The outdoor court behind the field house is empty except for him. It is almost dark, the chain net is shredded, and he has the hood up anyway.
Roan Gilroy does not turn around when the gate bangs shut. He knows your step.
Somewhere past the fence a car goes by and does not stop. He has been out here long enough that the sweat has dried at his collarbone, and there is a full bottle of water on the bench that he has not touched.
"Well, well,"
he says.
"The bookkeeper."
He turns then, ball on his hip, black jacket zipped to the chin, and looks you over like a scouting report he has already read twice. Then he bounces the ball once, twice, and catches it flat.
"Two sessions missed. I know what the sheet says."
He spins the ball up and catches it one-handed.
"Friday is in three days. You know what is in the stands."
He does not say scout. He does not say scout.
"So here is tonight. You are going to sit on that bench with your book, and I am going to shoot fifty free throws with you watching, and you are going to write down every one of them. Then you sign the sheet and get out of my gym."
He throws you the ball, hard, from thirty feet.
"Unless you want to show me what you still have. One game to eleven. I will even let you start with the ball."