about the game that had never been finished.
"Marcus's Girls," he said.
Rio nodded slowly. "Marcus's Girls."
The other girls had gathered around, watching. They didn't know the full story, but they knew enough. They knew they were playing for something bigger than a state championship.
"Saturday," Dex said. "We play Harlan's team. And we win."
"How?" Rio asked. "They're bigger, faster, and meaner than us."
"We run the Requiem," Dex said. "And we don't stop running it until the game's over."
He put the trophy back in the duffel bag and zipped it shut. The ghost was quiet now, but Dex could feel it waiting. Watching. It had shown him the truth, and now it was waiting to see what he would do with it.
The answer was simple.
He would finish the game.