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Warrick defended Amar’e Stoudemire. Serge blocked Carmelo Anthony at the post. The Monarchs’ Anthony guarded Turiaf at the left perimeter. Jamal covered Renaldo Balkman on the righ
t. Vincent defended Chauncey Billups in the paint. Twenty-two seconds. Twenty-one. Andrea’s mind screamed, “Somebody do something!”
As though hearing her thoughts above the shouts of the crowd, Vincent moved up to help Warrick pressure Stoudemire. Anthony shifted right to split his defense between Turiaf and Billups.
Stoudemire took a chance and sent a rainbow toward the basket. Serge and Carmelo leaped for the ball, grabbing it together and falling back to the court in a tangle of limbs. The referee blew his whistle. Jump ball. Andrea hated that, but she’d hate a loss even more.
With the game clock frozen at fifteen seconds, the referee took his position between Serge and Carmelo. He held the ball above his head. As he blew his whistle again, he hoisted the ball up and stepped back. Serge leaped, and Andrea almost rose with him. He punched the ball toward Vincent, who snatched it out of the air and sprinted down court. The crowd rocked the Garden with their roars of “Defense! Defense!”
Vincent bounced the ball hard, advancing it to Anthony with eleven seconds on the clock. Ten. Nine. Eight. The Knicks’ Carmelo dove into the open lane for the steal. Andrea’s heart lodged in her throat as she watched him hustle up court with Anthony and Vincent giving chase. She wanted to close her eyes, but she couldn’t. Seven seconds. Six. Five.
Warrick glided into Carmelo’s path. With a move as graceful as a modern dancer, he spun around Carmelo, scooping the ball with him. Andrea blinked. How had he done that?
As Warrick flew past Anthony and Vincent, his teammates defended his back against the Knicks. Under her breath, Andrea chanted, “Hurry! Hurry! Hurry!” The game clock drained. Four. Three. Warrick pulled up at the perimeter. Two. He leaped into the air. One. And released the ball.
Three points. The Monarchs stole the win, 110 to 109, and advanced to the Eastern Conference Championship.
Andrea was drained.
Troy looked up as Andrea opened the door to her apartment Sunday afternoon. His gaze moved from her bare feet with their bright yellow toenails, up her long legs in slender blue jeans. She wore a pale yellow jersey with a black-and-white sketch of the Underdog superhero cartoon. Her long dark hair was tussled around her heart-shaped face. Her sherry eyes were wary.
“Troy?” She stood with her left hand on the doorknob.
“I’ve changed.” That wasn’t the greeting he’d practiced last night after the Monarchs had beaten the Knicks. But it seemed to work.
Andrea stepped back to let him in. “As much as I like Mrs. Garrard, I’d rather she didn’t overhear our conversation.”
She locked the door behind them, then led him through her small apartment. In the living room, he paused to greet her roommates.
Faith sat curled on the sofa. She lowered her sketchbook. Her startled eyes dodged from him to Andrea and back. “Troy, how’ve you been?”
He offered her a smile. “Fine, thanks. And you?”
Faith nodded. “Great. Great.”
Troy looked to Constance, seated on the love seat with her daughter. “Hi, Connie.”
Constance gave him a warm smile. “Hi, Troy.”
Tiffany hopped off the love seat. “D-O-G spells dog. Woof! Woof!”
Troy chuckled at the little girl’s antics. His humor faded as he considered Andrea’s and her roommates’ frozen expressions. He crossed his arms over his black cotton shirt as he struggled with a grin. “I take it she wasn’t supposed to perform that for me?”
Andrea grabbed his upper arm. “Why don’t we step out onto the fire escape?”
He hated the fire escape, but he let her lead him there anyway. “At least it’s warmer today.”
“I thought you said you’d changed.” Andrea muscled open the window, then climbed onto the fire escape.
Troy contorted his frame to fit through the tiny opening, stepping gingerly onto the red metal structure. “I have, Andy. I took your advice and met with my ex-wife.”
Andrea’s eyebrows jumped toward her hairline. “When?”
He pushed his hands into the back pockets of his blue jeans. “Friday.”
Her eyes darkened with concern. “How do you feel?”
He gave a startled laugh. Troy hadn’t expected her to ask that question. “I feel free. You were right. I carried a lot of baggage with me from that experience. And I put a lot of blame on her for things that were my fault. I’ve accepted responsibility for my own poor decisions.”
