Fast Break (Brooklyn Monarchs 1)

He followed the action on the court. The Monarchs ran through the defensive strategy he and his coaching staff had planned for Friday’s match against the Wizards in D.C. There were only two games left in February before they turned the calendar to March. Every one was critical. The starters—Jamal, Barron, Anthony, Serge and Vincent—wore silver T-shirts and black shorts. Warrick wore the black running shorts and matching T-shirt that identified him with the bench players on offense. Warrick did a better-than-credible impersonation of Gilbert Arenas, the Wizards’ veteran guard. Jamal wasn’t able to defend him.

DeMarcus crossed his arms over his chest. “They can’t be worried about the Wizards. We beat them on their home court last month.”

Oscar grunted. “The Wizards aren’t better than us.”

DeMarcus ignored Oscar’s division rivalry smack talk and gestured toward the court. “Then what’s the problem?”

“The rookie. He draws more fouls than flies are drawn to—”

DeMarcus raised his voice to be heard above the squeaking sneakers and thumping ball. “Jamal, check Rick. Don’t hug him.” He looked toward Oscar. “As often as I’ve had to repeat that, I should have a T-shirt made.”

Warrick circled to Jamal’s left, keeping the ball out of the rookie’s reach. He was toying with the younger player.

Instead of moving back, Jamal pressed closer. “The old man can’t handle my pressure.” The younger man’s voice was short of breath and edged with anger.

“I can take the pressure.” Warrick’s tone was cool and controlled. “The team doesn’t need you to foul.” He stepped back behind the three-point perimeter and sank a basket.

DeMarcus narrowed his eyes. Was the benched veteran finally getting his game back? He glanced at Oscar. “Jamal’s a pain in the ass, but he can score.”

“He disrupts the team.”

“He’s brought the team together.”

“Together against him. That’s unhealthy.”

“We have a winning record. It can’t be unhealthy.” DeMarcus brought his attention back to the court in time to see Warrick steal the ball from Serge and heave it to the member of his practice squad closest to the paint. That player, a back-up center, turned and slammed the ball into the net.

DeMarcus shook his head. “Our bench players are up eight points against our starters.”

“They’re not tight.”

After a series of plays, the starters took a small and tenuous lead. Warrick remained cool and in control. But Jamal’s game reflected his increasing agitation.

Warrick was dribbling the ball well outside of the three-point perimeter, biding his time until a teammate came open. Jamal’s arm came across the veteran player from behind in a move guarante

ed to earn the rookie a foul and send Warrick to the free-throw line during a real game. DeMarcus brought the whistle to his mouth, preparing to stop the game. He hesitated as Warrick dodged free, bringing the ball with him. Smooth move.

DeMarcus ran a hand over his close-cropped hair. His tone snapped. “Jamal, play the ball, not your man.”

Jamal’s anger was palpable as he crowded Warrick again. “I’m sending Grandpa back to the bench.”

DeMarcus clenched his teeth. “I said play the ball.”

Warrick kept the ball out of Jamal’s reach. “All of your fancy moves won’t mean anything if you can’t stay out of foul trouble. Work on your defense—and your temper.”

Jamal sneered. “You’re washed up, old man.”

DeMarcus blew his whistle. “All right. Bring it in.” His voice was sharp as the players gathered around him and Oscar. “Jamal, you’re a good shooter.”

Jamal swiped sweat from his brow. “Damn right, I am.”

DeMarcus narrowed his eyes on Jamal. “But because you keep sending our opponents to the foul line, your teammates have to work harder and shoot more to stay in the game. You can’t make those mistakes and expect to get to the play-offs.”

“I can handle it.” Insecurity lay beneath Jamal’s cocky smile.

Anthony Chambers gave Jamal a hard look. “You’d better pray on that, brother. The truth will set you free.”

Jamal glowered at Anthony. “What truth is that, St. Anthony?”