44. Salem
SALEM
“ A y, force him to pass. Step up!” I yell to Ezekiel.
San Antonio’s point guard sold the drive hard. Ezekiel sags forward, feeding right into the setup, and the guy drives straight for Zeke’s chest. He sells the contact, catching two free throws.
“C’mon!” I shout.
Zeke shrugs. “Chill, man.”
“I’ll chill when you step up and stop giving the opps so much cushion.”
“Man, whatever.”
“Whatever?” I square up in his face. “You ain’t a free agent yet, dawg, so stop acting like they signed you.”
“Hold up.” Cillian reaches in and separates us.
“Get him before he says some shit that gets him laid out,” Zeke growls.
“Two tips,” I start, not budging as Cillian tries to push me back. “You put the round thing in that hole with the net. Then you try to stop them from putting the round thing in the other hole with the net.”
“Say it to my face,” Zeke bites out.
“I just did!”
“Enough!” Cillian barks.
“Get off me.” I push Cillian’s arm away and move to my position on the block as the point guard sinks the first free throw.
“The hell you looking at?” I wing at Easton.
He appraises me with his dead, black eyes from the bench. His chest rises like he snickered, but his face doesn’t move at all.
On our next possession, Cillian sinks his shot.
Our crowd yells “Defense!” as I yell “Weak side!” to get coverage for the left wing and wide-open point guard. “Rotate! Weak side!” I repeat as I box out the shooting guard, who’s scanning for a pass.
Zyair and Onyx continue double-teaming their power forward despite dawg being the weakest shot.
Changing pace, their shooting guard tries to rip past me to the rim. I lunge to cut him off, and my face slams into a shoulder. Bouncing back, I fight to get around their center’s screen when the guard snaps the ball to the open point guard, who gets off an easy three.
“Goddamn!” I glare at Zyair and Onyx. “You hear them yelling ‘defense’? The fuck you think they talking to?”
They trade confused glances as Coach calls a time-out.
“Bro, you gotta chill,” Cillian says, trying to calm me down.
“Talk to them,” I snap at him.
“Seriously?”
“Yeah, I’m serious. If they ain’t got hops, handles, or D, why are they here?”
Cillian shakes his head and falls back.
“Jones, a word?”
I sling my duffel over my shoulder and follow Coach into her office.
“Have a seat. You played hard tonight,” she says, taking her seat behind the desk. “I like what I saw. Tough love is needed around here. Especially nights like tonight when the team’s off. You, Cillian, and Easton played well and fought hard for our win.”
“Thanks.”
“It’s been a while since you and I had one of our talks.” She removes her glasses. “Everything okay inside the locker room and out?”
“Yep.”
My dad’s steely gaze prepared me for people like her, who are impossible to read.
“We’ve talked about how difficult it is to be different in a society that punishes nonconformity.”
When I came out publicly, she pulled me aside after my press conference and told me she was proud of me and had my back. And she hasn’t wavered.
“Yep,” I reply.
“Good. You remember. The door’s always open if you need to talk.”
“I appreciate it. I’m good. Looking forward to Wednesday’s game in LA.” I pick up my bag.
She leans forward. “You’ll bring the same heat against the Royals as you did tonight?”
My fist tightens around the strap. “I plan to rain hell down on them.”
“That’s the spirit.”