Keeping Score (Brooklyn Monarchs 3)

Jamal, a nineteen-year-old rookie with an attitude, curled his lip. The starting shooting guard’s six-foot-four-inch wiry body seemed covered in ink. “Man, that old guy can’t get past me.”

DeMarcus jerked his head toward Warrick. “Rick is older than Burress, and he’s already gotten past you three times this morning.”

Warrick searched his coach’s expression. Did DeMarcus think he was too old to start? At thirty-four, his age was the reason he had to prove himself with every game, every practice. But DeMarcus, a former NBA three-time Most Valuable Player, had stayed in the league until he was older than Warrick was now.

Jamal cocked a hip. “I’ll turn it on for the game.”

Snickers and groans echoed around the practice court. Hadn’t Jamal learned anything this season? If the rookie guard didn’t change his attitude, it was going to be a long seven-game series.

“Turn it on now.” DeMarcus’s words were sharp with impatience. “I played with Burress on the Waves for almost ten seasons. He’s going to take every advantage you have over him and turn it against you. And he’ll take every advantage he has over you and bury you with it.”

Jamal held up his arms. “I got this, Coach.”

DeMarcus raised his right hand for the ball.

Serge Gateau, the Monarchs’ six-foot-ten starting forward, lobbed it to him. The Frenchman from Lourdes wore his dark blond hair pulled straight back in a shoulder-length ponytail. His lean square features were clean-shaven, his blue eyes sharp.

DeMarcus pressed his clipboard against Jamal’s chest. “Take a seat and watch how it’s done. I’ll guard Rick while he plays Burress.”

Jamal took the clipboard. “Why can’t I be Burress?”

Vincent Jardine, the team’s center, chuckled. “You can’t even play Jamal.”

Jamal glowered at the other man. “Shut up.”

DeMarcus spoke over his shoulder. “Rick does a better Burress than Burress. Sit down.”

Warrick watched Jamal trudge off the court. His sneakers squeaked against the gleaming hardwood floor as he crossed the practice facility to stand sulking on the sideline. Would they ever get through to the rookie? Almost a year ago, Jamal had left Michigan State University after his freshman year. One and done. Now, at the age of nineteen, he had a seven-figure contract with the Monarchs. He had the skills, the payday, and the job. When would he get the maturity?

DeMarcus blew his whistle, a wordless command for the team’s full attention. He heaved the ball at Warrick. “Show me what you’ve got.”

Warrick caught the basketball at chest level. Hadn’t he been doing that all season? What more was his coach looking for? Warrick dribbled the ball while he considered his next move. He was Marlon Burress playing against his longtime teammate and fellow future hall-of-famer. What would Burress do? Warrick got into character, giving DeMarcus a small, taunting smile. His coach’s eyes widened, then narrowed. Warrick feinted right, then spun left, switching the ball to his left hand.

DeMarcus moved to Warrick’s left. He gestured toward point guard Darius Williams, a bench player wearing the starters’ black jersey. “Box him in.”

Darius crowded Warrick on his right, blocking his access to the paint. The bench players swarmed the perimeter in a ring of white jerseys. The starters clad in black covered them. With Warrick double teamed, one of the white jerseys was left undefended. Warrick exchanged a look with Roger Harris, his open teammate. A split second of silent communication.

Get ready.

Warrick heaved the ball into the open lane. Roger snatched it from the air and slammed it into the basket. Two points.

Adrenaline rushed through Warrick. He clenched a fist. From the sideline, Jamal cheered. Warrick turned to jog back up the court. The sound of DeMarcus’s whistle brought him up short.

DeMarcus stood with his hands on his hips and a reluctant smile easing his expression. “I didn’t see that coming.”

Warrick faced his coach. “You thought Burress would take it in.”

DeMarcus chuckled. “He usually does.”

Warrick wiped sweat from his brow. “That’s why he would’ve passed.”

Jamal ran onto the court and stopped beside DeMarcus. “In your face! In your face!”

DeMarcus gave the younger man a look that humbled him. Jamal joined the other starters.

Oscar Clemente, the Monarchs’ first assistant head coach, drew nearer. His intense dark eyes gleamed. “You beat him with your mind.”

Warrick nodded. “Burress plays smart as well as hard. If he’s up against someone who knows his moves, he’ll do something unexpected.”