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The Monarchs were too quiet. Two months into the season, they still played like five individuals instead of a team.
“Talk to each other.” DeMarcus clapped his hands until they stung.
Bibby sent the ball down the open lane opposite Anthony. His teammate Williams snatched it. Unable to shake Anthony, Williams passed to Collins. Collins handed off to Smith. Smith side stepped Jamal. He backed out of the perimeter and arched the ball over the rookie. Three points. The Hawks cut the lead to 97, 96. Fifty-two seconds remained in the fourth quarter.
DeMarcus thought his eyes would bleed. “Move. Set up. Move. Move.”
Jamal ignored the order to sprint across the court.
Warrick ran from the bench to pace Jamal along the sideline. “Be aggressive, Jamal. Pressure your man.”
Jamal scowled at the veteran as he ran past. “Sit down, Grandpa.”
DeMarcus frowned at Warrick. Why was he coaching the rookie who was after his job? He’d benched the veteran in the middle of the third quarter. Warrick wouldn’t take shots and Jamal wouldn’t pass the ball. DeMarcus scrubbed his hands over his face. If he could combine the two players, maybe the team would get a win.
Vincent plucked the ball from the Hawks’ post and dribbled three steps before tossing it to Barron. Barron took the ball to the perimeter, slowing the Hawks’ frantic pace.
The game clock read forty-five seconds and counting. The shot clock flashed seventeen seconds. The arena’s chant of “Defense!” build to a crescendo.
The Monarchs set up their positions, drawing their defenders with them. Vincent took the post as the Hawks’ Collins guarded him. Anthony was ready in the paint. The Hawks’ Williams defended him. Jamal and Serge had opposite perimeters with the Hawks’ Smith and Horford, respectively. Barron charged the post, braving the triangle defense. Bibby moved in for the block. Two seconds on the shot clock. Barron carried the lay up over Bibby’s head. Williams slapped the shot away—but not before it touched the rim. Loose ball. Serge and Anthony moved in for the rebound. Thirty-one seconds on the game clock. The shot clock started fresh.
The Hawks’ Horford snatched the ball away. DeMarcus tensed. The Atlanta forward prepared to sprint the length of the court. He seemed focused on the Hawks’ net and the two-point shot that would give his team the win with less than thirty seconds to the game.
DeMarcus cupped his mouth and shouted over the crowd’s deafening screams. “Get after him. Quick! Quick!”
But Vincent was already giving chase. The Monarchs’ center extended his left arm. With a twist of his wrist, he stole the ball from the Hawks’ veteran. Vincent pivoted, dribbling twice. The game clock drained to six. Five. Four. At half court, he made a no-look pass to Jamal. The wide-open rookie stepped into the lane.
12
Jamal palmed Vincent’s no-look pass. He hopped to the edge of the perimeter. Four seconds and counting. Defenders converged toward him. Jamal bent his knees. He launched himself into the air. Nine bodies leaped with him. Two seconds and counting. Jamal drew a rainbow to the basket.
Three points. Nothing but net.
One second remained on the clock. Serge grabbed the ball and let the time run out. Final score: Monarchs 100, Hawks 96.
DeMarcus dropped his stoic mask. His features flashed into a broad grin. Their first win of the season. They’d proven it was possible.
He lifted his gaze to the visiting owner’s box. Through the glass, he caught sight of Jaclyn. Her fists were raised and a wide grin spread across her glowing face. He saluted her, and she blew him a kiss.
Behind him, the Hawks faithful roared their disappointment. But they couldn’t drown out the Monarchs’ cheers. Euphoria lifted them from the bench. Warrick Evans reached him first, wrapping him in a bear hug before joining his teammates on the court. Other players followed Warrick’s lead, hugging DeMarcus and patting his back on their way off the court. The win had brought them closer together than they’d been all season. This is what they had needed—a connection, a sense of unity to carry them through. Maybe Jaclyn had a point. Maybe he needed more than X’ s and O’s.
DeMarcus pushed his way across the court, past devastated Hawks players to their head coach, Mike Woodson. He extended his right hand. “Good game, Coach.”
Woodson congratulated him, shaking his hand before turning away. DeMarcus didn’t blame the other man for the brevity of their exchange. No team wanted to break an opponent’s losing streak. But, then, no team wanted to lose forever.
“Yeah, Pop. We still have a lot of work to do on speed, defense and Jamal’s ball hogging.” DeMarcus checked his watch. It was more than an hour after the game, but he’d wanted to check in with his father before getting on the plane back to New York.
“At least now we know the Monarchs can play all four quarters.” Julian’s words tumbled over each other in his excitement. “That’s great progress.”
“It is. The locker room had a lot more energy tonight than it had on Wednesday after our
road loss to the Golden State Warriors in California.”
“I know you were reluctant to take this job, but you’re starting to turn the team around.”
“We still have a long season ahead of us. We’re only halfway through November with seventy-three games to go.”
“Still, I’m proud of you, son.”
