“It’s okay. I hope I didn’t get you into too much trouble,” she says, sounding like she’s already forgiven me.

I relax my arm back down by my side.

“I can’t believe your coach made you sit out the game. He seems like a real asshole.”

Her criticism of Coach stings, but I say, “Nah, he’s cool. Just trying to make sure I stay focused, that’s all.” I don’t tell her that Coach comes up to the school every morning at five thirty a.m. to open the gym for me. I don’t tell her that he’s always studying my game so he can help pinpoint areas that need improvement. I definitely don’t tell her that he believes in me. Or that his belief in me often makes me wish that I was his son.

Meanwhile, I haven’t seen my real father since last week. I literally have not seen him or any evidence of him. The house hasn’t even been cold. But telling her that my coaches have always been the closest thing I’ve had to a dad is out of the question.

“But he was all up in your face. I mean, was it that serious? Your game wasn’t even close to starting.”

I roll over on my side and stare out of my sliding-glass doors. The moon is bright in the sky and lights up the tops of the pine trees. “Nah, it’s only that the playoffs are so close. And he knows how many scouts will be there.”

“So what’s your top school?”

“Man, I don’t even know. I just wanna go somewhere I can shine for a year. I’m trying to be one-and-done.”

“Dang, big baller!” she says, her voice smiling at me hard through the phone, making me feel like I’ve already made it. “When you get to the NBA, you better not start acting brand-new!”

“First of all, brand-new? Nah, never that. And secondly, the statistical chances of me going to the league at all is about .03 percent, like three in every ten thousand dudes. So I’m not bettin’ on it or anything,” I tell Carli. But really, I’m all but bettin’ on it. I already know what team I want to play for. And no, it’s not Los Angeles. I’m thinking San Antonio. Gregg Popovich’s teams always seem like a family.

“Boy, don’t play modest with me. You are not the average player. And you still have another year.”

She’s making me feel so good it’s embarrassing. “But what about you? Don’t you have dreams of playing in the league one day?” I ask to get the attention off of me. “I bet the top schools are already sending you letters. And you know they’ll all be coming to the playoffs to see you in a few weeks, big baller!”

Carli goes quiet.