Fast Break (Brooklyn Monarchs 1)

“Heck, no, kid.” Sanford winked. “It was all about you. Good luck.”

Jaclyn thanked the lawyers again before leading Violet and Albert from the conference room. Waiting for the elevator, she gave Violet a high five. “OK, partner. Let’s see if we can put that business degree of yours back to work.”

Violet laughed. “I’m so excited. I feel like I’ve got my game back.”

“I’m . . . indescribably relieved.” Jaclyn found Albert’s gaze. “But then a part of me is afraid I’ve beat the play clock buzzer only to send the game into overtime.”

Albert nodded. “That’s a good analogy. You’ve kept the team in Brooklyn. Enjoy that. But remember Gerry will just try to find another way to destroy the team.”

Violet frowned. “Why is he so determined to hurt the Monarchs? It’s his family’s legacy as much as it’s yours.”

Jaclyn looked at her former teammate and new arena partner. “He doesn’t think so.” She turned to Albert. “I guess I’ll be looking over my shoulder a little while longer.”

“Is this about the plays again?” Jamal lowered himself into the chair on the opposite side of DeMarcus’s conversation table.

The rookie’s Allen Iverson basketball jersey revealed the tattoos down his arms. He’d noticed Jamal’s ink before, but he hadn’t paid much attention to them. He’d been distracted by the shooting guard’s apparent lack of interest in the Monarchs’ playbook.

Most of the designs were team logos and numbers of some of the NBA’s greatest players—the Los Angeles Lakers’ Earvin “Magic” Johnson, the Chicago Bulls’ Michael “Air” Jordan, and the Philadelphia 76ers’ Allen “AI” Iverson.

DeMarcus sensed Jamal’s defensiveness. He had to remember this kid was just out of college. He’d left after his freshman year. He was a lot younger—and somewhat less mature—than the rest of the team. “Let’s approach it differently. What do you think you need to be more successful on the court?”

This bonding thing was a lot easier the second time. Or maybe it just seemed less awkward with Jamal. For all his aggressiveness on the court, the rookie wasn’t as confrontational as Barron.

Jamal seemed baffled. “I am successful on the court.”

DeMarcus narrowed his eyes. Maybe they needed to start with the basics. “How do you define success?”

Jamal braced his forearms on the table and leaned across its surface. “Every game, I strap the team to my back. Then, I go out there and give the fans everything I’ve got. To me, that’s success.”

“What about winning?”

Jamal pressed his back against the chair. A look of surprise settled on his face. “I can’t do it all myself. Those other guys need to step it up.”

DeMarcus frowned. It wasn’t just him. Anyone would be confused. “Which one is it, Jamal? Do you put the team on your back and do it all yourself? Or do you play as part of a team?”

Jamal briefly dipped his gaze to the table. “Both?”

Was the rookie asking him or telling him? “Do you know how I define success?”

“How?”

“Winning.” DeMarcus held the younger man’s gaze and willed him to understand. “What do you need to be a more consistent winner?”

Jamal’s eyes searched the office. DeMarcus followed the younger man’s gaze to his MVP trophies, and his championship rings and Olympic gold medal set in cases on his bookshelf. He could guess at the player’s thoughts, and he’d probably be right. How long would he have to wait before he could have one of those? Every rookie wanted to know that.

Jamal’s dark brown eyes clouded. “I am a winner.”

“No, you’re not. Not yet.” DeMarcus didn’t want to crush the kid’s ego, but tough love was kinder in the long run. “Winning comes with practice and with discipline. You have to prepare for the games. You can’t just step onto the court.”

“Are we talking about practice, man?”

DeMarcus scowled. Did Jamal realize he was parroting the tough and talented—but undisciplined—Allen Iverson’s infamous quote? Was the rookie’s identity crisis cause for concern?

“You’re not Allen Iverson.” DeMarcus glanced at the other tattoos on the rookie’s arms. “You’re not Michael Jordan or Kobe Bryant, either. You’re Jamal Ward. Put in the practice time.”

Jamal pushed away from the table and got to his full six-foot-five-inch height. “I was drafted my freshman year. I took my team to the NCAA championship.”

DeMarcus lifted his eyes to meet Jamal’s. “That’s a great accomplishment. But you didn’t do it by yourself. You were part of a team, just like you’re part of a team now.”