Last Shot by John Feinstein Read Free Book Online

“Well,” she finally said, “he
is
a Republican.”
    “I thought everyone from the South was a Republican.”
    “Oh yes, and we’re all good ole boys and Southern belles, too. I do declare, Steven Thomas, you are just full of misconceptions.” Susan Carol’s voice was dripping drawl.
    This girl was really starting to get on his nerves. Mostly because she was right so often.
    “Well, how lucky I am to have you to correct me then.”
    They had now reached the hallway that led to the locker rooms. There were signs directing people to the four team locker rooms and to just about every other place one might want to go. There was also a security guard very carefully checking credentials as people approached the hallway. The guard glanced at Susan Carol’s pass, nodded at her, and then put up a hand to stop Stevie.
    “Whoa, fella, this area’s restricted. Working media only.”
    Stevie looked down at the credential dangling around his neck. It was no different from the one Susan Carol was wearing or, for that matter, the ones that Dick Weiss and Bill Brill and all the other writers had been wearing. It had his name on it and “USBWA” and “media.” It was, he thought, pretty clear-cut.
    “I
am
working media,” Stevie said, pointing to the word on his credential and attempting to step around the guard so he could get this over with sooner rather than later. Susan Carol, a few steps ahead, had stopped and turned around to see what was going on.
    “Look, son, I don’t know where you got that pass or how, but if you don’t turn around and walk back in the other direction right now, I’ll put in a call to security and then whatever little game you’re playing will be over for the day. So get going.”
    Stevie felt himself flush with anger. His first thought was to ask why the guard had let Susan Carol pass and not him, but the answer was obvious: He looked thirteen; she could easily pass for eighteen. Before he could say something hewould undoubtedly regret, Susan Carol stepped up next to the guard and said, “Sir, I understand your confusion. But we’re both winners of the USBWA student writing contest.” She opened her notebook and pulled out a piece of paper that Stevie recognized as the letter informing them that they had won the contest.
    “Here’s the letter we got from the USBWA,” she said. “You see the two names? I’m Susan Carol Anderson and he’s Steven Thomas. You see what the letter says: that we’ll be fully accredited media at the Final Four.”
    The guard looked at the letter—Stevie was relieved when it became apparent that he knew how to read—then looked at the names on their credentials. He looked at Susan Carol again. “So you two are in high school then?” he said.
    “Junior high school,” Susan Carol said, smiling. Clearly this wasn’t the first time someone had mistaken her for older than thirteen. “We’re both eighth graders.”
    The guard was clearly put out by the whole thing. He handed the letter back to Susan Carol. “Okay, if they want to give passes to eighth graders, that’s their call. You can go on ahead.” He looked Stevie over again. “But don’t get in anyone’s way back there, understand?”
    “I think ‘I’m really sorry for accusing you of stealing’ was what you meant to say.”
    “Listen, kid, don’t get smart with me. I can throw you out of here, pass or no pass,” the guard said.
    Stevie was about to say something about the need for
one
of them to be smart, when Susan Carol grabbed him by thearm, practically shoving him in front of her and away from the glowering guard. “Thanks for your help,” she said, then gave Stevie an extra push to make sure he didn’t try to get in a final verbal swipe. Stevie stumbled but regained his balance before falling.
    “What was that about?” he said as she pulled up even with him, one hand on his back to keep him moving forward.
    “That was about avoiding trouble,” she hissed. “Is it a guy