After the Shot Drops: Chapters 21–38

“You’re too modest, Bunny Thompson,” Coach J says, laughing.

I take a deep breath like I’m about to plunge into a churning ocean, and then head inside.

More accurately, he looks like he’s pleading, gesturing wildly with his hands. The other dude stands there as impassive as a mountain, muscular arms folded over a barrel chest, looking like his patience is running real thin.

“Hey!” he says, pulling his foot away and casting a condescending gaze at me.

...I move to rejoin the exodus to wait for Wallace outside.

I peek over at Keyona to spot a flash of dismay on her face before she regains her composure.

I peek over at Keyona to spot a flash of dismay on her face before she regains her composure.

Bunny makes eye contact with us and shrugs like he’s some benevolent king obligated to fulfill unpleasant duties.

Then I remember the other day when he wanted to go to Bunny’s game. The rear door in Justin’s bodega that he disappeared through.

When we exit off the highway back into Whitman, I’m still roiling with anger that Wallace was dumb enough to get himself into this mess and because of what I’m about to say next—especially since Bunny and I were starting to smooth things over.

“You probably didn’t expect this,” he says.
“Understatement of the year.”

And I can tell by his face that he's taken aback I’m not acting all happy and grateful about this news.

“So you need to trust me when I say it’s really not feasible anymore. We’ve been running on fumes for a long time.”

The Washington players hang their heads and make a beeline for their locker room soon as the clock runs down.

Everything is so neat and clean and new. Perfect corners. Unmarred walls.

The circulation desk sits in the middle of the room like a command center, surrounded by shelves and shelves of neatly arranged books. There are couches, tables, study carrels, plants, computers, and an aquarium.

I stroll away from Bunny and start perusing the shelves.

I know I should be prodding for more information about how St. S recruited him exactly, or what kind of gear they’re hooking him up with specifically.

On the TV, Grover’s using his weird, garbled voice to run through words that begin with F.

There’s a lull in the conversation.

“The state needs to do its due diligence.”

I also know this whole arrangement isn’t as altruistic as he’s trying to make it sound.

I always suspected that not everything going on here has been aboveboard. I don’t know exactly what we’re doing wrong besides the thing with Nasir, but I know that if there was nothing else the investigation could possibly uncover, he would have said that straight up.

“Also,” he says, “refrain from accepting any gifts. For example, if a store tries to offer you a free shirt, or if a restaurant wants to pay for your meal, if someone offers you free tickets to anything—decline. Do not accept anything. Do you understand?”

I pull the trigger the moment the Nazi zombie shambles out of the darkness and into my crosshairs.

My consciousness fades as the pack of Third Reich zombies feasts on my innards.

Wallace couldn’t find anything incriminating, so he got creative and sent a fake email to himself from Bunny’s account, claiming St. Sebastian’s is paying him to play, and then he forwarded it to the director of the NJSIAA and to the paper’s sportswriter.

There’s nothing except a couple more harsh texts from Keyona from over an hour ago. I clear them from my notifications and reread the barrage she sent me earlier.

“Tonight was a fluke,” I say. “No way they’ll win the next one without him.”

“And if they do, you can move to Russia. I hear they have pretty favorable extradition laws.”