The Heir

They’re the two fastest guys on our team. Because the Wolverines are ru

Just like LeBron James, I’ve got the ball-handling skills to be a point guard, but I’m the biggest and the strongest, so I play power forward.

And just like LeBron, I’m not some fucking decoy. I win championships, end of story.

As the other players line up, I nod to Pellie.

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

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. Like a sprinter, I’ve got all my weight loaded on my back leg. I take off like a fucking rocket.

If the opposing point guards were back on defense, maybe they could try to block me. They’ve got some decent speed. But they had no idea what was about to happen. I blow past them before they can even blink.

The only people who could get in my way are a mile behind me now. The Wolverines have already lost, and they don’t even know it.

Change of pace is a mindfuck in basketball.

Change of strategy is even worse.

Only three guys stand between me and the hoop. They’re stammering on their feet, trying to set up some kind of defense, but they can’t understand what I’m doing. They didn’t expect anything like this.

Five seconds left. Four.

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

I’m going coast to coast like Da

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. This is no two-second inbounds shot. We had time to set up a play. That’s what they expected, a hundred percent.

This is reckless. Shocking. And fucking genius.

Their small forward is waiting for me at center court. The center and Bell, the power forward, are flanking the hoop.

I don’t slow down for a second—I can’t lose my momentum. I charge right at the small forward, and at the last second I juke around him.

Now I’ve got a choice: left or right.

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

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 go

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, he’s 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.

Right 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-wi

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 ru

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

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

“You know the Kentucky coach was here watching,” he says.

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 behind me.

I turn around.

A

“Hi, Uncle Seb. Hi, Aunt Yelena,” she says politely.

“Did you choreograph that dance, A

“I did most of it,” A

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?”

“A

“What boy?” Aunt Nessa asks.

“Nobody,” A

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

“Power is not only in what we do, but in what we don’t do,” A

“Don’t use my own words against me,” Uncle Miko says, but I can see the hint of a smile on his face.

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

“No,” A

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

“I know,” Uncle Miko says. “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 can 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 any other.

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