Page 581 of Bad Prince
I stripped him clean.
Jalen took the outlet and dunked.
I didn’t say a word on the way back.
That hurt him more.
By halftime we were up four.
Locker room air felt wet enough to drink. Shoes squeaked on concrete. Everybody was too hot and too wired and pretending not to listen for whether Coach’s voice would come in sharp or quiet.
Quiet, this time.
That’s how you know it matters.
“They’re hunting Kane,” Coach said, drawing with the marker so hard it nearly split. “They know he changes the paint. They want him stupid.”
Kane sat forward, elbows on his knees, breathing through his nose.
Coach pointed the marker at him.
“You breathe or I sit you.”
“Yes, Coach.”
Then Coach looked at me.
“They’re trying to drag your personal life onto my floor.”
I held his gaze.
“I know.”
“Leave it dead.”
“I will.”
He watched me for another beat.
Then nodded and slapped the whiteboard once.
“Good. Now let’s go bury them with execution.”
Second half started with pace and contact and the kind of pressure that makes everybody a little uglier.
I hit a three from the left slot.
Barnes answered from the corner.
Kane swatted a hook shot into the seats.
Their point guard got downhill and drew help, kicked out, tie game again.
Back and forth.
Punch and answer.
No breathing room anywhere.
